The Benson signal., 1918-08-31


are so much a part of horse and sad
die. Many of the horsemen are from
the Frederick Remington country and
have shot wolves and coyotes, round
ed up cattle thieves and ridden days
through sand and cactus with alkali
dust clinging to their eyelashes. The
sun shines on the satiny backs Of their
mounts. Two or three wave gayly at
Mrs. Housewife on the porch. She re.
turns the salute with cOmradely
flourish Of the tea towel, and, in a
furry of dust, they are gone.
Aircraft in the Sky.
Time was when San Diegans got
thrill from waiting two or three hours
at an aviation meet, finally to be told
by a fat gentleman with megaphone
| that, as the wind was strong, the exhi-
bition would be postponed. Later, when
two or three lonely airships began cir
| cling overhead, the population elevated
their noses and craned their necks in
admiration. The first graduating class
of eight from Rockwell field was hail
ed by the newspapers as great event.
Today, with 20 airships in the
sky at once, and with thousands
of birdmen training at North Island,
the civilians are blase. However, the
chutter Of an engine brings Mrs.
Housewife out of doors to look. 1t
may be Mike Brown. super-ace of
North Island, or some space-defying
Frenchman borrowed from the fighting
line to teach battle acrobatlcs.
In such a case numbers Of dinners
will wait while the aviator climbs the
air in leaps and bounds as though
vaunting up gigantic aerial stair
case. When he is little moth against
a mountainous cumulous cloud 5000
or 1000 feet above the earth, the chug-
ging Of the motor stops and the bird
ship coasts in a long, sweeping dive
down, down., growing larger every
minute, until it rights itself and the
engine begins to turn again. He
climbs again toward the zenith, flies
on his back, rocks from side to side,
loops the loop, performs side spins and
tail spins, the zigzagging falling
leaf" and the Immellman turn, most
swift Of air movements. Not until
the warbird has flown off to lunch
does Mrs. Housewife remember her
fireless cooker.
Peace for the Oregon.
From an excursion steamer one
looks aloft to sky whirring with air
planes. One counts a dozen, score;
but it is impossible to keep track, for
machines, piloted by students and in
structors, are constantly alighting and
ascending. A sight Of thrilling love
illness 1t is-purple-blue water below,
stretching to the end Of the world
where almond-eyed Japanese kiddies
are playing in the surf; above, the
translucent blue of skies like those Of
France and Italy; against 1t the blue
white planes, dipping, racing, sailing,
as gracefully as the gulls. Some
are 1000 feet up, specks against pastel
tinted Mexican mountains. Others fly
lower, their engines Scolding ferO-
ciOusly, as they breeze along at more
than a hundred miles an hour. Their
shadows fit across picturesque Jap
anese fishing craft; pleasure boats and
submarine destroyers, and battle
ship Oregon, which, after the dare
deviltry of it's youth, is spending a
safety first respectable old age as
naval training ship.
With the speeding up of the war eff
fort, flying is done seven days a week.
Sabbath afternoons are enlivened by
squads Of machines practicing battle
formations, flying in wedges like wild
geese, or in single file, or circling
around each other, at the signal of
the leader, in queer Virginia reels Of
the air. Thousands of feet above
earth they suggest the dizzy dance of
insects around a lamp.