izziness or vertigo which so many people experience
in looking down from high places. The flyer has no sense of motion.
A speed of forty miles an hour and of one hundred miles are the
same to him. As he looks down the earth seems to be slipping away
from him, and moving by, tailwards, like an old-fashioned panorama
being unwound.

Everything about the control of an airplane has to be learned
mechanically. Once learned the aviator applies his knowledge
intuitively. He "senses" the position and progress of the craft by
the feel of the controls, as the man at the yacht's tiller tells
mysteriously how she is responding to the breeze by "the feel." Even
before the 'plane responds to some sudden gust of wind, or drops
into a hole in the air, the trained aviator will foresee precisely
what is about to happen. He reads it in some little thrill of his
lever, a quiver in the frame, as the trained boxer reads in his
antagonist's eyes the sort of blow that is coming. This instinctive
control of his machine is absolutely essential for the fighting
pilot who must keep his eyes on the movements of his enemy, watch
out for possible aircraft guns below, and all the time be striving
to get an advantageous position whence he can turn his machine gun
loose. A row of gauges, dials, a compass, and a map on the frame of
the car in which he sits will engage his attention in any moments of
leisure. It is needless to remark that the successful pilot must
have a quick eye and steady nerves.

Nerve and rapidity of thought save the aviator in many a ticklish
position. It is perhaps a tribute to the growing perfection of the
airplanes that in certain moments of peril the machine is best left
wholly to itself. Its stability is such that if freed from control
it will often right itself and glide safely to earth. This not
infrequently occurs in the moment of the dreaded _perte de vitesse_,
to which reference has been made. In his book, _With the French
Flying Corps_, Mr. Carroll Dana Winslow, a daring American aviator,
tells of two such experiences, the one under his observation, the
other happening to himself:

The modern airplane is naturally so stable [he says] that if not
interfered with it will always attempt to right itself before the
dreaded _vrille_ occurs, and fall _en feuille morte_. Like a leaf
dropping in an autumn breeze is what this means, and no other
words explain the meaning better.

A curious instan