“My dear, no matter where your husband’s affairs take you, the most important thing you can do for him is to remind him to put on his rubbers when it rains.” While thankful for all I had enjoyed in Italy, I rejoiced to be at home again among my own people. During the winter of 1910 we were much in Washington, for the installation of “Diana of the Tides.” This creation of my husband’s brush was given by our friends, Isabel and Larz Anderson, to the New National Museum, where it now occupies a place in the hall of the totems. We missed our friend, Czar Langley, who had been much interested in Diana. Mr. Langley, for years secretary of the Smithsonian Institute and leading spirit of its manifold undertakings, died in 1906. It has been said that his useful life was shortened by disappointment at the failure of his flying machine and the cruel ridicule he received when the airplane, after rising from the ground, came to grief in the Potomac River. One bright winter day, two years after Mr. Langley’s death, the notables of Rome were assembled on the russet plain of the Roman Campagna to witness America’s latest victory, the conquest of the air. King Victor was there, surrounded by a group of officers and representatives of the great powers. The Americans were led by the Ambassador’s wife, lovely Elsa Griscom, who seemed, with her eager upturned face, her slight figure a-thrill with expectation, the living embodiment of American genius. It was a proud moment for us when the white-winged airship appeared from its hangar, ran along the ground for a few rods, and rose, circling like a gigantic bird, up and up till it looked no bigger than an eagle. “Hurrah for Wilbur Wright!” The words burst from an excited Westerner. “Hurrah for U. S. us!” shouted another compatriot. I could only murmur under my breath, “Oh, Langley, Langley!” “This is an historic scene!” a friend said. “Wilbur Wright, the first man to make a practical success of aviation, soaring over the towers of Rome. Not since Daedalus flew from Crete to Cumae and hung up his wings in the Temple of Apollo has such a thing been seen in Italy.” A few nights later I met Wright and his sister at an Embassy dinner. Miss Wright, a breezy, sprightly girl, took pains to impress it on me that her brother Orville deserved as much credit as Wilbur for their joint invention, though for the moment Wilbur seemed to be getting the lion’s share of limelight. I put this question to Mr. Wright: “Will you tell me just how much help Mr. Langley’s experiments have been to you?” He gave an evasive answer; for all that, the name of Samuel Pierpont Langley of Boston will always be numbered among those pioneers who, for good or ill, have made aviation possible. Years before either Langley or Wright, Tennyson foretold it all in Locksley Hall, as the poets have always prophesied every step in human progress: