Often when in London I am battling with a barrage of rain, or falling over unseen strangers into gutters during fogs, I think happily of the sunlit roof of cloud above my head, and of the witches and wizards, lying on their backs with their coats off, among cloud-meadows in a glory of perfect summer and sun.
The witch, with one soothing hand on the bristling mane of her Harold, lay on her front on the cloud she had chosen, and looked down through a little hole in it.

It was practically the only cloud present that would have afforded reasonable cover; the others were mere wisps of sky-weed floating in the moonlight.
There was a greater chorus of aeroplanes below her now; the whole sky was ringing with it.

The witch could hear a deep bass-voiced machine, a baritone, a quavering tenor, and--thin and sharp as a pin--a little treble sound that made Harold rear and struggle to be free.
"Another witch," said the witch.

"I was wondering why the Huns hadn't got their magic organised by now." She mounted her Harold and slipped off the cloud.
The guns were shouting now, and the shells wailed and burst not so very far below them, but Harold trembled no longer.

More quickly than a falling star he swooped, and in a second the alien witch was in sight, an unwieldy figure whose broomstick sounded rather broken-winded, probably owing to the long-distance flight and to the fourteen stone of Teutonic magic on its back.