has rows of saw-set jaws;
Man--stands alone, the whole world wide
Unarmed and naked! But 'tis plain
For him to fight--God gave a brain!

Far back in this world's early mists
When man began to use his head;
He stopped from fighting with his fists
And gripped a wooden club instead.
But when the rival tribe was slain,
The first tribe then to stand alone
Had once again to work its brain
And made an axe--an axe of stone!
The stone-axe tribe would hold first place;
And ruled the rest where'er it went.
Because then--as to-day--the race
Was first that had best armament.
But human brain expanding more
(Its limits none can circumscribe);
The stone-axe crowd went down before
The more developed bronze-axe tribe.
Then shields came in to quickly show
Their party victors in the strife:
By warding off the vicious blow
And giving warriors longer life.
The tribe's wise men would urge at length,
No doubt as now, for tax on tax,
To keep the "Two tribe" fighting strength
With "super-dreadnought" shield and axe!

The bow and arrow came and won
For Death came winged from far away.
Then came the cannon and the gun;
And brought us where we are to-day.
And now we see the shield of yore
An arsenal of armour plate;
With crew a thousand men or more;
And guns a hundred tons in weight.
Beneath our seas dart submarines,
Around the world and back again.
But every marvel only means
Some greater triumph of the brain.
For while the thund'ring hammers ring;
And super-dreadnoughts swarm the sea;
There flits above, a birdlike thing,
That claims an aerial sovereignty!
A thing of canvas, stick and wheel
"The two-man fighting aeroplane."
It screams above those hulks of steel:
"Oh! human brain begin again."

[Illustration]

Nap was busy with bad language, a size brush and some fabric remnants
patching the plane, whilst I read his treasure by my pocket lamp. Then
he came over.

"Mind you," he said, "I don't greatly blame folks here. It can't be
worse than in America--America, where the first machine got up and made
good--where the man the world had waited for for ages, Wilbur Wright
(though he's been dead some years), hasn't even got a tablet up to say:
'Good on you old man, God rest your soul.'"

We were standing by our machines, waiting for the dawn