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[[column 1]] flight became a [[spot?]] of exceeding interest early in the day. Seated just within the opening at the rear was a young woman with fluffy golden hair, who seemed half apathetic part of the time, very nervous at others, at at times most unreasonably happy. She was Mrs. Earle L. Ovington, wife of the hero of the flight, as he later turned out to be. In one hand she held a folded Boston Journal, which showed a map of the route; in the other she crushed or fondled, as her state of mind dictated, a great golden blossom. Tensely she followed every report that came over the wire. Between times she stalked up an down at the rear of the tent—a few steps in this direction, the same number back again—as though something was gnawing at her heart-strings. Something was, you may well believe. It isn't pleasure to know that your husband is flying across country for 160 miles, when you realize full well what his fate may be. Anxiously Awaits Result. So between waits, when the click of the telegraph instrument did not sound, she was a wistful figure. Thoughts that came unbidden to her mind could be formulated by the onlooker with ease, and one wished for her sake alone that time would consume itself faster and thus relieve the strain this wife was undergoing, who could only sit and await the verdict of Fate. "Worried, Mrs. Ovington?" I asked, thrusting my head within the tent. "Oh no," she replied, with a smile, which a row of strong, white teeth made brilliant. "I have just spoken with him." So it was that her anxiety was relieved and the long afternoon made endurable for her, for he never once failed to communicate with her in person from the three cities en route. It was a tremendous strain, no less for the wife than the hero of the day. But what a difference in the aspect of the lady when the report that he had been sighted on Blue Hill was received. She could hardly hold herself in bounds. Most of her anxiety was gone, most—but not all. Of course, there were a few miles left to travel—but he was nearly home, and safe. Hope and exultation sang in her heart—showed in her smiing face. The big yellow blossom that she had joy. She clung to it as she could, took on a perky look as if responding to her joy. She clung to it as she could, took the center of the field and, with Mayor Fitzgerald as her escort, swept the heavens with her glasses for a sight of her hero. [[Illegible]] have done credit to an athlete, she cried, "Me first," and first she was, with the mayor a por second. Her reward was a victor's kiss in plain sight of the multitude; enough honor and enough happiness for any woman. Record Crowd Present. Other things happened at Squantum field, plenty of them, but everything was subservient to Ovington's arrival. There was a record crowd; a throng representative of every walk in life; the airmen and their birdlike contrivances, their wives and the wonders of the air contests, calculated individually and collectively to amuse everyone. But there was an event not down on the program that was anything but pleasing to the thousands dependent upon the trolleys or the boats, and that was the "getting home" contest. It should be said, in view of a third hero meet a year hence, that more adequate provisions should be made for "the lover of the sport who cannot come in an automobile, but who must depend upon his own two feet and the trolleys and railroad trains. These received little consideration. Only nimble feet and quick wits saved them in countless cases. Sidewalks at least should be provided for the foot passengers outside the gates on the Squantum side, and the hot-dog and pop-corn purveyors be made to keep the stakes and ropes of their tents within proper bounds. Bass Point Line Closes Its Season Tomorrow It was a great day on the Bass Point and Nahant line, and the holiday crowds took full advantage of the splendid weather for harbor trips to these picturesque resorts. Those stanch steamers, the Cape Cod and the Gen- [[cut off]] [[/column 1]] [[Image: Photos, seven columns wide across top of clipping; tops cut off, see page 7]] [[captions]] Aviator Stone Starting. Part of the Great Automobile Contingent. Mayor Fitzgerald and Mrs. Ovington.[/captions]] [[two column (2 & 3) headline]] HOW MEDFORD SAW THE FLYING MACHINES [[/two column headline]] [[column 2]] By a Medfordite AVIATION spelt with the most capital of capital letters paid its respects to Medford yesterday and the historic old city for the first time fully sensed the meaning and magnificence of this wonderful new power of man when Ovington and Milling triumphantly soared above the church spires and Stone and Atwood circled about the city and finally swooped down into it. Over there by the quaint old turnpike along which the stage coach once lumbered on the first lap of the journey from Boston to New Hampshire, right by the old-time Mystic trotting park, in its day one of the greatest in the world, there came yesterday the new "stage" to New Hampshire, the new steed swifter than even Star Pointer, one time pride of Combination Park could ever hope to be. It was 11:10 when Medford first felt the thrill of aviation. "They're coming! They're coming!" We [[illegible]] the sudden audience that had gathered on lawns and gardens and sidewalks and was laughing and shouting and pointing up above the treetops where true and even and steady a wonderful hawk-like thing whirred along against the sky. That was Ovington. More Thrilling. A few minutes later, when he passed out of our straining sight and the hue and cry had died down and we were reluctantly drifting back into the house again and talking it over as we took up our unfinished tasks, we heard our neighbor cry, "Another, two others," and again we dropped our dusters or let go our lawnmowers and rushed out into the open spaces to look once more. This time an even greater thrill was in store. "He's coming right down near us!" "That one's turning round!" "They're going back!" "Oh, look! One's landing!" We shrieked that last in italics and then we permanently deserted both dusters and lawnmowers and, just as we used to chase the fire balloons when we were children, set out on the trail of the "shooting stars." Medford Afoot and Awheel. Practically all Medford was there—that is all Medford wise enough to stay at home and wait for Atlantic to come to it instead of going down to Atlantic. On the right side of the turnpike going toward Boston was Atwood's machine. Further down on the left hand side was Stone's. About each were several thousand persons all telling each other how and when they caught sight of the machines, and how they realized before anyone else that the machines were going to alight, and how they were first on the spot when they finally die alight. An unprecedented tangle of motor cars, carriages, bicycles and chattering humans choked the roadway. "Yes, and I thought it was coming [[cut off]] [[/column 2]] [[column 3]] right down on our roof, and—" "Well, I was washing the dishes—you know how late the men folks will get up on Labor day—and when Charlie called I just dropped my dishcloth and run, and here I am." "I heard a queer noise, and I says 'John, you don't suppose it's the aeroplanes,' and he said, 'Naw, it's nothing but an autmobile,' but I just went out and looked and there it was, right over the Mystic Church, and— Forded the Creeks. The crowd around Atwood's machine was tremendous. Almost all the small boys in Medford got a chance to touch the wonderful wings before the policemen arrived to rope off the monster. Stone was more fortunate in his alighting place, as a small creek separated him from the road. A half-dozen girls, who had been in swimming in the Mystic River, and who could thus go across the creek, were his first visitors. Medford not only flocked to the marshes to see, but it flocked to stay, [[illegible]] day, with the added advantage that no one was losing anything. If anyone got tired and went home there were two new persons to fill his place. Rumors that Stone was going up or that Atwood would try to get back to Atlantic were continually current, and kept things lively. And then there were always the new arrivals to be conducted to the machines and shown the wonders of them proudly, as if you were the proprietor. In the middle of the afternoon Stone furnished a little diversion by attempting to fly and finally giving it up and hiring a team to take his machine ingloriously and piecemeal from the field. Atwood Catches Crowd. But the crowning feature was Atwood's contribution. He left his machine early in the day to the care of two policemen, who, by continually waving their clubs, managed to keep the little boys from wriggling more than half of themselves under the ropes. These same officers also did their best to disperse the crowd by assuring them that Atwood solemnly declared he wouldn't try to fly, but would have his machine crated off in the night. But the wish is father to the hope, and the crowd much preferred to credit a rumor that Atwood was coming back at sundown to mount his Pegasus and ride to Atlantic on him. And the optimists were right - as they usually are. "It's one minute past 5," complained the little boy who had been asking the time every two minutes. "I don't believe he's coming." And then a flash of gray came down the turnpike and someone shouted "It's Atwood in his machine," and it was. He made one false start and almost wrecked himself trying to avoid running down some of the crowd who were too bold for his safety or theirs. Then the propellers began to whirr again, and just as the sun was setting behind College Hill the wonderful man-made bird swooped up into the heavens and after one thrilling dip and a swift circle about Medford - did he do it to give the crowds full measure, we wondered - started back to Atlantic. [[cut off]] [[/column 3]] [[two column (4 & 5) headline]] OVINGTON LAUDS HIS ASSISTANT, GRESPACH [[column 4]] As soon as he could break away from the plaudits of the crowd, the victorious Ovington went straight to his hangar and congratulated his mechanician, Rene Grespach. Rene was lost in fond contemplation of the machine, his machine, as it seemed to the man who had watched it so carefully. When he received the congratulations, he smiled in glee and happiness, "beautiful, beautiful, Rene," he said. "The throttle, just so much" - and he indicated the space of about two inches with his fingers, for the mechanician understands but little English. "O, wonderful, O, superb, Rene." These words meant more to the enthusiastic mechanic than anything else that Ovington could have said or done. [[line]] C.W. Barron Is Host at Milk Party Clarence W. Barron gave a milk party to his friends [[unreadable]] who is quite stout, [[?]] his hands clasping a tray with tiny cups on it, and holding a milk bottle, was really funny, and his remarks as he served it to his friends kept the spectators nearby laughing. [[line]] Ely's Cigarette Holder Is Like Latham's The marvelous cigarette holder of Eugene Ely's that seems to stand out from his face like a 16-inch gun is exactly like that carried by the aviator Latham. [[line]] Victor's Machine Stands Flight Well After Ovington entered his hangar he went straight to his machine and patted the propeller and fuselage. "Good old boy," he said, "you stood [[/column 4]] [[column 5]] by me fine. You are all right." And the machine looked its approval. The engine in the little machine was as cool as if it had not made its wonderful cross-country dash. [[line]] Youngster Prefers One of His Own Type A group of small boys were gazing at a card of buttons with the pictures of Atwood and Grahame-White on them. Said one: "If I had the money I'd get the picture of Grahame-White." But the patriotism of another was too much for him. "What's the matter, why can't you buy one of a 'guy' that learned to fly right here, and is an American." Make the eagle scream again, boys. [[line]] Press Automobile in Name Only Much amusement has been caused at the meet by the regular appearance every night of an automobile bearing two flags marked "Press." Members of the press are quite mystified over the goings and comings of this car. One man claims he saw a man who had a cousin that was in the newspaper business four years ago sitting in this car. Another claims, and he is a bona fide newspaper man, to have sat in the car for five minutes, and from the account he gives of the sensation he is probably telling the truth. One thing can be said in regard to it, there certainly is a "press" in it. Even the One-Horse Chaise Is In Use The vicinity of Atlantic station resembles a convention of the carriage makers or else a gathering of condemned and decrepit vehicles. Every form of carriage ever built from the days of our ancestors to the present [[/column 5]] [[cut off]]
Transcription Notes:
Partial text below the photo spread on previous page.
