THE POETRY OF FLIGHT 



Thus every flying thing, from albatross to midge, 

 rides on a storm of its own creation. 



I believe Mr. E. C. Malan, in the poetical, 

 charming notes on " Soaring," which he gave me 

 some years ago, was near the truth. " The air, when 

 divided by a bird, is thrown into a state of anguish, 

 which is not the case when it is perforated by an 

 arrow, and this state of anguish is the excellent and 

 most simple secret of flight. For the air that is 

 divided by the bird's body does not pass away on 

 either side of it in a harmless stream, but forms the 

 beautiful useful eddies under the outstretched wings, 

 which act as screw jacks, and literally screw the bird 

 up higher and higher. Thus we should see, if our 

 eyes were sharp enough, two large footballs of air 

 under a bird's wings, winding, winding, for ever 

 winding, and screwing, screwing, for ever screwing, 

 so as to support the bird, and continually to raise it 

 higher and higher." Anguish he defined as "the 

 snake-like, curling, writhing, enfolding action, with 

 many contortions and convolutions," which in a 

 twining fluid is familiar to us all. That it is easier 

 for the hawk to hover whilst he is facing the wind is 

 clear by the way in which, flying with the wind, he 

 will turn round and face it when he desires to be 

 stationary over a certain spot. But I believe that it 

 is only when the wind blows moderately hard that 

 the hawk can hover in it ; when it is half a gale, he 

 scarcely attempts the feat. Nor in such a wind does 

 the humming bird hawk moth venture abroad. The 

 highest winds paralyze most winged creatures ; birds 



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