The airship is a thing achieved; it has its rightful place, as well as
any autocart that ever ran a race. The farmer, in the coming years,
when eggs to town he brings, will flop along above the trees, upon his
rusty wings. The doctor, when he has a call, from patients far or
near, will quickly strap his pinions on, and hit the atmosphere. And
airship racing then will be the sport to please the crowds; there'll be
racecourses overhead, and grandstands in the clouds. The umpire, on
his patent wings, will hover here and there; the fans, with rented
parachutes, will prance along the air; the joyous shrieks of flying
sports will keep the welkin hot, and soaring cops will blithely chase
the scorching aeronaut. We'll soon be living overhead, our families
and all; and then we'll only need the earth to land on when we fall.