Aeroplanes, crossing singly or in wild-bird formations, are so common in the sky of Faery that every one in those parts, while turning his own eyes inevitably upwards, secretly thinks his neighbour lamentably rustic and unsophisticated for looking at them.
Every aeroplane that crosses Faery feels, I suppose, the reflected magic from the land below, for there is never one with the barest minute to spare that does not pause and try to be clever over Higgins Farm.

You may see one industriously climbing the clouds over the Enchanted Forest, evidently trying hard to be intent on its destination.

You may see it falter, struggling with its sense of duty, and then break weakly into a mild figure eight.

The ragged rooks of Faery at once hurry into the air to show their laborious imitator how this should be done.

The spirit of frivolous competition enters into the aeroplane, its duty is flung to the winds.