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Carleton, Will (1845-1912)

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A Festival of the Sky Club.

The Sky Club was a small association
Of men retired from lofty navigation,
To join which none need cultivate pretensions,
Who had not made at least thirteen ascensions.
This club, who, half their lives, with clouds were floating,
And through air-waves had, so to speak, been boating,
Now crawled about, with hands and feet to aid them,
As Nature meant, when wingless first she made them.
One had one good arm, but it was the only;
Another's leg had many years walked lonely;
And almost all bore some eraseless markings
Attendant on aerial disembarkings.
The emblems of this club were simple, very,
And made unthinking minds unduly merry:
A rooster, sheep, and duck, of lofty manners,
Comprised the heraldry upon their banners
(The first-named animals that history mentions
That were addicted to balloon ascensions,
Before men made of fear so great a stranger
That they themselves incurred aerial danger);
Their walls bore prints of men of every nation
Who'd overcome the curse of gravitation:
Of Dædalus, ingenious artist-Grecian—
Who made him wings, with wax their sole cohesion;
Escaped Crete's monarch's rage-compounded virus,
And flew to Sicily (upon papyrus);

Of Icarus, his son, who started nicely
Equipped, it seems, with similar wings precisely;
But making, for ambition or diversion,
A sunward trip—a little branch excursion—
Found that the sun of wing-wax was a melter,
And dropped into the ocean, helter-skelter;
Of old Archytas, who made, with much trying,
A pigeon out of wood, and set it flying
(Which should have less in webs of wonder wound us,
Than genuine live ones floating all around us);
Of Roger Bacon, who by book suggested
That lofty navigation should be tested;
Thought we could sail, with proper means and motion,
Top of the air, the same as of the ocean;
And, daring sceptic earth-worms to deny it,
Was sagely anxious some one else should try it;
Of those French aeronauts, Montgolfier Brothers,
Who also left their goings up to others;
But over these, and twice as large, were staring
Rozier and Arlandes, who, with NEW daring,
In the hushed sight of curious, breathless legions,
First travelled up to hyper-mundane regions;
And Blanchard, who scored sixty good ascensions,
Then died in bed, with purse of poor pretensions;
Of Mrs. B., his wife, who, metal-sinewed,
Her husband's business at th' old stand continued:
Fired rockets off while in the air suspended,
Caught fire herself, and like a stick descended;
Of young Guerin, the little French boy-peasant,
Who, being at a balloon-landing present,
The flying bag, with its hooked anchor, fished for,
Gave him as high a time as boy e'er wished for;
Clung to his waistbands, until fame it earned him,
Then gently to his parents' arms returned him
(Well known he is to balloon history-browsers,
This lad of tender years and sturdy trousers);
Of Thurston, who, his balloon sudden starting
A second trip, when from its basket parting,

Feared loss of what was costly in the getting,
And risked his life, and sprang into the netting;
And, as the sailor by his life-raft lingers,
Clung, until Death unclasped his freezing fingers;
Of Donaldson, who thought to spurn the ocean,
But found Lake Michigan a fatal potion;
Of Hogan, who, a new-made air-ship trying,
Straightway into eternity went flying;
And many others, Memory does not mention,
Secured this club's pictorial attention.
This club, whose zeal no cloak of age could smother,
Were very interesting to each other;
For all with strange, adventurous deeds were swelling,
Which pained them till divested of by telling;
And he who'd make five dollars contribution
(Which went to aeronauts in destitution)
Could tell a tale of half an hour's duration,
And three miles high; this was the limitation.
And he before correction's bar was cited,
Who went to sleep before the man alighted.
One winter night the chilly blast was crooning
Fierce odes against the science of ballooning,
And all out-doors with frosty burrs was bristling,
And loud the witches of the air were whistling,
And snow-squalls tried the windows till they trembled,
The club within their sanctum were assembled,
And one old sky-dog, having bought attention,
Achieved the following narrative-ascension:

THE CHILD-THIEF.

'Twas one fourth day of July,
With a deep blue, far-off sky,
And some north-east vapor-castles, built symmetrical and high;
And two small clouds, just a mile
Right above us, seemed to smile,
As to say, “Come up, poor earthlings, here, and visit us a while.”

And the air was still and clear;
You could see and you could hear
Every little thing that happened, if the same was far or near;
And a crowd was standing by,
With investigating eye,
To assist in my departure for the regions of the sky.

I had filled my new balloon
Middle of the afternoon
(For it's never best to get off unprofessionally soon);
And she started like a queen
From the little village green,
And went up, and up, and upward, straight as ever you have seen!

'Twas a picture, I declare,
Rising through the summer fair,
Making for those pretty cloudlets, like two islands in the air;
And the earth began to seem
Like a distant, misty dream,
Full of farms and lakes and cities, and the river-silver-gleam;

And at last a current-gale
Struck my stately silken sail,
And I voyaged off to eastward, over mountain, hill, and vale,
Till I couldn't but understand
That a down-trip must be planned;
Though I came by air, a-flying, I must travel back by land!

Then I got myself in shape,
And I pulled the air-escape,
And my anchor through a forest 'gan to hitch and pull and scrape,
Till it caught an oaken knot
In a little forest lot,
And I found that I had landed in a very lonely spot.

Just a cabin-hovel nigh,
Not a single person by;
'Twas the loneliest bit of forest a balloonist could espy;

And my nose wasn't over-fond
Of a little, stagnant pond,
And wherever glance could wander, rose the forest just beyond;

But a handsome little girl,
With her blue eyes all awhirl,
And her trim head ornamented by full many a golden curl,
From the hut came running out,
With a little, bird-like shout,
And embraced and kissed me, 'fore I quite knew what she was about;

“Oh, I knew you'd come,” she said,
“From the country overhead,
Where my mamma went to visit when they told me she was dead;
For I prayed by day and night,
And then hoped with all my might,
She would send some one to take me into happiness and light!

“Since my uncle went away
To the ‘Independence Day,’
I have knelt here, and done nothing but just pray and pray and pray;
And I've been expecting you
All the afternoon, for true,
Though I didn't suppose you'd get here just before the prayer was through!”

Then she showed me marks to spare
Of hard blows and cruel fare,
And my love and pity clasped her, and I could not leave her there;
I stopped kissing her, to say,
“I'm not going to heaven to-day,
And I don't believe that you will; but I'll start you, anyway.”

And I drew her to me nigh,
And pulled up my anchor, spry,
And threw out some bags of ballast, and we sprang up toward the sky;
And she showed no sign of fright,
But went off to sleep all right,
And was sailing up in Dreamland, when we landed, just at night.

And I took a truthful plan,
When the kidnapping began,
And announced myself no angel, but a coarse and faulty man;
But she said she understood,
And she knew that I was good;
That her mother sent me for her, as she always knew she would.

And her uncle never knew
Where his little birdling flew,
Though I don't suppose he hunted more'n a century or two;
Didn't suspect that from above
I swooped down upon his dove,
And took off the little orphan that he hadn't the sense to love.

This sweet bit of ballast, she
Since has lived along with me,
And has loved me like a daughter, far as I could feel and see;
And if ever I can rise
Past the clouds, to Paradise,
It will be because that darling steers my soul into the skies.

The Club absorbed this fragment of narration,
With mild and rather frosty approbation;
Though now and then an old balloonist listened
With ears that heard, and eager eyes that glistened;
For pure love, in its ever-blessèd mission,
Strikes some old sinners' hearts with strange precision.
But most of them, polite attention feigning,
Found this mild tale not over-entertaining;
They wanted things unsafer and more thrilling—
Some sudden death, or close escape from killing;
And a young man the story-fee then tendered,
And this sad tale of love and death was rendered:

A LEAP FOR LOVE.

A great balloon hung in the city park,
Swelling and swaying with unconscious strength,

Grandly coquetting with the gentle breeze,
Then tugging at its leashes, with desire
To leap upon the clouds. A pleasure-throng
Struggled, and laughed, and waited for two souls
That soon would enter on a marriage tour,
In this strange wedding-car.
And now there walked
Down a long lane, flesh-walled with living forms,
A bride and groom. Her classic-moulded face
Bore eyes half tender and half daring; as
Perchance the lioness Maid of Arc possessed.
Her wedding-gown was costless; but it gleamed
With the ne'er-stolen jewel of good taste;
And the hushed crowd gazed on her with respect.

The groom was strong and manly. Though his face
Clasped not the gift of beauty, yet it bore
The grander badge of manliness and brain.

Silence crept downward from the sky; and soon,
A man of God joined this adventuring two,
Whose souls already clasped. Then to the throng,
He pictured how the brave, determined pair
Were taking this strange flight, to win the means,
From those whose hands controlled the enterprise,
To launch their wedded life in prosperous seas.
At this the crowd cheered cheerily, and threw gifts;
And with proud smiles, 'mid bows of courtesy,
The pair embarked on their quaint wedding-tour.

The strands were cut; the buoyant engine climbed
Ladders of air; a chorus of hurrahs
Followed it, far as human voice could fly;
The silver sax-horns sung the Wedding March,
Which journeyed gayly with the wedded pair;
Glad church-bells swelled the stream of melody.

But soon were pierced the white walls of a cloud;
The wedded ones rose in the sun's clear light,
And found themselves alone, clasped hand in hand.

An hour they flew through the love-lighted air,
In converse close; past struggles were recalled,
To make more pure their present happiness;
They sundered seemed from every earthly care,
And felt as they had naught to do, but float
Forever through wide spaces, hand in hand,
And heart in heart; it seemed as if a world
Between the worlds—'twixt heaven and earth—were made
Into a new exclusive heaven for them,
Where they could live and love for evermore.

But when the sun began to seek the sea,
They knew that earthly life must re-begin;
He pulled the strand of rope that touched the valve.
Swift outward rushed the fluid that had borne
Them toward the sky—rushed farther toward the sky;
And downward sank the weight-borne bridal car,
And downward sank the love-bewildered pair.
The earth began to show its form once more,
And the sweet idyl of the air must end.

Still outward rushed the fluid that had borne
Them toward the sky—rushed farther toward the sky;
Still downward dashed the earth-desired balloon;
Still downward sank the fear-bewildered pair.
They strove to stop the valve, but 'twas in vain!
Some carelessness had plotted well with Death;
Earth was a grave, fast rushing up to them!

He flung the bags of ballast from the car;
He threw the outer garments they had worn;
He threw all weight that could be cut apart;
But it was vain: still to the earth they rushed—
A falling star of love and happiness!

At last, with intuition, born of thought,
And past experience, he divined the truth:
That but for his own weight, the falling mass
Would flutter, with no shock, unto the earth.

He clasped the bride a moment to his breast,
And whispered: “I have promised to protect
And shield you from all harm—even unto death;
My death means life for you; and here it is.”

He kissed her lips, her brow, her eyes, her hands,
Then, without time for a detaining word,
Torn from her wild, beseeching, fainting grasp,
Sprang into the airy gulf.
Slowly she fell—
A pulseless form; but landed without hurt,
And walked for him in weeds for evermore.

The Sky Club heard this very sad recital,
With a display of pity almost vital;
And scarcely three through Dreamland had been soaring,
When it was done, and only one was snoring.
The Club gave these men (for its own protection)
The regular pecuniary correction;
Then for another story calmly waited,
At the established price already stated.

Not long; these proofs of Heaven's aerial mercies
(Especially the ones with well-filled purses),
Told several times, each one, the self-same story
(Not disconnected with the teller's glory),
And to reduce the cost were never trying,
Although, as one might say, at wholesale buying.
(Indeed, they always fined a fellow-rover,
Who told the same tale more than three times over.)

Soon rose a member with appearance youthful,
But whose unnumbered scars pronounced him truthful,
And for the second time began recalling
A reminiscence of stupendous falling,
When, self-announced, without a moment's warning,
An old man entered, salutation scorning,
Fastened the door as tight as bolt could lock it,
Retired the precious key into his pocket,

Then, on th' assembled people fiercely glaring,
With small regard for their indignant staring,
As there they sat, hot disapproval swallowing,
In feeble tones he shouted forth the following:

FLIGHT OF THE AGED BALLOONIST.

You younger men, who loudly sing
Old marvels night and day,
Now, listen while to you I bring
Wise words from far away.

In yonder castle is my den:
I dwell a hermit there,
Amid a lot of crazy men,
O'er whom I watch and care.

These crazy men, some of them, too,
Deem they do watch o'er me;
I let them think that thus they do,
So quiet they may be.

I let them guard me through the day,
I do as they have said;
These doctor-maniacs have their way,
Till I be safe in bed.

And then—so soft and still I rise!
I spurn this planet's ground;
My air-ship sails me to the skies,
Where flocks of stars abound.

To tell you of the world of lune,
Would take from youth to prime:
Last night I came back from the moon
My fifty-second time.

And there I found a curious race,
Who, when a man doth fall,

Toil hard to bring him back to place,
Nor trample him at all.

Of Mars I have some tales to spare,
Scant credence though you give:
The men who toil the hardest, there,
Most sumptuously do live.

Word of what I in Saturn saw,
Belief too seldom gains:
The people there who go to law,
Get justice for their pains.

In Jupiter the man race are,
Howe'er by wealth adorned,
Whene'er they fall from Virtue's car,
The same as woman scorned.

In Neptune I a story gat
Few earthlings would indorse:
Men treat their bodies well as that
Of any blooded horse.

In Venus is a sing'lar race,
Who so acuteness lack,
They say the same things to one's face,
They would behind his back.

In Mercury a lady lives,
So to unselfness given,
She asks no pay for what she gives,
Not even a crown in heaven.

In Uranus, last night, I heard
Of men the same as I,
Who ne'er with look or deed or word
Told any one a lie.

Within the nearest fixèd star—

At this the Sky Club made concerted motions,
Grappled the poor old peddler of high notions,
Fished out the key from his coarse, ragged pocket,
And fired him from the club-room like a rocket.

But lo! a new young man, with aspect tragic,
Came through the same door, like a trick of magic;
Two large revolvers in his hands were glistening,
Wherefore the Club began respectful listening.

A young balloonist of more sense than reason,
Who “went up” every day throughout the season;
And, far from earth, by baskets unobstructed,
A miniature circus of his own constructed;
And though in air well balanced, agile, ready,
On terra firma he was most unsteady;
Which fact was not entirely disconnected
With bibulous methods, which his face reflected.
He'd never wished to join the Sky Club's numbers,
And take part in their stories and their slumbers;
But loved, in slight fits of inebriation,
To burst in, bringing thrills of consternation.
He told of sundry new achievements clever,
Of the high calling they had left forever;
The many feats he had performed, though youthful,
All voiced in words unqualifiedly truthful;
He told of things these veterans, ere exempted
From all attempts, had never once attempted;
Of mounting up and sailing through the breezes,
Hung, not to baskets, but to frail trapezes;
Of summersaults, handsprings, etc., turning,
While earth and all such trivial matters spurning;
Of parachutes, to which, with vigor clinging,
He came down like a skylark from its singing;
And more things, calculated to make jealous
Some helplessly conservative old fellows.

At last a scarred balloonist faced the stranger,
In spite of imminent projectile danger,

And, with a look profoundly analytic,
Assumed the sombre functions of a critic,
And said: “This upstart 's one of the possessors
Of ways unvouched for by his predecessors!
The idea of an artist young 's pursuing
Things different from the things we have been doing!
His feats are new, and therefore inartistic,
And worthy no attention eulogistic.
And 'mid our walls, which helplessly enclose him,
I do hereby for membership propose him;
And to suspend the rules, so 's to begin it—
Our voting for him—in about a minute;
And with blackballs, t' increase the information
Of this young jackanapes of innovation.”

The o'er ambitious youth, with breath suspended,
This solemn voting with wide eyes attended;
Saw himself from a company rejected,
To which he'd never wished to be elected;
It was a thing that staggered his reflection—
This cold, unasked-for process of rejection;
The weight of precedence upon him bearing,
Depressed his spirits and destroyed his daring;
He soon sustained a low, crushed, humbled feeling,
And crept out, as if he had been caught stealing;
His body and his spirit both benighted,
And feeling that his whole career was blighted.

The Club then stretched, and yawned, and stretched—each vieing
With all the others, in relief-charged sighing;
Made fast the door, by chairs and tables aided,
As tightly as it could be barricaded;
And went on, harvesting the regular glories
Of the old-fashioned balloon-basket stories.