It was now about noon. The rain the night before had given fresh tints
to the green of grass and foliage. The whole earth, indifferent to the
puny millions that struggled on its vast bosom, seemed refreshed and
revitalized. A modest little bird in brown plumage perched on a bough
near them, and, indifferent too, to war, poured forth a brilliant volume
of song.
"Happy little fellow," John said. "Nothing to do but eat and sleep and
sing."
"Unless he's snapped up by some bigger bird," said Weber, "but having
been an hour without callers we're now about to have a new one. And as
this comes from the west it's likely to be French."
John felt excitement, and stood up. Yes, there was the machine coming
out of the blue haze in the west, soaring beautifully and fast. It was
very high, but his eye, trained now, saw that it was descending
gradually. He felt an intense hope that it was Lannes, but he soon knew
that it was not lie. The approaching machine could not possibly be the
_Arrow_.
"It's a Bleriot monoplane," said Weber. "I can tell the type almost as
far as I can see it. It's much like a gigantic bird, with powerful
parchment wings mounted upon a strong body. The wings as you see now
present a concave surface to the earth. They always do that. The flyer
sits between the two wings and has in front of him the lever with which
he controls the whole affair."
"You seem to know a good deal about flying machines, Weber.
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