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Blueberries +
 Bibliographic Information Author Frost, Robert Genre Poetry Journal or Book North of Boston Publisher David Nutt Year of Publication 1914 Pages 59-66 Additional information - " You ought to have seen what I saw on my way To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day : Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb, Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum In the cavernous pail of the first one to come ! And all ripe together, not some of them green And some of them ripe ! You ought to have seen ! " road village roadside plant affect pleasure " I don't know what part of the pasture you mean." " You know where they cut off the woods—let me see— It was two years ago—or no !—can it be No longer than that ?—and the following fall The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall." " Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow. That's always the way with the blueberries, though : There may not have been the ghost of a sign Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine, But get the pine out of the way, you may burn The pasture all over until not a fern Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick, And presto, they're up all around you as thick And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick." “ It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit. I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot. And after all really they're ebony skinned : The blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind, A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand, And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned." " Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think ? " " He may and not care and so leave the chewink To gather them for him—you know what he is. He won't make the fact that they're rightfully his An excuse for keeping us other folk out." " I wonder you didn't see Loren about." " The best of it was that I did. Do you know, I was just getting through what the field had to show And over the wall and into the road, When who should come by, with a democrat-load Of all the young chattering Lorens alive, But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive." road agriculture road condition " He saw you, then ? What did he do ? Did he frown ? " " He just kept nodding his head up and down. You know how politely he always goes by. But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye— Which being expressed, might be this in effect : ' I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect, To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.' " " He's a thriftier person than some I could name." " He seems to be thrifty ; and hasn't he need, With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed ? He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Like birds. They store a great many away. They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet." " Who cares what they say ? It's a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow. “ “I wish you had seen his perpetual bow— And the air of the youngsters ! Not one of them turned, And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.” car “ I wish I knew half what the flock of them know Of where all the berries and other things grow, Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop. I met them one day and each had a flower Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower ; Some strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name. " car metaphor " He seems to be thrifty ; and hasn't he need, With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed ? He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Like birds. They store a great many away. They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet." " Who cares what they say ? It's a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow. “ “I wish you had seen his perpetual bow— And the air of the youngsters ! Not one of them turned, And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.” “ I wish I knew half what the flock of them know Of where all the berries and other things grow, Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop. I met them one day and each had a flower Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower ; Some strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name. " " I've told you how once not long after we came, I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth By going to him of all people on earth To ask if he knew any fruit to be had For the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad. There had been some berries—but those were all gone. He didn't say where they had been. He went on : ' I'm sure—I'm sure '—as polite as could be. He spoke to his wife in the door, ' Let me see, Mame, we don't know any good berrying place ? ' It was all he could do to keep a straight face. " If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him, He'll find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim, We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year. We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's clear, And the sun shines out warm : the vines must be wet. It's so long since I picked I almost forget How we used to pick berries : we took one look round, Then sank out of sight like trolls underground, And saw nothing more of each other, or heard, Unless when you said I was keeping a bird Away from its nest, and I said it was you. ' Well, one of us is.' For complaining it flew Around and around us. And then for a while We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile, And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out, For when you made answer, your voice was as low As talking—you stood up beside me, you know. " We shan't have the place to ourselves to enjoy— Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy. They'll be there to-morrow, or even to-night. They won't be too friendly—they may be polite— To people they look on as having no right To pick where they're picking. But we won't complain. You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain, The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves, Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves."  
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A Roadway +
 Bibliographic Information Author Dunbar, Paul Laurence Genre Poetry Journal or Book The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar Publisher Dodd , Mead , and Company Year of Publication 1913 Pages 214-215 Additional information - Let those who will stride on their barren roads And prick themselves to haste with self-made goads, Unheeding, as they struggle day by day, If flowers be sweet or skies be blue or gray: For me, the lone, cool way by purling brooks, The solemn quiet of the woodland nooks, A song-bird somewhere trilling sadly gay, A pause to pick a flower beside the way. road class metaphor plant sky forest animal affect road side  +
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Cities +
 Bibliographic Information Author H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) Genre Poetry Journal or Book - Publisher - Year of Publication 1916 Pages 44-46 Additional information - metaphysics Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street, each patterned alike, no grace to lighten a single house of the hundred crowded into one garden-space. street town urban affect Crowded—can we believe, not in utter disgust, in ironical play— but the maker of cities grew faint with the beauty of temple and space before temple, arch upon perfect arch, of pillars and corridors that led out to strange court-yards and porches where sun-light stamped hyacinth-shadows black on the pavement. urban town architecture affect road That the maker of cities grew faint with the splendour of palaces, paused while the incense-flowers from the incense-trees dropped on the marble-walk, thought anew, fashioned this— street after street alike. urban town metaphor plant tree roadside road affect For alas, he had crowded the city so full that men could not grasp beauty, beauty was over them, through them, about them, no crevice unpacked with the honey, rare, measureless. So he built a new city, ah can we believe, not ironically but for new splendour constructed new people to lift through slow growth to a beauty unrivalled yet— and created new cells, hideous first, hideous now— spread larve across them, not honey but seething life. And in these dark cells, packed street after street, souls live, hideous yet— O disfigured, defaced, with no trace of the beauty men once held so light. street town urban affect Can we think a few old cells were left—we are left— grains of honey, old dust of stray pollen dull on our torn wings, we are left to recall the old streets ? street town urban affect nostalgia Is our task the less sweet that the larve still sleep in their cells? Or crawl out to attack our frail strength: You are useless. We live. We await great events. We are spread through this earth. We protect our strong race. You are useless. Your cell takes the place of our young future strength. Though they sleep or wake to torment and wish to displace our old cells— thin rare gold— that their larve grow fat— is our task the less sweet? Though we wander about, find no honey of flowers in this waste, is our task the less sweet— who recall the old splendour, await the new beauty of cities?  
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Don't get me wrong oblivion +
 Bibliographic Information Author Cummings, Edward Estline Genre Poetry Journal or Book E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962 Publisher Liveright Year of Publication 1916 Pages 940-941 Additional information - don't get me wrong oblivion I never loved you kiddo you that was always sticking around spoiling me for everyone else telling me how it would make you nutty if I didn’t let you go the distance and I gave you my breasts to feel didn’t I and my mouth to kiss    O I was too good to you oblivion old kid that’s all    and when I might have told you to go ahead and croak yourselflike you was always threatening you was going to do I didn’t I said go on you inter- est me I let you hang around and whimper    and I’ve been getting mine Listen there’s a fellow I love like I never love anyone else that’s six    foot two tall with a face like any girl would die to kiss and a skin    like a little kitten’s that’s asked me to go to Murray’s tonight with him and see the cab-    aret and dance you know well if he asks me to take another I’m going to and if he asks me to take another after that I’m going to do that and if he puts me into a taxi and tells the driver to take her easy and steer for the morning I’m going to let him and if he starts in right away putting it to me in the cab    I’m not going to whisper    oblivion do you get me    not that I’m tired of automats and Childs’s and handling out ribbon to    old ladies that ain’t got three teeth and being followed home by pimps and stewed guys and sleeping lonely in a whitewashed room three thou- sand below Zero   oh no I could stand that but it’s that I’m O Gawd how tired of seeing the white face of you and feeling the old hands of you and being teased and jollied about you and being prayed and implored and bribed and threatened to give you my beautiful white body    kiddo that’s why car driving driver urban affect passenger  
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Instructions +
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Soiled Dove +
Bibliographic Information Author Sandburg, Carl Genre Poetry Journal or Book Chicago Poems Publisher Henry Holt and Company Year of Publication 1916 Pages 153 Additional information - Let us be honest; the lady was not a harlot until she married a corporation lawyer who picked her from a Ziegfeld chorus. Before then she never took anybody's money and paid for her silk stockings out of what she earned singing and dancing. She loved one man and he loved six women and the game was changing her looks, calling for more and more massage money and high coin for the beauty doctors. Now she drives a long, underslung motor car all by her- self, reads in the day's papers what her husband is doing to the inter-state commerce commission, re- quires a larger corsage from year to year, and won- ders sometimes how one man is coming along with six women. car driver metaphor  +
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The Bridge: VII The Tunnel +
Bibliographic Information Author Crane, Hart Genre Poetry Journal or Book The Collected Poems of Hart Crane Publisher Liveright Publishing Corporation Year of Publication 1933 Pages 49-54 Additional information - To Find the Western path Right thro' the Gates of Wrath —Blake Performances, assortments, résumés— Up Times Square to Columbus Circle lights Channel the congresses, nightly sessions, Refractions of the thousand theatres, faces— Mysterious kitchens.... You shall search them all. Some day by heart you’ll learn each famous sight And watch the curtain lift in hell’s despite; You’ll find the garden in the third act dead, Finger your knees—and wish yourself in bed With tabloid crime-sheets perched in easy sight. infrastructure Then let you reach your hat and go. As usual, let you—also walking down—exclaim to twelve upward leaving a subscription praise for what time slays. Or can’t you quite make up your mind to ride; A walk is better underneath the L a brisk Ten blocks or so before? But you find yourself Preparing penguin flexions of the arms,— As usual you will meet the scuttle yawn: The subway yawns the quickest promise home. train Be minimum, then, to swim the hiving swarms Out of the Square, the Circle burning bright— Avoid the glass doors gyring at your right, Where boxed alone a second, eyes take fright —Quite unprepared rush naked back to light: And down beside the turnstile press the coin Into the slot. The gongs already rattle. And so of cities you bespeak subways, rivered under streets and rivers.... In the car the overtone of motion underground, the monotone of motion is the sound of other faces, also underground— train “Let’s have a pencil Jimmy—living now at Floral Park Flatbush—on the Fourth of July— like a pigeon’s muddy dream—potatoes to dig in the field—travlin the town—too— night after night—the Culver line—the girls all shaping up—it used to be—” Our tongues recant like beaten weather vanes. This answer lives like verdigris, like hair Beyond extinction, surcease of the bone; And repetition freezes—“What “what do you want? getting weak on the links? fandaddle daddy don’t ask for change—IS THIS FOURTEENTH? it’s half past six she said—if you don’t like my gate why did you swing on it, why didja swing on it anyhow—” And somehow anyhow swing— The phonographs of hades in the brain Are tunnels that re-wind themselves, and love A burnt match skating in a urinal— Somewhere above Fourteenth TAKE THE EXPRESS To brush some new presentiment of pain— “But I want service in this office SERVICE I said—after the show she cried a little afterwards but—” Whose head is swinging from the swollen strap? Whose body smokes along the bitten rails, Bursts from a smoldering bundle far behind In back forks of the chasms of the brain,— Puffs from a riven stump far out behind In interborough fissures of the mind...? And why do I often meet your visage here, Your eyes like agate lanterns—on and on Below the toothpaste and the dandruff ads? —And did their riding eyes right through your side, And did their eyes like unwashed platters ride? And Death, aloft,—gigantically down Probing through you—toward me, O evermore! And when they dragged your retching flesh, Your trembling hands that night through Baltimore— That last night on the ballot rounds, did you Shaking, did you deny the ticket, Poe? For Gravesend Manor change at Chambers Street. The platform hurries along to a dead stop. The intent escalator lifts a serenade Stilly Of shoes, umbrellas, each eye attending its shoe, then Bolting outright somewhere above where streets Burst suddenly in rain.... The gongs recur: Elbows and levers, guard and hissing door. Thunder is galvothermic here below.... The car Wheels off. The train rounds, bending to a scream, Taking the final level for the dive Under the river— And somewhat emptier than before, Demented, for a hitching second, humps; then Lets go.... Toward corners of the floor Newspapers wing, revolve and wing. Blank windows gargle signals through the roar. anthropomorphism car metaphor sound road weather thunder train And does the Daemon take you home, also, Wop washerwoman, with the bandaged hair? After the corridors are swept, the cuspidors— The gaunt sky-barracks cleanly now, and bare, O Genoese, do you bring mother eyes and hands Back home to children and to golden hair? Daemon, demurring and eventful yawn! Whose hideous laughter is a bellows mirth —Or the muffled slaughter of a day in birth— O cruelly to inoculate the brinking dawn With antennae toward worlds that glow and sink;— To spoon us out more liquid than the dim Locution of the eldest star, and pack The conscience navelled in the plunging wind, Umbilical to call—and straightway die! O caught like pennies beneath soot and steam, Kiss of our agony thou gatherest; Condensed, thou takest all—shrill ganglia Impassioned with some song we fail to keep. And yet, like Lazarus, to feel the slope, The sod and billow breaking,—lifting ground, —A sound of waters bending astride the sky Unceasing with some Word that will not die...! * A tugboat, wheezing wreaths of steam, Lunged past, with one galvanic blare stove up the River. I counted the echoes assembling, one after one, Searching, thumbing the midnight on the piers. Lights, coasting, left the oily tympanum of waters; The blackness somewhere gouged glass on a sky. And this thy harbor, O my City, I have driven under, Tossed from the coil of ticking towers.... Tomorrow, And to be.... Hereby the River that is East— Here at the waters’ edge the hands drop memory; Shadowless in that abyss they unaccounting lie. How far away the star has pooled the sea— Or shall the hands be drawn away, to die? driving infrastructure pollution ocean river urban city Kiss of our agony Thou gatherest, O Hand of Fire gatherest—  
The Comet +
Bibliographic Information Author Du Bois, W. E. Burghardt Genre Fiction Journal or Book The Comet Publisher - Year of Publication 1920 Pages 253-273 Additional information - He stood a moment on the steps of the bank, watching the human river that swirled down Broadway. Few noticed him. Few ever noticed him save in a way that stung. He was outside the world—"nothing!" as he said bitterly. Bits of the words of the walkers came to him. "The comet?" "The comet–––" Everybody was talking of it. Even the president, as he entered, smiled patronizingly at him, and asked: "Well, Jim, are you scared?" "No," said the messenger shortly. "I thought we'd journeyed through the comet's tail once," broke in the junior clerk affably. "Oh, that was Halley's," said the president; "this is a new comet, quite a stranger, they say—wonderful, wonderful! I saw it last night. Oh, by the way, Jim," turning again to the messenger, "I want you to go down into the lower vaults today." The messenger followed the president silently. Of course, they wanted him to go down to the lower vaults. It was too dangerous for more valuable men. He smiled grimly and listened. "Everything of value has been moved out since the water began to seep in," said the president; "but we miss two volumes of old records. Suppose you nose around down there,—it isn't very pleasant, I suppose." "Not very," said the messenger, as he walked out. "Well, Jim, the tail of the new comet hits us at noon this time," said the vault clerk, as he passed over the keys; but the messenger passed silently down the stairs. Down he went beneath Broadway, where the dim light filtered through the feet of hurrying men; down to the dark basement beneath; down into the blackness and silence beneath that lowest cavern. Here with his dark lantern he groped in the bowels of the earth, under the world. He drew a long breath as he threw back the last great iron door and stepped into the fetid slime within. Here at last was peace, and he groped moodily forward. A great rat leaped past him and cobwebs crept across his face. He felt carefully around the room, shelf by shelf, on the muddied floor, and in crevice and corner. Nothing. Then he went back to the far end, where somehow the wall felt different. He sounded and pushed and pried. Nothing. He started away. Then something brought him back. He was sounding and working again when suddenly the whole black wall swung as on mighty hinges, and blackness yawned beyond. He peered in; it was evidently a secret vault––some hiding place of the old bank unknown in newer times. He entered hesitatingly. It was a long, narrow room with shelves, and at the far end, an old iron chest. On a high shelf lay the two missing volumes of records, and others. He put them carefully aside and stepped to the chest. It was old, strong, and rusty. He looked at the vast and old-fashioned lock and flashed his light on the hinges. They were deeply incrusted with rust. Looking about, he found a bit of iron and began to pry. The rust had eaten a hundred years, and it had gone deep. Slowly, wearily, the old lid lifted, and with a last, low groan laid bare its treasure––and he saw the dull sheen of gold! "Boom!" A low, grinding, reverberating crash struck upon his ear. He started up and looked about. All was black and still. He groped for his light and swung it about him. Then he knew! The great stone door had swung to. He forgot the gold and looked death squarely in the face. Then with a sigh he went methodically to work. The cold sweat stood on his forehead; but he searched, pounded, pushed, and worked until after what seemed endless hours his hand struck a cold bit of metal and the great door swung again harshly on its hinges, and then, striking against something soft and heavy, stopped. He had just room to squeeze through. There lay the body of the vault clerk, cold and stiff. He stared at it, and then felt sick and nauseated. The air seemed unaccountably foul, with a strong, peculiar odor. He stepped forward, clutched at the air, and fell fainting across the corpse. He awoke with a sense of horror, leaped from the body, and groped up the stairs, calling to the guard. The watchman sat as if asleep, with the gate swinging free. With one glance at him the messenger hurried up to the sub-vault. In vain he called to the guards. His voice echoed and re-echoed weirdly. Up into the great basement he rushed. Here another guard lay prostrate on his face, cold and still. A fear arose in the messenger's heart. He dashed up to the cellar floor, up into the bank. The stillness of death lay everywhere and everywhere bowed, bent, and stretched the silent forms of men. The messenger paused and glanced about. He was not a man easily moved; but the sight was appalling! "Robbery and murder," he whispered slowly to himself as he saw the twisted, oozing mouth of the president where he lay half-buried on his desk. Then a new thought seized him: If they found him here alone––with all this money and all these dead men––what would his life be worth? He glanced about, tiptoed cautiously to a side door, and again looked behind. Quietly he turned the latch and stepped out into Wall Street. How silent the street was! Not a soul was stirring, and yet it was high-noon––Wall Street? Broadway? He glanced almost wildly up and down, then across the street, and as he looked, a sickening horror froze in his limbs. With a choking cry of utter fright he lunged, leaned giddily against the cold building, and stared helplessly at the sight. In the great stone doorway a hundred men and women and children lay crushed and twisted and jammed, forced into that great, gaping doorway like refuse in a can––as if in one wild, frantic rush to safety, they had crushed and ground themselves to death. Slowly the messenger crept along the walls, wetting his parched mouth and trying to comprehend, stilling the tremor in his limbs and the rising terror in his heart. He met a business man, silk-hatted and frock-coated, who had crept, too, along that smooth wall and stood now stone dead with wonder written on his lips. The messenger turned his eyes hastily away and sought the curb. A woman leaned wearily against the signpost, her head bowed motionless on her lace and silken bosom. Before her stood a street car, silent, and within––but the messenger but glanced and hurried on. A grimy newsboy sat in the gutter with the "last edition" in his uplifted hand: "Danger!" screamed its black headlines. "Warnings wired around the world. The Comet's tail sweeps past us at noon. Deadly gases expected. Close doors and windows. Seek the cellar." The messenger read and staggered on. Far out from a window above, a girl lay with gasping face and sleevelets on her arms. On a store step sat a little, sweet-faced girl looking upward toward the skies, and in the carriage by her lay––but the messenger looked no longer. The cords gave way––the terror burst in his veins, and with one great, gasping cry he sprang desperately forward and ran,––ran as only the frightened run, shrieking and fighting the air until with one last wail of pain he sank on the grass of Madison Square and lay prone and still. car When he arose, he gave no glance at the still and silent forms on the benches, but, going to a fountain, bathed his face; then hiding himself in a corner away from the drama of death, he quietly gripped himself and thought the thing through: The comet had swept the earth and this was the end. Was everybody dead? He must search and see. He knew that he must steady himself and keep calm, or he would go insane. First he must go to a restaurant. He walked up Fifth Avenue to a famous hostelry and entered its gorgeous, ghost-haunted halls. He beat back the nausea, and, seizing a tray from dead hands, hurried into the street and ate ravenously, hiding to keep out the sights. "Yesterday, they would not have served me," he whispered, as he forced the food down. Then he started up the street,––looking, peering, telephoning, ringing alarms; silent, silent all. Was nobody––nobody––he dared not think the thought and hurried on. Suddenly he stopped still. He had forgotten. My God! How could he have forgotten? He must rush to the subway––then he almost laughed. No––a car; if he could find a Ford. He saw one. Gently he lifted off its burden, and took his place on the seat. He tested the throttle. There was gas. He glided off, shivering, and drove up the street. Everywhere stood, leaned, lounged, and lay the dead, in grim and awful silence. On he ran past an automobile, wrecked and overturned; past another, filled with a gay party whose smiles yet lingered on their death-struck lips; on past crowds and groups of cars, pausing by dead policemen; at 42nd Street he had to detour to Park Avenue to avoid the dead congestion. He came back on Fifth Avenue at 57th and flew past the Plaza and by the park with its hushed babies and silent throng, until as he was rushing past 72nd Street he heard a sharp cry, and saw a living form leaning wildly out an upper window. He gasped. The human voice sounded in his ears like the voice of God. train car model speed gasoline "Hello––hello––help, in God's name!" wailed the woman. "There's a dead girl in here and a man and––and see yonder dead men lying in the street and dead horses––for the love of God go and bring the officers–––" And the words trailed off into hysterical tears. He wheeled the car in a sudden circle, running over the still body of a child and leaping on the curb. Then he rushed up the steps and tried the door and rang violently. There was a long pause, but at last the heavy door swung back. They stared a moment in silence. She had not noticed before that he was a Negro. He had not thought of her as white. She was a woman of perhaps twenty-five––rarely beautiful and richly gowned, with darkly-golden hair, and jewels. Yesterday, he thought with bitterness, she would scarcely have looked at him twice. He would have been dirt beneath her silken feet. She stared at him. Of all the sorts of men she had pictured as coming to her rescue she had not dreamed of one like him. Not that he was not human, but he dwelt in a world so far from hers, so infinitely far, that he seldom even entered her thought. Yet as she looked at him curiously he seemed quite commonplace and usual. He was a tall, dark workingman of the better class, with a sensitive face trained to stolidity and a poor man's clothes and hands. His face was soft and slow and his manner at once cold and nervous, like fires long banked, but not out. driving death So a moment each paused and gauged the other; then the thought of the dead world without rushed in and they started toward each other. "What has happened?" she cried. "Tell me! Nothing stirs. All is silence! I see the dead strewn before my window as winnowed by the breath of God,––and see––––" She dragged him through great, silken hangings to where, beneath the sheen of mahogany and silver, a little French maid lay stretched in quiet, everlasting sleep, and near her a butler lay prone in his livery. The tears streamed down the woman's cheeks and she clung to his arm until the perfume of her breath swept his face and he felt the tremors racing through her body. "I had been shut up in my dark room developing pictures of the comet which I took last night; when I came out––I saw the dead! "What has happened?" she cried again. He answered slowly: "Something––comet or devil––swept across the earth this morning and––many are dead!" "Many? Very many?" "I have searched and I have seen no other living soul but you." She gasped and they stared at each other. "My––father!" she whispered. "Where is he?" "He started for the office." "Where is it?" "In the Metropolitan Tower." "Leave a note for him here and come." Then he stopped. "No," he said firmly––"first, we must go––to Harlem." "Harlem!" she cried. Then she understood. She tapped her foot at first impatiently. She looked back and shuddered. Then she came resolutely down the steps. "There's a swifter car in the garage in the court," she said. "I don't know how to drive it," he said. "I do," she answered. car model skill In ten minutes they were flying to Harlem on the wind. The Stutz rose and raced like an airplane. They took the turn at 110th Street on two wheels and slipped with a shriek into l35th. speed He was gone but a moment. Then he returned, and his face was gray. She did not look, but said: "You have lost––somebody?" "I have lost––everybody," he said, simply––" unless––––" He ran back and was gone several minutes––hours they seemed to her. "Everybody," he said, and he walked slowly back with something film-like in his hand which he stuffed into his pocket. "I'm afraid I was selfish," he said. But already the car was moving toward the park among the dark and lined dead of Harlem––the brown, still faces, the knotted hands, the homely garments, and the silence––the wild and haunting silence. Out of the park, and down Fifth Avenue they whirled. In and out among the dead they slipped and quivered, needing no sound of bell or horn, until the great, square Metropolitan Tower hove in sight. Gently he laid the dead elevator boy aside; the car shot upward. The door of the office stood open. On the threshold lay the stenographer, and, staring at her, sat the dead clerk. The inner office was empty, but a note lay on the desk, folded and addressed but unsent: speed Dear Daughter: I've gone for a hundred mile spin in Fred's new Mercedes. Shall not be back before dinner. I'll bring Fred with me. J. B. H. car model pleasure "Come," she cried nervously. "We must search the city." Up and down, over and across, back again––on went that ghostly search. Everywhere was silence and death––death and silence! They hunted from Madison Square to Spuyten Duyvel; they rushed across the Williamsburg Bridge; they swept over Brooklyn; from the Battery and Morningside Heights they scanned the river. Silence, silence everywhere, and no human sign. Haggard and bedraggled they puffed a third time slowly down Broadway, under the broiling sun, and at last stopped. He sniffed the air. An odor––a smell––and with the shifting breeze a sickening stench filled their nostrils and brought its awful warning. The girl settled back helplessly in her seat. speed "What can we do?" she cried. It was his turn now to take the lead, and he did it quickly. "The long distance telephone––the telegraph and the cable––night rockets and then––flight!" She looked at him now with strength and confidence. He did not look like men, as she had always pictured men; but he acted like one and she was content. In fifteen minutes they were at the central telephone exchange. As they came to the door he stepped quickly before her and pressed her gently back as he closed it. She heard him moving to and fro, and knew his burdens––the poor, little burdens he bore. When she entered, he was alone in the room. The grim switchboard flashed its metallic face in cryptic, sphinx-like immobility. She seated herself on a stool and donned the bright earpiece. She looked at the mouthpiece. She had never looked at one so closely before. It was wide and black, pimpled with usage; inert; dead; almost sarcastic in its unfeeling curves. It looked––she beat back the thought––but it looked,––it persisted in looking like––she turned her head and found herself alone. One moment she was terrified; then she thanked him silently for his delicacy and turned resolutely, with a quick intaking of breath. "Hello!" she called in low tones. She was calling to the world. The world must answer. Would the world answer? Was the world–– Silence! She had spoken too low. "Hello!" she cried, full-voiced. She listened. Silence! Her heart beat quickly. She cried in clear, distinct, loud tones: "Hello––hello––hello!" What was that whirring? Surely––no––was it the click of a receiver? She bent close, she moved the pegs in the holes, and called and called, until her voice rose almost to a shriek, and her heart hammered. It was as if she had heard the last flicker of creation, and the evil was silence. Her voice dropped to a sob. She sat stupidly staring into the black and sarcastic mouthpiece, and the thought came again. Hope lay dead within her. Yes, the cable and the rockets remained; but the world––she could not frame the thought or say the word. It was too mighty––too terrible! She turned toward the door with a new fear in her heart. For the first time she seemed to realize that she was alone in the world with a stranger, with something more than a stranger,––with a man alien in blood and culture––unknown, perhaps unknowable. It was awful! She must escape––she must fly; he must not see her again. Who knew what awful thoughts–– She gathered her silken skirts deftly about her young, smooth limbs––listened, and glided into a sidehall. A moment she shrank back: the hall lay filled with dead women; then she leaped to the door and tore at it, with bleeding fingers, until it swung wide. She looked out. He was standing at the top of the alley,––silhouetted, tall and black, motionless. Was he looking at her or away? She did not know––she did not care. She simply leaped and ran––ran until she found herself alone amid the dead and the tall ramparts of towering buildings. She stopped. She was alone. Alone! Alone on the streets––alone in the city––perhaps alone in the world! There crept in upon her the sense of deception––of creeping hands behind her back––of silent, moving things she could not see,––of voices hushed in fearsome conspiracy. She looked behind and sideways, started at strange sounds and heard still stranger, until every nerve within her stood sharp and quivering, stretched to scream at the barest touch. She whirled and flew back, whimpering like a child, until she found that narrow alley again and the dark, silent figure silhouetted at the top. She stopped and rested; then she walked silently toward him, looked at him timidly; but he said nothing as he handed her into the car. Her voice caught as she whispered: "Not––that." And he answered slowly: "No––not that!" They climbed into the car. She bent forward on the wheel and sobbed, with great, dry, quivering sobs, as they flew toward the cable office on the east side, leaving the world of wealth and prosperity for the world of poverty and work. In the world behind them were death and silence, grave and grim, almost cynical, but always decent; here it was hideous. It clothed itself in every ghastly form of terror, struggle, hate, and suffering. It lay wreathed in crime and squalor, greed and lust. Only in its dread and awful silence was it like to death everywhere. car car part Yet as the two, flying and alone, looked upon the horror of the world, slowly, gradually, the sense of all-enveloping death deserted them. They seemed to move in a world silent and asleep,––not dead. They moved in quiet reverence, lest somehow they wake these sleeping forms who had, at last, found peace. They moved in some solemn, world-wide Friedhof, above which some mighty arm had waved its magic wand. All nature slept until––until, and quick with the same startling thought, they looked into each other's eyes––he, ashen, and she, crimson, with unspoken thought. To both, the vision of a mighty beauty––of vast, unspoken things, swelled in their souls; but they put it away. Great, dark coils of wire came up from the earth and down from the sun and entered this low lair of witchery. The gathered lightnings of the world centered here, binding with beams of light the ends of the earth. The doors gaped on the gloom within. He paused on the threshold. "Do you know the code?" she asked. "I know the call for help––we used it formerly at the bank." She hardly heard. She heard the lapping of the waters far below,––the dark and restless waters––the cold and luring waters, as they called. He stepped within. Slowly she walked to the wall, where the water called below, and stood and waited. Long she waited, and he did not come. Then with a start she saw him, too, standing beside the black waters. Slowly he removed his coat and stood there silently. She walked quickly to him and laid her hand on his arm. He did not start or look. The waters lapped on in luring, deadly rhythm. He pointed down to the waters, and said quietly: "The world lies beneath the waters now––may I go?" She looked into his stricken, tired face, and a great pity surged within her heart. She answered in a voice clear and calm, "No." Upward they turned toward life again, and he seized the wheel. The world was darkening to twilight, and a great, gray pall was falling mercifully and gently on the sleeping dead. The ghastly glare of reality seemed replaced with the dream of some vast romance. The girl lay silently back, as the motor whizzed along, and looked half-consciously for the elf-queen to wave life into this dead world again. She forgot to wonder at the quickness with which he had learned to drive her car. It seemed natural. And then as they whirled and swung into Madison Square and at the door of the Metropolitan Tower she gave a low cry, and her eyes were great! Perhaps she had seen the elf-queen? car part sound skill safety driver The man led her to the elevator of the tower and deftly they ascended. In her father's office they gathered rugs and chairs, and he wrote a note and laid it on the desk; then they ascended to the roof and he made her comfortable. For a while she rested and sank to dreamy somnolence, watching the worlds above and wondering. Below lay the dark shadows of the city and afar was the shining of the sea. She glanced at him timidly as he set food before her and took a shawl and wound her in it, touching her reverently, yet tenderly. She looked up at him with thankfulness in her eyes, eating what he served. He watched the city. She watched him. He seemed very human,––very near now. "Have you had to work hard?" she asked softly. “Always," he said. "I have always been idle," she said. "I was rich." "I was poor," he almost echoed. "The rich and the poor are met together," she began, and he finished: "The Lord is the Maker of them all." "Yes," she said slowly; "and how foolish our human distinctions seem––now," looking down to the great dead city stretched below, swimming in unlightened shadows. "Yes––I was not––human, yesterday," he said. She looked at him. “And your people were not my people," she said; "but today––––" She paused. He was a man,–no more; but he was in some larger sense a gentleman,—sensitive, kindly, chivalrous, everything save his hands and–his face. Yet yesterday–– "Death, the leveler!" he muttered. “And the revealer," she whispered gently, rising to her feet with great eyes. He turned away, and after fumbling a moment sent a rocket into the darkening air. It arose, shrieked, and flew up, a slim path of light, and, scattering its stars abroad, dropped on the city below. She scarcely noticed it. A vision of the world had risen before her. Slowly the mighty prophecy of her destiny overwhelmed her. Above the dead past hovered the Angel of Annunciation. She was no mere woman. She was neither high nor low, white nor black, rich nor poor. She was primal woman; mighty mother of all men to come and Bride of Life. She looked upon the man beside her and forgot all else but his manhood, his strong, vigorous manhood––his sorrow and sacrifice. She saw him glorified. He was no longer a thing apart, a creature below, a strange outcast of another clime and blood, but her Brother Humanity incarnate, Son of God and great All-Father of the race to be. He did not glimpse the glory in her eyes, but stood looking outward toward the sea and sending rocket after rocket into the unanswering darkness. Dark-purple clouds lay banked and billowed in the west. Behind them and all around, the heavens glowed in dim, weird radiance that suffused the darkening world and made almost a minor music. Suddenly, as though gathered back in some vast hand, the great cloud-curtain fell away. Low on the horizon lay a long, white star––mystic, wonderful! And from it fled upward to the pole, like some wan bridal veil, a pale, wide sheet of flame that lighted all the world and dimmed the stars. In fascinated silence the man gazed at the heavens and dropped his rockets to the floor. Memories of memories stirred to life in the dead recesses of his mind. The shackles seemed to rattle and fall from his soul. Up from the crass and crushing and cringing of his caste leaped the lone majesty of kings long dead. He arose within the shadows, tall, straight, and stern, with power in his eyes and ghostly scepters hovering to his grasp. It was as though some mighty Pharaoh lived again, or curled Assyrian lord. He turned and looked upon the lady, and found her gazing straight at him. Silently, immovably, they saw each other face to face––eye to eye. Their souls lay naked to the night. It was not lust; it was not love—it was some vaster, mightier thing that needed neither touch of body nor thrill of soul. It was a thought divine, splendid. Slowly, noiselessly, they moved toward each other––the heavens above, the seas around, the city grim and dead below. He loomed from out the velvet shadows vast and dark. Pearl-white and slender, she shone beneath the stars. She stretched her jeweled hands abroad. He lifted up his mighty arms, and they cried each to the other, almost with one voice, "The world is dead." "Long live the––––" "Honk! Honk!" Hoarse and sharp the cry of a motor drifted clearly up from the silence below. They started backward with a cry and gazed upon each other with eyes that faltered and fell, with blood that boiled. sound "Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!" came the mad cry again, and almost from their feet a rocket blazed into the air and scattered its stars upon them. She covered her eyes with her hands, and her shoulders heaved. He dropped and bowed, groped blindly on his knees about the floor. A blue flame spluttered lazily after an age, and she heard the scream of an answering rocket as it flew. sound onomatopoeia Then they stood still as death, looking to opposite ends of the earth. "Clang—crash—clang!" The roar and ring of swift elevators shooting upward from below made the great tower tremble. A murmur and babel of voices swept in upon the night. All over the once dead city the lights blinked, flickered, and flamed; and then with a sudden clanging of doors the entrance to the platform was filled with men, and one with white and flying hair rushed to the girl and lifted her to his breast. "My daughter!" he sobbed. Behind him hurried a younger, comelier man, carefully clad in motor costume, who bent above the girl with passionate solicitude and gazed into her staring eyes until they narrowed and dropped and her face flushed deeper and deeper crimson. "Julia," he whispered; "my darling, I thought you were gone forever." She looked up at him with strange, searching eyes. "Fred," she murmured, almost vaguely, "is the world––gone?" "Only New York," he answered; "it is terrible––awful! You know,––but you, how did you escape––how have you endured this horror? Are you well? Unharmed?" "Unharmed!" she said. “And this man here?" he asked, encircling her drooping form with one arm and turning toward the Negro. Suddenly he stiffened and his hand flew to his hip. "Why!" he snarled. "It's––a––nigger––Julia! Has he––has he dared––––" She lifted her head and looked at her late companion curiously and then dropped her eyes with a sigh. "He has dared––all, to rescue me," she said quietly, "and I––thank him––much." But she did not look at him again. As the couple turned away, the father drew a roll of bills from his pockets. "Here, my good fellow," he said, thrusting the money into the man's hands, "take that,––what's your name?" "Jim Davis," came the answer, hollow-voiced. "Well, Jim, I thank you. I've always liked your people. If you ever want a job, call on me." And they were gone. The crowd poured up and out of the elevators, talking and whispering. "Who was it?" “Are they alive?" "How many?" "Two!" "Who was saved?" “A white girl and a nigger––there she goes." “A nigger? Where is he? Let's lynch the damned––—" "Shut up––he's all right––he saved her." "Saved hell! He had no business––––" "Here he comes." Into the glare of the electric lights the colored man moved slowly, with the eyes of those that walk and sleep. "Well, what do you think of that?" cried a bystander; "of all New York, just a white girl and a nigger!" The colored man heard nothing. He stood silently beneath the glare of the light, gazing at the money in his hand and shrinking as he gazed; slowly he put his other hand into his pocket and brought out a baby's filmy cap, and gazed again. A woman mounted to the platform and looked about, shading her eyes. She was brown, small, and toil-worn, and in one arm lay the corpse of a dark baby. The crowd parted and her eyes fell on the colored man; with a cry she tottered toward him. "Jim!" He whirled and, with a sob of joy, caught her in his arms.  
The Song of the Motor Car +
Bibliographic Information Author Naylor, James Ball Genre Poetry Journal or Book Collier’s Publisher - Year of Publication 1909 Pages 22 Additional information - I’m the coy and ingenuous toy of the strenuous Era of Civilized Man, I’m the truly respectable, duly delectable Outcome of project and plan; And my gassy and thunderful, massy and wonderful Shape splits the landscape in twain, As I race where the fountain speaks grace to the mountain peaks— Then over valley and plain. driving mountain personification technology sound topography Oh! it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the song I sing In the cool of the morning gray, And it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the raucous ring Of my voice at the close of day; And the echoes wake—and the echoes quake, In their sylvan retreats afar; For I am the fizzing, the buzzing, and whizzing, Redoubtable Motor Car! car sound onomatopoeia speed I’m the snappiest, pluckiest, happy-go-luckiest Work of Man’s reckless career— The machine of divinity green asininity Never can conquer or steer; And there’s never a note or bar honked by the Motor Car Rounding an angle or curve, But it cheats the pedestrian—beats the equestrian— Out of his poise and his nerve. car driving sound pedestrian animal For it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the song I sing In the blaze of the noonday bright, And it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the raucous ring Of my voice in the starry night; And the echoes quake and shiver and shake, In their rocky retreats afar; For I am the puffing, the chugging, and chuffing And masterful Motor Car! car sound night Through the haze of the dreamiest days of the gleamiest Summers I speed to and fro, In the height of the glorious, mighty, uproarious Tempest I come and I go; I’m the tool and the servant, the cool and observant Rare creature of project and plan, And the coy and ingenuous toy of the strenuous Era of Civilized Man. metaphor summer technology wind personification And it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the song I sing In the cool of the ev'ning’s hush. And it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the raucous ring Of my voice in the morning’s blush; And in the echoes wake—and the echoes shake, In their woody retreats afar; For I am the purring, the whizzing, and whirring And marvelous Motor Car! car sound  
The Mountains +
Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 17 Additional information - When we view the mountains all around, From their vast stillness not a sound, They seem just like some silent friend On whom we safely can depend. They rise to proud and lofty height, Forbidding and dark are they at night. Their summits kiss the heavens high, They ever remind us God is nigh. If the mountains were never stationed there, We would not have the purified air, Nor would flowing rivers be sustained, If in the mountains it never rained. On mountain height both east and west, For every living mortal there is rest. We view the peaks in contemplation Of God's great plan for all creation. The clouds in glory round them spread, The sun in grandeur settles on their head. Winter stays to chill the month of May, The lightning fondly choose them for their play. The mountains grim forever stand, While men will roam about the land. Men are fond of other men to greet, Mountains never have been known to meet. Of the peaks around both high and low, The one we favor most is San Antonio. We like to go up there whene'er we can, It's easy in a Studebaker Six Sedan. mountain car model —The Car with Character.  +
D
Dominic has +
Bibliographic Information Author Cummings, Edward Estline Genre Poetry Journal or Book E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962 Publisher Liveright Year of Publication 1958 Pages 680 Additional information - dominic has a doll wired to the radiator of his ZOOM DOOM car car part metaphor sound onomatopoeia icecoalwood truck a car wistful little clown whom somebody buried upsidedown in an ashbarrel so of course dominic took him home & mrs dominic washed his sweet car dirty face & mended his bright torn trousers(quite as if he were really her & she but)& so that 's how dominic has a doll & every now & then my wonderful friend dominic depaola gives me a most tremendous hug knowing i feel that we & worlds are less alive than dolls &  +
T
The Spirit of Transportation +
Bibliographic Information Author Unknown Genre Poetry Journal or Book Motor Land Publisher - Year of Publication 1922 Pages 23 Additional information - I am the Spirit of Things that Are, Born of an urgent need, Of the Force that lies In a Man's surmise In a day ere the Age of Speed. metaphor speed I was at hand when the primal herd Toiled o'er the heavy sledge, As they dragged their load To their cave abode By the rippling river's edge. Mine was the thought in that early day, Stirred for the human weal, That inspired the sage In that darkened age With that vision of Life—the Wheel. Then came the horse as the slave of man, Carriage and coach and four, And the years flashed by And the time was nigh, To reveal what the future bore. Then came the quickening urge of Trade, Commerce must travel far, And my wings I gave To this earth-born slave With the joys of the motor car. car metaphor pleasure sublime I am the Spirit of Things that Are, Born of an urgent need, Of the Force that lies In a Man's surmise In a day ere the Age of Speed. metaphor speed  +
G
Get there if you can and see the land you were once proud to own +
Bibliographic Information Author Auden, Wystan Hugh Genre Poetry Journal or Book - Publisher - Year of Publication 1928 Pages 65-68 Additional information - Get there if you can and see the land you once were proud to own Though the roads have almost vanished and the expresses never run: road affect road condition Smokeless chimneys, damaged bridges, rotting wharves and choked canals, Tramlines buckled, smashed trucks lying on their side across the rails; infrastructure bridge train car road road condition Power-stations locked, deserted, since they drew the boiler fires; Pylons fallen or subsiding, trailing dead high-tension wires; infrastructure risk Head-gears gaunt on grass-grown pit-banks, seams abandoned years ago; Drop a stone and listen for its splash in flooded dark below. Squeeze into the works through broken windows or through damp-sprung doors; See the rotted shafting, see holes gaping in the upper floors; Where the Sunday lads come talking motor bicycle and girl, Smoking cigarettes in chains until their heads are in a whirl. other mobilities bicycles car gender Far from there we spent the money, thinking we could well afford, While they quietly undersold us with their cheaper trade abroad; At the theatre, playing tennis, driving motor cars we had, In our continental villas, mixing cocktails for a cad. car driving class urban infrastructure metaphor These were boon companions who devised the legends for our tombs, These who have betrayed us nicely while we took them to our rooms. Newman, Ciddy, Plato, Fronny, Pascal, Bowdler, Baudelaire, Doctor Frommer, Mrs Allom, Freud, the Baron, and Flaubert. Lured with their compelling logic, charmed with beauty of their verse, With their loaded sideboards whispered ‘Better join us, life is worse.’ Taught us at the annual camps arranged by the big business men ‘Sunbathe, pretty till you’re twenty. You shall be our servants then.’ Perfect pater. Marvellous mater. Knock the critic down who dares — Very well, believe it, copy; till your hair is white as theirs. Yours you say were parents to avoid, avoid then if you please Do the reverse on all occasion till you catch the same disease. When we asked the way to Heaven, these directed us ahead To the padded room, the clinic and the hangman’s little shed. Intimate as war-time prisoners in an isolation camp, Living month by month together, nervy, famished, lousy, damp. On the sopping esplanade or from our dingy lodgings we Stare out dully at the rain which falls for miles into the sea. Lawrence, Blake and Homer Lane, once healers in our English land; These are dead as iron for ever; these can never hold our hand. Lawrence was brought down by smut-hounds, Blake went dotty as he sang, Homer Lane was killed in action by the Twickenham Baptist gang. Have things gone too far already? Are we done for? Must we wait Hearing doom’s approaching footsteps regular down miles of straight; Run the whole night through in gumboots, stumble on and gasp for breath, Terrors drawing close and closer, winter landscape, fox’s death; Or, in friendly fireside circle, sit and listen for the crash Meaning that the mob has realized something’s up, and start to smash; Engine-drivers with their oil-cans, factory girls in overalls Blowing sky-high monster stores, destroying intellectuals? engine driver car oil metaphor risk Hope and fear are neck and neck: which is it near the course’s end Crashes, having lost his nerve; is overtaken on the bend? road road condition driving risk Shut up talking, charming in the best suits to be had in town, Lecturing on navigation while the ship is going down. town navigation other mobilities Drop those priggish ways for ever, stop behaving like a stone: Throw the bath-chairs right away, and learn to leave ourselves alone. If we really want to live, we’d better start at once to try; If we don’t, it doesn’t matter, but we’d better start to die.  
F
Frontiering in an Automobile +
Bibliographic Information Author Delany, Philip Genre Non-Fiction Journal or Book Outing Publisher - Year of Publication 1903 Pages 131-136 Additional information - pioneer Romance is fast being crowded out of the life of the pioneer; once he depended upon his own sturdy legs, or those of his broncho or burronow he may, if he like, ride in an automobile, the latest pathfinder of the plains. The machine has its thrilling side, too. affect car pleasure technology pioneer To climb mountain passes with a thirty-per-cent grade, to coast down rocky roads with only a few feet from wheels to the edge of an abyss of picturesque wonders, to swing along southern paths made famous by the Indians and pony express riders of only a few years ago, and along which a motor-car had never before been seen, this is an automobile trip that has exploring and sight seeing, and excitement enough to suit the most adventurous spirit. Such a journey I took this spring with Mr. W. W. Price, who has, with an automobile, re-discovered many a Western cañon, pass and desert. car road condition car part desert mountain Native American passenger scenery topography It took us two hours to run from Colorado Springs—our starting point—to Pueblo, past Pike's Peak and Cheyenne Mountain, most of the way over hot alkali plains, furrowed deep by cloud-burst and spring freshets. From Pueblo, taking supplies for the machine, we struck south across country. We were soon out of the world, drifting across a roadless land made more weird by the light which the moon threw over it. We were trying to locate the main highway to Walsenburg. For a time we crawled along where lines showed teams had once gone, until we came to a Mexican ranch of adobe houses; but the three big headlights on the machine discovered no one and we crept slowly away from the corral, the machine thudding sullenly under us. Then suddenly we blundered into the roadway and away we went at a rate of thirty miles an hour, transfixing with wonder a few Mexicans who were camping near by. adobe car part driving mountain engine highway infrastructure metaphor Midwest night passenger road side rural slowness sound Spring South from Walsenburg, the next day we swung past the Spanish Peaks, snow-white above the evergreens. Mountains were everywhere. They leaned in to- ward us threateningly through the clear air from all sides. Then down through Trinidad, toward Raton, New Mexico, the way wound around foothills, black with outcroppings of coal. From Raton we left the railroad lines, which had paralleled us, and pushed across the level plains, where cattle turned and ran in herds at the sight of a motor on the old Mexican land grant and the machine slowed down, necessarily, and followed the burro pace-maker. After a night in an old adobe house in Cimarron we went down through the cañon, its rocky walls echoing in hollow calls the throbbing of the machine. As we hurried along, a fuzzy-coated burro walked out placidly before the car and nonchalantly jogged along, and the machine slowed down, necessarily, and followed the burro pace-maker. And so we were led into Elizabethtown, whose placer diggings were the scene of a wild scramble in '68. adobe air affect animal car driving risk engine scenery Southwest Having come in to Elizabethtown through a hole we went out over a cloud. There are no other ways. The mountains surround it. The Indians call this pass “arrow stick in pole," it is so steep. Once at the summit, twisting and bending like a floundering whale, the car coasted down to the irrigated plain of Taos, where Indians, resting on their hoes, eyed us silently, and Mexicans saluted gracefully. Three miles beyond we swooped suddenly down upon the settlement of five-story, terraced houses of the Red Willow Indians. In their gaudy blankets they swarmed to the earthen housetops and watched us silently. But when, after much coaxing, we crowded the car with redskins and sent it dashing up and down at breakneck speed there were such war-whoops as city dwellers never hear. car road condition driving risk infrastructure mountain Native American These Indians believe that the Great Spirit has guided them to this promised land. They wandered here from the north, and we listened, standing with bare heads in an underground council chamber, to the recital in Spanish of the story of their faith. They are a fine example of the early American aristocracy at its best. They have some lessons for modern American society. In Taos, too, lived and lies Kit Carson, the hunter and trapper, scout and soldier. From Taos we pushed through sand for many miles. The only living thing we saw was a gray coyote. But the desert is clean and sunny, which is something. At last we reached harder soil and green things growing. Indians greeted us on the way, and finally we came to the cliff dwellings of Pajorito Park, one of the many ruins of the great centuries-ago cities of the Southwest. One of the localities showed that 250,000 people lived there in houses, some of them five stories, or about seventy-five feet high. Irrigation, agriculture, industries and arts were all parts of their daily life. desert driving road surface animal scenery Native American Southwest agriculture Running in to Santa Fé we passed wagons crowded with Indians, gorgeous in color, from bullet-headed papoose to squaw and buck. They all watched us stolidly, while the bronchos reeled and jumped with fright until we were out of sight. Then the bronchos probably received some attention. affect driving Native American Southwest Santa Fé is rich with history, and the road on to Las Vegas is rich with color and beautiful landscape. The wild green on every side is cut with clean white streams full of trout for the angler. The little Mexican adobe village of San José, which has scarcely changed in a century, nestles in the heart of this country. adobe driving road road side scenery rural Southwest When we went through San José I began to understand over again and in a new way Mark Twain's "Adventures of a Connecticut Yankee." The whole of King Arthur's court on bicycles could not have started the stir we created in that single automobile. We went through the place like the wind, the machine snorting, whistle tooting, while the poor inhabitants huddled into frightened groups out of reach. We were a kind of first thunderstorm to them. affect car intertext car metaphor personification We had a plunge in the Las Vegas Hot Springs and started north again along the old Santa Fé trail, meeting few people and seeing little that was new. One begrizzled old man, at an isolated shack, watched us so wistfully as he brought us some water that we half wanted to take him into the car and drive him into civilization, but he is probably happier as he is. From Raton it is back, over the same way we came, to Colorado Springs and home. driving rural Midwest Southwest And so the machine is conquering the old frontier, carrying the thudding of modern mechanics into the land of romance. There are many pleasures in such a journey; you bring a new thing to an old people and they re-teach you old things that should never be forgotten. You see, perhaps, the wildest and most natural places on the continent; and there's a touch of adventure, for such a trip cannot be taken without some danger. We crowded what used to take months to do in nine days-nine hundred miles up mountain and down valley. The trails of Kit Carson and Boone and Crockett, and the rest of the early frontiersmen, stretch out before the adventurous automobilist. And when he is tired of the old, there are new paths to be made. He has no beaten track to follow, no schedule to meet, no other train to consider; but he can go with the speed of an express straight into the heart of an unknown land. And he isn't in much greater danger than the man who pilots his machine between the trucks and carriages of a crowded city street. It is only the beginning of automobile exploring and frontiering in the old West. car metaphor pioneer pleasure scenery sublime technology urban  
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The Roadway +
Bibliographic Information Author Jones, Joshua Henry Genre Poetry Journal or Book Poems of the Four Seas Publisher Books for Libraries Press Year of Publication 1921 Pages 3 Additional information - There are hill roads and dale roads, And roads that bind and twist; Some wide roads and cramped roads Which many souls have missed. There are blind roads and night roads That lead to where we fall. The long road's a hard road But the best road after all. road road condition metaphor Some good roads, some bad roads Are roads of dust and grime; Some rest roads and toil roads, Then some that lead to crime. The best road's the west road Which becks with quiet call. The straight road, though hard road, Is the best road after all. road condition metaphor dust West affect There's a love road and a hate road; And this last road trails to hell. There's a cool road; a clean road That leads by friendship's well. But the best road is the west road That calls us one and all. 'Tis a bright road—a right road And—the one road after all. road condition metaphor affect West  +
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