PROMETHEUS

Man's flare for entering realms not his own is a curious and potent thing. The sea, the air, the jungle, the antipodes attract Irresistibly the craving for novelty so characteristic of humanity; and one needs no proof that this urge has been a tremendous factor in the progress in which each succeeding century takes pride. Success has perhaps gone a little to man's head; he takes mad chances and wins and in his cocksureness fails to take precaution in easier matters.

As a result the same ten months sees the impossible New York to Paris flight accomplished and a Boston-New York boat, on its regularly scheduled trip, wrecked twenty miles from its starting place. Wind and water combined to take the lives of three of the Coast Guardsmen detailed to rescue the boat's passengers; another tragedy, and three more lives added to the endless roll.

Aviators disappear in mid-ocean, and there is no great surprise, no intense shock, for the air is so new a field that man is still a little surprised at being able to fly. But when a coastal steamer meets doom on its accustomed journey, or when a flood destroys a valley, the old elements laugh at the real impotence of humanity. The claims of chemical rain-makers and cloud-destroyers have so far met with failure as complete as that of learns. Snow, rain, wind can still toy with man, much as in those days; the superman who rules the elements is still only a dream of Greek myths and German poets.