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Updated: May 10, 2025
Upon Greylock's crest within a week or two, maybe at all events before summer dog-day heat clogged and fogged the air her transcendent dream or the first part of it would come to pass: her yearning thumb would press the button and start the little Thunder Bird off, to fly up a couple of hundred miles, or so, with its diary in its cone-shaped head, and send back that novel explorer's log, the little recording apparatus, attached to a black silk parachute the first, the very first record from the outer realm of space.
Oh dear!" The girl's sigh was echoed by that stealthy wind around her, in whose every whisper there was menace, as it swept through the long grasses and ruffled the ash trees of Greylock's summit. Una, to whom this "half the battle", the quick locating of the parachute and its treasure, was not so vital, soared above all threat in this witching-time of excitement the transcendent hour.
In the wild chase after the prize, Pemrose made a good third, as she thus shouted her fear. "See oh! see, it is landing," she cried again, "c-coming down touching earth." Yes! for one fleeting instant it did alight upon a mound, the shooting starlet, the little electric dry cell, winking brilliantly against the background of somber evergreens, now dark as Erebus, that girdle old Greylock's crown.
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