The children, who are playing scarecrow with the ravenous birds in the orchards, scream with astonishment and delight. An old woman folds her hands over her mouth like a megaphone, and asks:
A flock of sheep stampedes at the sight of our shadow moving upon the earth, and disappears in a cloud of dust.
We glide peacefully over meadows and swamps, clearing hedges and trees, dragging the guide-rope behind us. As we pass over a lake in the park of an ideal country seat, we see the "Rolla" reflected in the clear waters below.
Even at this moderate height, the farms look like children's playhouses, with their curly little lambs, their wooden horses, and painted cows; and as we approach a curve on the railroad track, a train puffs by like a mechanical toy, and whistles a friendly salute.
Here the captain calls my attention to a dark line of clouds in the north west.
Yesterday's _Herald_ predicted a depression within the next twenty-four hours; evidently a storm is creeping up behind us. But the same wind is driving us on, and we hope to keep out of its reach, even if we have to rise up in the heavens above it.
"If our balloon obeys as it should, we will soon have some fun," says the captain, as we reach the first trees of a thick forest.
The "Rolla" is so sensitive that by merely hauling in a few yards of the guide-rope, we gently descend on the tops of the trees, lightly skipping from one to the other; we brush by an elm, a poplar, or an ash, and as we pass, pick their fresh green leaves.
This weird performance is fascinating beyond words. I have never heard of a "promenade" on the crest of a forest, and I wonder now and then if I am dreaming.
Such accuracy of movement is only possible with a very small balloon, in the early hours of the day, and with a perfectly even temperature. Of course, it is always dangerous, as a slight mistake would instantly lead to a hopeless disaster.
Suddenly, while crossing a deep ravine, the coolness of the air drags us down. The rocky banks of the torrent are upon us.
As I open my mouth to offer a mild objection; a hatful of ballast goes overboard; we instantly shoot up in the air, and, before I can realize what has occurred, the barometer marks six and seven thousand feet.