Evening Republican, Volume 22, Number 193, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 August 1919 — EDISON MARSHALL DESCRIBES HIS FIRST FLIGHT. [ARTICLE]

EDISON MARSHALL DESCRIBES HIS FIRST FLIGHT.

The following article, ’borrowed from the Medford (Ore.) Mail-Tri-bune, and written by Edison Marshall, noted animal writer, who left Rensselaer with his parents several years ago, is unusually interesting and deals with Mr. Marshall's aeroplane flight. 1 “SturnMe,” the horse referred to; in the article, did valiant service as the family horse of the Marshalls when they lived in this city and will be well remembered by our citizens, as will the red automobile which the young writer describes in such a tender way. The automobile was the property of C. P. Wright. Mr. Marshall’s article, under the caption, “How It Feels to Fly,” sod- , lows: Along about 1903 the writer of this article had his first ride in an automobile. Up to this time a ride behind a rare old equine, answering to the name of “Stumble,” was his record for speed. The car was a queer old contraption, an angry red mjcolor, and to get into the tonneau you climbed up a little flight of stairs in the middle of the back. Just as soon as the owner of the car cranked up, seized the funny old lever contrivance that he used for steering, rattled his gears and gathered headway, I began to feel a sensation most delightful. It was a decided tickle —a sensation so pronounced and enjoyable that I giggled and squirmed with delight through the ride, much to my host’s wonder and surprise. Of course I thought that all automobile rides afforded the same sensation. And it was quite a long time before I finally figured out any explanation. You see, this ride occurred sixteen years ago, and on this occasion it happened that I wasn’t wearing any shoes or stockings. There was a rough hair mat on the floor of the tonneau, and the sensation had simply been a tickle on the soles of my feet. But no eight-cylinder limousine has ever been able to give me the same thrill, or afford the same delight. And I can’t even get it from the vigorous massage effect of a certain famous little second-hand outing car that I have now; and that’s saying quite a bit. I remembered that boyhood experience yesterday morning, when I took my first ride in an aeroplane. The reason I remembered it was because though entirely different, the sensation was equally distinctive and enjoyable. It is one of the little oddities of the world that the first time a particular sensation is experienced it always has about one hundred per cent more punch than any time thereafter. Kipling wrote a poem about it. Every man remembers the first jerk along his aim and into his soul when his first trout took his fly, and the first mallard that he ever broke out of the air with his shotgun. And who has forgotten that first all-night session around a cold keg with his college friends? It’s the same the world over. And while I can’t promise much for a second ride —at might become stupid in a little while—— that wild sweep through the air yesterday morning is one .of the epochs in the adventure of life.

There is an actual, physical sensation, particularly ait certain points an ‘the ride. Maybe the fifteen minutes you wait" while the passenger on the list 'before you takes his ride is a sensation in itself. And you’re lucky if you don’t have to wait an hour, for the managers of the Medford plane have a long list booked already. It was quite a little human interest study, the departure of the passenger before me. She was a little girl, .perhaps twelve years old. Her father, in the further reaches of middle age, brought her down in his Ford. She was white and breathless, as Mac the hooker put on her goggles and helImet; but she was game. And she was just as sober as the soberest judge. Her father had a word or two with Hart, the pilpt, just before the plane l swooped up. I was too ■far away to hear what he said, but I could guess. ’ “Be careful with my little daughter!” I could imagine he was saying. And. Hart was careful. She’ll have something to tell her grandchildren, in the days-to-be when aeroplanes aTe more common than Fords. They put the helmet one me, and took my straw hat, and slipped on the goggles, and told me to put my foot on the metal when I climbed in “Don’t touch this or that, during theSridey” they directed. And I wouldn’t have any more touched them, after we were aloft than I would a red hot poker. I bad a decided inclination not to. First you race along the ground, and the big old grain field from where you' start, slides under you 'like yellow light. Then all at once you see you are tiding very easily •and smoothly. Then you tell yourself: \ “Well, I’m in the air!” » And you are. There’s no chance for a mistake. You look over the side and see the earth dropping atway from you. The most fun is going up and coming down. The machine clambs with little 'bursts. Pretty soon Bear creek, never imposing at any time, looks an insignificant blue ribbon, and the pavement to Ashland a narrow gray streak. The countryside gives rather the effect of a checkerboard — square green patches alternating with brown —one where the hay is still uncut, and the othgr in the stubble. Then there are the turns, when the plane seems to stand on iits edge. We went 2,500 feet up, land staryed there a long time. And after awhile, after a vain attempt to figure out just what, corner of the valley I was in, we began to come down. ' I don’t exactly know what he did. I was fondly hoping it was a nose diva, but it wasn’t quite.; It cer-

tainly did dive, however, and the 'brain swam and the various essential organs of the 'body seemed' to float around out of their accustomed places, and the blood tingled, and it was a real and exciting thrill indeed. The earth just seemed to jump at me. And in an instant more we were swooping down, faster than a night hawk falls, into the landing field. First Stumble, whose gait was five miles an hour, then our rich neighbor’s funny old red automobile, that might go twenty, ana then an aeroplane at one hundred miles an hour. All in one lifetime, too; and not a very long lifetime at that. Things are picking up in the worlds No other horse could over give the thrill of Stumble. No other automobile coiild ever make me forget the old red iboy with the hair mat bottom. And if aeroplanes get as common, I’ll never by any possibility forget this ride- with Pilot Hart in his Curtiss! When the tinrns comes that some obliging angel fits me out with a pair of wings of my own, I’m afraid he’ll find me rather lacking in enthusiasm, for the thrill of the first soaring leap into the air can never be known again.