to-morrow night NY will forget me. I realized
that after the big dinner. I got on the subway at Times Square, jumped
quick into the car just as the doors were closing, and the guard
yapped at me, "What are you trying to do, Billy, kill yourself?" He
wasn't spending much time thinking about famous Hawk Ericson, and I
got to thinking how comfortable NY will manage to go on being when
they no longer read in the morning paper whether I dined with the
governor, or with Martin Dockerill at Bazoo Junction Depot Lunch
Counter.

They forget us quick. And already there's a new generation of
aviators. Some of the old giants are gone, poor Moisant and Hoxsey and
Johnstone and the rest killed, and there's coming along a bunch of
youngsters that can fly enough to grab the glory, and they spread out
the glory pretty thin. They go us old fellows except Beachey a few
better on aerial acrobatics, and that's what the dear pee-pul like.
(For a socialist I certainly do despise the pee-pul's _taste_!) I
won't do any flipflops in the air no matter what the county fair
managers write me. Somehow I'd just as soon be alive and exploring the
Amazon with old Forrest as dead after "brilliant feats of fearless
daring." Go to it, kids, good luck, only test your supporting wires,
and don't try to rival Lincoln Beachey, he's a genius.

Glad got a secretary for a couple days to handle all this mail.
Hundreds of begging letters and mash notes from girls since I won the
big prize. Makes me feel funny! One nice thing out of the mail--letter
from the Turk, Jack Terry, that I haven't seen since Plato. He didn't
graduate, his old man died and he is assistant manager of quite a good
sized fisheries out in Oregon, glad to hear from him again. Funny, I
haven't thought of him for a year.

I feel lonely and melancholy to-night in spite of all I do to cheer
up. Let up after reception etc. I suppose. I feel like calling up
Istra, after all, but mustn't. I ought to hit the hay, but I couldn't
sleep. Poor Tad Warren.

(_The following words appear at the bottom of a page, in a faint, fine
handwriting unlike Mr. Ericson's usual scrawl.--The Editor_):

Whatever spirits there be, of the present world or the future, take
this prayer from a plain man who knows little of monism or trinity or
logos, and give to Tad another chance, as a child who never grew up.

* * * * *

_September 11_: Off to Kokomo, to fly for Farmers' Alliance.

E