The Spirit of ST Louis by Charles A. Lindbergh

best of weather.
    The Father has his hand on the stick, and his feet on the rudder. He's studying my movement of controls; but he's touching them so lightly I can barely feel the pressure he exerts. No need to worry about him "freezing." We clear the ditch by, a man's height, and start climbing the cornfield slope beyond. I lift both hands above my head as a signal to the Father to take complete command. It's time for him to learn what rough air is like. He fights stick and rudder while wings rise and drop. I motion a left turn into wind, twist against my belt, look back, and laugh. It usually helps a student if you laugh when flying is hard. The Father smiles back. He's all right. He doesn't need any assurance. He's perfectly content to be bouncing around, and now he's not doing such a bad job. I put my right hand to my cheek to signal that he's skidding slightly, and then let him alone to fly in whatever way he will. He doesn't want to be trained in precision like an ordinary student. I pull on my goggles, button my jacket around my throat, and sink down into my cockpit. The next hour is his. – – –
     
    How am I going to contact the Wright Corporation? No friend of mine knows anyone in the organization, even indirectly. It won't make a very good impression if I just arrive at the reception desk and say I want to talk to one of the officers. There are probably dozens of people asking for interviews each day—salesmen, job hunters, and promoters. "What is your business?" the girl at the desk would ask. And how she'd look at me if I told her that I wanted to fly the Wright-Bellanca from New York to Paris! She'd class me as another "aviation bug," and sit me down with half a dozen others in the waiting room. I'd receive scant courtesy—if I got an interview at all.
    I've got to remember that New York isn't St. Louis. Here in St. Louis I'm well known in aviation circles. I can get a good reference from anyone connected with Lambert Field. But I'm unheard of in New York and at Paterson, New Jersey, where the Wright Aeronautical Corporation has its plant.
    (I motion the nose down. We're still quite a way from stalling, but if the Father ever does solo, he's got to be more careful.)
    I can write a letter to the Wright Corporation in dignified business language, mentioning our St. Louis group, our interest in the Paris flight, and our wish to discuss purchasing the Bellanca. I can say, casually, that I plan to be in New York in the near future, and that I will phone for an appointment. That's a better procedure. It would probably get me by the girl at the desk.
    But the Corporation might be cautious and write back for more definite information, for banking references, and for the names of my partners in the enterprise. That would be the worst thing that could happen. I could only say that three responsible men in St. Louis are interested in my plan for a flight to Paris, and have more or less committed themselves to take some part provided I can get together a large enough group to finance the project adequately. Such a statement wouldn't make a very good impression.
    I might not get any reply to my letter. That happened once, when I applied for a pilot's job. I spent hours framing and refraining my paragraphs. But weeks passed and an answer never came. Big companies receive hundreds of letters a day. I've got to get the Wright Corporation really interested in my project before I arrive; and it's going to take more than a letter to do that.
    (The stick is shaking. I look back at the Father. He slants his hand downward behind the windshield, and raises his eyebrows. He wants to dive. Oh yes, we're above the Catholic school. He has friends down there. I nod. He'll enjoy it, and his dive won't be much more than a steep glide. He won't clip any branches with our wings. We bank, skid a little, and nose down. I signal to ease the throttle back. Black-gowned figures run outdoors, spread over the lawn and gravel driveway, look up,