In the early morning and in the evening are the flying schools busy, for it is then as a rule that the wind blows softly; and for his first flights, when he is new to the control of a machine, the pupil needs conditions that are favourable. Summer and winter, therefore, directly it is light enough to see, the instructors bring out their craft, and practice goes on until all the beginners have had their turn, or perhaps until the wind rises and prevents further flying until just before dusk. At the large schools there are now two complete staffs of teachers and mechanics: one takes the morning spell of work, and is then free for the day, while the second staff comes on duty in the evening. It is possible in this way to avoid over-fatigue, and to ensure that both instructors and helpers are fresh for their work. It is amusing, nowadays, to look back, say, to the year 1908, and recall some of the statements that were made about learning to fly. It was, for instance, when the Wrights began to train pupils, declared impossible to teach an ordinary man to balance himself in the air. The Wrights could do it--yes; but they, contended the critics, were altogether abnormal men. It was argued, indeed, quite seriously, that the brothers had some phenomenal gift--that they could move far more quickly than ordinary men; that they were, in a word, two aerial acrobats. But, when put to a practical test, such arguments were proved idle. The first pupils who went to the Wrights _did_ learn to fly. They learned easily, and without accident; and after this, growing in numbers with rapidity, the world’s airmen were numbered in fifties and hundreds, and then in thousands. But there were some quaint happenings, none the less, in these early days. The Wright machine, it will be remembered, ran forward upon a length of rail before it took the air; and the day came when, after a number of flights with his instructor, a pupil was allowed to glide by himself from the rail, and soar upward as gracefully as he could. Some, being men of a cool temperament, did in fact do just what was required: they tilted their elevators very gently, and skimmed from the rail with lightness and ease. But others, nervous and a little over-anxious, drew back their levers too sharply. The aircraft shot from the rail; then, robbing itself of forward motion by the abruptness of the ascent, it came to a standstill in the air and slid back tail-first towards the ground--much to the discomfiture of the pilot, and generally to the detriment of its rear-planes. The penalty of a too sudden rise is illustrated by Fig. 93. [Illustration: FIG. 93.--Too abrupt an ascent.]