it.




VII



August 3, 1914.


Well--war is declared.

I passed a rather restless night. I fancy every one in France did. All
night I heard a murmur of voices, such an unusual thing here. It simply
meant that the town was awake and, the night being warm, every one was
out of doors.

All day to-day aeroplanes have been flying between Paris and the
frontier. Everything that flies seems to go right over my roof. Early
this morning I saw two machines meet, right over my garden, circle about
each other as if signaling, and fly off together. I could not help
feeling as if one chapter of Wells's "War in the Air" had come to pass.
It did make me realize how rapidly the aeroplane had developed into a
real weapon of war. I remember so well, no longer ago than Exposition
year,--that was 1900,--that I was standing, one day, in the old Galerie
des Machines, with a young engineer from Boston. Over our heads was a
huge model of a flying machine. It had never flown, but it was the
nearest thing to success that had been accomplished--and it expected to