Property:Has text

<div class="poem"> Every word of that I grant, She said without a pant. It fills your space from day to day If that’s your only slant. But you have cars and other things, That you have got to sell, Or else your space will be to let, And that you know, full well. </div> +

<div class="poem"> Taken from life—The “Ad” writer’s life. </div> +

<div class="poem"> We've always tried in every way To do our level best. We're guided by our better half In everything but rest. She says our light and humor lines Is not the stuff that mingles, If we would all men have them read, We must cut out the jingles. </div> +

<div class="poem"> We've tried it once, we’ve tried it twice, We've tried it many times. To argue with our better half, It’s cost us lots of dimes. A woman set, is hard to get, In threes or twos or singles. Her word was last, she said it fast, You'd best cut out the jingles. </div> +

<div class="poem"> Another tack we took and tried To argue once again. Ver-sa-tile we did advance, Was like the sun and rain. But all we said with accent true, Rebounded in our face, We were left both deaf and dumb, We fell out of the race. </div> +

A South California Forest +

<div class="poem"> Our case we tried to argue And said you understand, To write each day as one would pray Is not at our command. Like other men we claim to be, With but a single mind, And what suits us will suit them, too, And other human kind. </div> +

<div class="poem"> HUSH, hush, these woods are thick with shapes and voices, They crowd behind, in front, Scarcely can one’s wheels break through them. For God’s sake, drive quickly! There are butchered victims behind those trees, And what you say is moss I know is the dead hair of hanged men. Drive faster, faster. The hair will catch in our wheels and clog them; We are thrown from side to side by the dead bodies in the road, Do you not smell the reek of them, And see the jaundiced film that hides the stars? Stand on the accelerator. I would rather be bumped to a jelly Than caught by clutching hands I cannot see, Than be stifled by the press of mouths I cannot feel. Not in the light glare, you fool, but on either side of it. Curse these swift, running trees, Hurl them aside, leap them, crush them down, Say prayers if you like, Do anything to drown the screaming silence of this forest, To hide the spinning shapes that jam the trees. What mystic adventure is this In which you have engulfed me? What no-world have you shot us into? What Dante dream without a farther edge? Fright kills, they say, and I believe it. If you would not have murder on your conscience, For Heaven’s sake, get on! </div> +

Abide the Adventure +

<div class="poem"> Make but a world of rest: Swifter than striking lightning The Aladdin of the soul builds in the heart A world of unresting hell... And, oh ye shunners of war, ye are gruelled in a war of the spirit, In a battle of nerves and blood-vessels and the ghost- haunted brain, And the death of delight... Hence, whip ye to battle: Live ye to the uttermost: Abide the adventure. </div> +

Abide the Adventure +

<div class="poem"> Neither from the woe, Nor from the war, Think ye to escape... It helps nothing that ye shut your eyes, oh, cloistered cowards and gilded idlers! For neither shall cushion nor buffet ease the sharp shock of life, Neither shall delicate music in hushed hotels drown out the roar of the battling streets . . . Neither shall wingéd wheels carry you away to the place of peace . . . How can ye go from yourselves, deluded ones? </div> +

<div class="poem"> To turn out typewriters, To invent a new breakfast food, To devise a dance that was never danced until now, To urge a new sanitation, and a swifter automobile— Have the life-surging heavens no business but this? </div> +

<div class="poem"> I feared sublimity: I was a little afraid of God: Silence and space terrified me, bringing the thought of what an irritable clod I was and how soon death would gulp me down... </div> +

<div class="poem"> Why did you hate to be by yourself, And why were you sick of your own company? </div> +

<div class="poem"> Such the question, and this the answer: </div> +

<div class="poem"> But now myself calls me... The skies demand me, though it is but ten in the morning: The earth has an appointment with me, not to be broken... I must accustom myself to the gaunt face of the Sub- time... I must see what I really am, and what I am for, And what this city is for, and the Earth and the stars in their hurry... </div> +

<div class="poem"> This fear has reared cities: The cowards flock together by the millions lest they should be left alone for a half hour... With church, theater and school, With office, mill and motor, With a thousand cunning devices, and clever calls to each other, They escape from themselves to the crowd... </div> +

<div class="poem"> Oh, I have loved it all: Snug rooms, the talk, the pleasant feast, the pictures: The warm bath of humanity in which I relaxed and soaked myself: And never, I hope, shall I be without it—at times... </div> +

<div class="poem"> When, after serious deliberation, he decided to abandon the trip he said: "If I attempt this game again, I will construct a machine on peculiar lines. No man who expects to operate in the civilized portions of this continent would take the machine for his individual service about cities and throughout ordinary country, but I tell you it will go through sand—and this quicksand at that." </div> +

<div class="poem"> COVERING THE NORTH AMERICAN CONTINENT FROM THE Pacific coast to the Atlantic Ocean in an automobile has been attempted by Alexander Winton, president of The Winton Motor Carriage Company, of Cleveland. That the expedition failed is no fault of the machine Mr. Winton used, nor was it due to absence of grit or determination on the part of the operator. Neither was the failure due to roads. The utter absence of roads was the direct and only cause. </div> +

<div class="poem"> Our expedition left the government building in San Francisco and started across the bay for Oakland at 7:15 A.M., Monday, May 20. Left ferry foot of Broadway and got on road at 8 A.M. Turned off Broadway at San Pablo Avenue heading for Port Costa, distance thirty-two miles, hoping to reach there in time to catch the Sacramento River ferry to cross with Southern Pacific Express No. 4, which left Oakland at 8:01 with schedule to reach Port Costa at 9:15 A.M. </div> +