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[[Black and white line cartoon depiction of Ray Morriss in the Curtiss Ship]]

Ray Morriss in 1912 Curtiss Ship


What has become of the old-time barnstorming and exhibition pilots of 25 years ago? 
Were they all killed off in crashes, Or did they grow up with aviation and accumulate riches from its rapid post-war rise to commercial importance? 
If there be any left, are they gray-bearded and superannuated today, or what? 
The answer to that , despite the heavy casualties of the early days, some scores of the pioneer filiers are alive, their exploits in bringing aviation to the fore unhonored and unsung. The oldest one of them that this writer has encountered, Arthur B. Stone, one of the old Bleriot school, who began flying at 36, is just turned 62; and the youngest, Waldo Waterman, who built his first plane while a student of San Diego high school, is just past 40. 
Stone is an inspector for a large
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then had some experience with a dirigible in 1909, giving up aerial navigation for a year, at his mother's request, but coming back for more in 1910.
First he built an aeroplane and wrecked it. then he bought one, in knocked-down form, from Frederick Schneider, of Rochester, N.Y., assembled, and wrecked it. And then - the proudest moment of his life - he says - Glenn Curtiss selected him as a star member of his organization.

Morris was engaged by Curtissin 1912, and was actively associated with him for four years, as exhibition and test pilot. In 1914 the Curtiss company sent him to North Island, San Diego. In 1915 he married Miss Grace D. Gibon, of Coronado. In 1916 when the North Island school was closed, he purchased, and resold in dribbles, the Curtiss equipment there. 

Injuries sustained in a crash from a height of 1,500 feet, rendered him, in the government's estimation, unfit for army service in the late war. He served the government in a civilian capacity how-
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BOSTON, Mass., August 1, 1911 (E.B.) - In the first nine days following the opening of the Burgess Co., and Curtiss aviation school at the field of the Harvard Aeronautical Society at Squantum, on May 30, Harry N. Atwood and W. Starling Burgess, graduates of the Wright flying school, at Dayton, the instructors flew a total of 683 miles, while their students flew 532 miles.
On June 19, Atwood made a cross-country flight of 139 miles in his Burgess-Wright biplane, from a Boston to a point in New Hampshire. On June 30, with his mechanic as a passenger, Atwood set out from Boston on the longest cross-country voyage ever attempted in the United States. His destination was New York. On the first day the aviator flew to New London, Conn., a distance of 110 miles, which he covered in 2 hours and 10 minutes.
After arriving at New London, Atwood rose again with the mayor of the city as a passenger and flew over the Yale-Harvard Varsity boat race which was in progress Leaving New London at 7 o'clock the next morning Atwood flew 3 1/4 hours non-stop to the suburbs of New York City.
Having replenished his fuel supply, he sailed down East River and over the skyscrapper section of New York and landed on Governor's Island, completing his record journey. 
With his desire for aerial touring undiminished Atwood left New York on July 4, for Washington. He flew the first-stage of the journey, 110 miles to Atlantic City, in the elapsed time of 5 3/4 hours. While making an exhibition flight here, with Chas. K. Hamilton as a passenger, Atwood crashed into the ocean and wrecked his plane. 
Borrowing a Burgess machine which Hamilton had recently purchased the aero tourist flew on to Baltimore. On July 11, he reached College Park, Md., and on July 14, completing his 576 mile journey,
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SANTA ANA, Oct. 6, 1910 (E.B.) - Hundreds were disappointed today, when a Curtiss-type aeroplane built by Glenn L. Martin, the local aviator, refused absolutely to fly. 
Martin, his arm injured as a result of having been dragged by his machine recently, was not in the operator's seat today, his place being broken by Chas. F. Walsh, the San Diego aviator, who is said to have made several hundred flights in homemade aeroplane.

Arrangements for the flights had been made by the Carnival of Progress authorities, as a part of this week's program of celebration. A flying field had been hastily laid out at one side of town and an enclosure roped off.

Walsh took his seat and turned his cap around backwards. He moved the steering wheel fore and aft to test the front elevation control. He thrust his shoulders from right to left to check the balancing planes. He turned the rudder from side to side and watched its action closely.

He then gave a signal and the motor was started. The machine bounded across the terrain like a scared jackrabbit but did not rise. The performance was repeated several times to no avail, then Walsh gave up further attempts at trying to make the balky aircraft climb into the air. 

There was nothing wrong with the plane or motor, he said. The ground being too soft, he could not gather sufficient momentum to rise.
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ST. LOUIS, Mo., Mar. 1, 1912 (E.B.) - The earth bound natives in the vicinity of Kinloch field, where airmen congregate, have seen some startling sights.

But today even those who had become calloused at the sight of the most thrilling feats of aerial  navigation were thrilled to the very marrow of their bones. This afternoon a human being leaped from a Benoist biplane, hovering 1,500 feet in the air, and landed feet first, safely, on the ground below.

Captain Albert Berry, a noted aeronaut, was the man who made the spectacular descent. When he leaped from the plane, which was piloted by Airman Anthony Jannus, Captain Berry, by the weight of his falling body, pulled loose a parachute which had been carefully packed in a conical arrangement underneath the lower wing.

Starting off in the same manner as any ordinary flight would be made Captain Berry took his seat besides pilot Jannus. As the aeroplane rose above the 1000 foot level the aeronaut left his seat and clambered to the pecarious position on the plane's undercarriage.

When all was in readiness he signalled Jannus and jumped. The parachute opening after a drop of 400 feet. Immediately the nose of the craft, released of its extra burden, shot skyward, but with a steady hand the aviator righted it and spiralled without mishap to the ground. 

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