Hyatt Verrill I was living in England, at Ripley, when the first of the mysterious things arrived. I am an early riser and fond of taking a stroll along the lanes and across the fields at dawn, and on that particular morning—an epochal and terrible date in the world's history—I rose and with stick in hand prepared to start on my usual morning walk. As I opened my front door and glanced down the village street I actually gasped with astonishment. In the dim gray light an immense, dark-colored mass loomed through the soft morning mist above the roof of the Antelope public house on the opposite side of the road a few rods down the street. I was still gazing at the thing, wondering what on earth it could be, when old Tim Newbald appeared on the porch of his little cottage. Evidently he, too, saw the thing, for he uttered a surprised ejaculation, and adjusting his glasses, stared towards the Antelope. "What be the drasted thing?" he demanded, without taking his eyes from the strange object.
