Droning on and on, nothing whatever matters. All
things now are merged into speed through space and a sleepy
monotonous d-d-r-r-o-o-n-n-e - - - - -.'' But the Pilot pulls
himself together with a start and peers far ahead in search
of the next landmark. This time it is a little country town.
red-roofed his map tells him, and roughly of cruciform shape;
and, sure enough, there in the right direction are the broken
outlines of a few red roofs peeping out from between the trees.
Another minute and he can see this little town, a fairy
town it appears, nestling down between the hills with its
red roofs and picturesque shape, a glowing and lovely contrast
with the dark green of the surrounding moors.
So extraordinarily clean and tidy it looks from such a
height, and laid out in such orderly fashion with perfectly
defined squares, parks, avenues, and public buildings, it
indeed appears hardly real, but rather as if it has this very
day materialized from some delightful children's book!
Every city and town you must know has its distinct
individuality to the Pilot's eye. Some are not fairy places
at all, but great dark ugly blots upon the fair countryside,
and with tall shafts belching forth murky columns of smoke
to defile clean space. Others, melancholy-looking masses
of grey, slate-roofed houses, are always sad and dispirited;
never welcoming the glad sunshine, but ever calling for leaden
skies and a weeping Heaven.
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