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Westward Hoboes + (<div class="poem"> <p>Nearby w … <div class="poem"></br><p>Nearby was a farmhouse, with two men and a Ford standing in the driveway. Hardly had we "boaged," our wheels churning a pool deep enough to bathe in, when we saw them loading shovels and tools into the car, and driving to our aid. They came with boreboding haste. They greeted us cheerfully—too cheerfully, we thought; joked about the hole, and admitted they spent most of their time shovelling people out. They knew their job—we had to admit that. They wrestled with the jack, setting it on a shovel to keep it from sinking in the swamp; profanely cheerful, fussed over the chains, which we later guiltily discovered were too short for our over-sized tires, backed their car to ours, tied a rope to it, and pulled. We sank deeper. They shoveled, jacked, chopped sage-brush, and commandeered every passing man and car. The leader of the wreckers was a Mr. Poole, a typical Westerner of the old school,—long, flowing gray whiskers, sombrero, and keen watchful face. He had also a delightful sense of humor,—was in fact so cheerful that we became more and more gloomy as we noted the array of Fords and men clustered about. It looked to us like a professional mud-hole.</br></p></br></div>looked to us like a professional mud-hole. </p> </div>)
Across the Continent by the Lincoln Highway + (<div class="poem"> <p>From the … <div class="poem"></br><p>From the Pacific to the Atlantic by the Lincoln Highway, with California and the Virginias and Maryland thrown in for good measure! What a tour it has been! As we think back over its miles we recall the noble pines and the towering Sequoias of the high Sierras of California; the flashing water-falls of the Yosemite, so green as to be called Vernal, so white as to be called Bridal Veil; the orchards of the prune, the cherry, the walnut, the olive, the almond, the fig, the orange, and the lemon, tilled like a garden, watered by the hoarded and guarded streams from the everlasting hills; and the rich valleys of grain, running up to the hillsides and dotted by live oak trees. We recall miles of vineyard under perfect cultivation. We see again the blue of the Pacific and the green of the forest cedars and cypresses. High Lake Tahoe spreads before us, with its southern fringe of emerald meadows and forest pines, and its encircling guardians, lofty and snow-capped. The high, grey-green deserts of Nevada, Utah, and Wyoming stretch before us once more, and we can smell the clean, pungent sage brush. We are not lonely, for life is all about us. The California quail and blue-jay, the eagle, the ground squirrel, the gopher, the coyote, the antelope, the rattlesnake, the big ring snake, the wild horse of the plains, the jack rabbit, the meadow lark, the killdeer, the red-winged blackbird, the sparrow hawk, the thrush, the redheaded wood-pecker, the grey dove, all have been our friends and companions as we have gone along. We have seen them in their native plains and forests and from the safe vantage point of the front seat of our motor car.</br></p></br></div> point of the front seat of our motor car. </p> </div>)
Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>Strapped … <div class="poem"></br><p>Strapped above the tiny angle-iron step which replaced his running-board was an old spade. He dug channels in front of the four wheels of her car, so that they might go up inclines, instead of pushing against the straight walls of mud they had thrown up. On these inclines he strewed the brush she had brought, halting to ask, with head alertly lifted from his stooped huddle in the mud, "Did you have to get this brush yourself?"</br></p></br></div>"Did you have to get this brush yourself?" </p> </div>)
Automobiling in the West + (<div class="poem"> <p>"Not on … <div class="poem"></br><p>"Not on your life," retorted the plucky automobilist; into the carriage I jumped, he pulled the lever and off we went. The course led up a hill, but there was enough bottom to the sand to give the wheels a purchase and from the hill summit we forged down into the valley where the country was comparatively level. Nothing in sight but sage brush and sand, sand and sage brush.</br></p></br></div> sage brush and sand, sand and sage brush. </p> </div>)
Automobiling in the West + (<div class="poem"> <p>When out … <div class="poem"></br><p>When out of the machine and walking around bunches of sage brush care was exercised in keeping out of striking range of these venomous reptiles. Mr. Winton has some tail end rattles as trophies, but I was not so anxious to get close enough to kill the snakes and cut off their tails.</br></p></br></div>o kill the snakes and cut off their tails. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>We never … <div class="poem"></br><p>We never had had any mechanical trouble with the Brush, and its actions were a puzzle. Late in the afternoon the car took another rest. Fred dutifully alighted and began another search. Suddenly he announced he had found the trouble. My spirits rose at once; all I had been able to do all day was sit and worry when the car stopped and enthuse when it mysteriously started again. The trouble was a simple thing, but it had made the day tragic for us. The insulation was worn through on a wire under the machine, short circuiting the engine when the bare wire happened to touch the metal frame. Locating it was the difficult part, but a little tape remedied it and the car was itself again, fairly spurning the worst mud of the day with its wheels and bringing us to Kelton and a railroad for a Sunday night cold lunch, though we persuaded the waitress to augment it with some hot soup. There was a smug crowd of clerks, teachers, and the like at one table, with not a thought beyond food. They sat there in their Sunday best as we entered dressed in our soiled traveling clothes. They looked at us as though we were something the cat had dragged in. That didn't bother us in the least because we had completed another lap on our journey, with food and shelter for the night, and our trusty car waiting to go at the turn of the crank.</br></p></br></div>ar waiting to go at the turn of the crank. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>After fo … <div class="poem"></br><p>After four or five miles Fred turned to me and asked if I had put the shovel back in the car and my heart sank when we found we had laid it down behind a sage brush and forgotten it in the confusion of starting. Every mile was gained with so much effort that we couldn't possibly think of going back for the shovel, because we could buy one at the next town if we were lucky enough not to need one before we got there; but here, again, we were to find that money did not avail us.</br></p></br></div> were to find that money did not avail us. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>We reach … <div class="poem"></br><p>We reached Rawlins at noon the next day and had lunch in a quite pretentious hotel. Sandy roads slowed us up in the afternoon and we had to stop at Daley's, a big sheep ranch, for the night. We were made welcome by six young men who showed every possible courtesy. One young man was very anxious about a bad ditch we would have to cross the next morning. He offered to take a team of horses and pull us through, but Fred said the car was going every foot of the way under its own power. I believe they felt sorry for us because our car was so small, not realizing the Brush could get through places impossible for a larger automobile.</br></p></br></div>places impossible for a larger automobile. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>When thi … <div class="poem"></br><p>When this route was pointed out to them, they looked up a thousand feet or more to a line on the mountain side which was their road. This seemed to be the crucial part of the climb as it was so steep most cars could not get gasoline to their carburetors and so became stalled. Up to this time no one had heard of vacuum tanks or fuel pumps, and automobiles obtained their gasoline supply by gravity only. This did not bother the Brush Runabout because it was equipped with the only known diaphragm fuel pump which brought the fuel from the tank under the floor boards to a fuel cup on top of the engine. With that arrangement, the motor could be kept running even if the car were standing on end, which accounted for the Brush's ability to get over steep places.</br></p></br></div> Brush's ability to get over steep places. </p> </div>)
The Bridge: VII The Tunnel + (<div class="poem"> <p>The phon … <div class="poem"></br><p>The phonographs of hades in the brain<br /></br>Are tunnels that re-wind themselves, and love<br /></br>A burnt match skating in a urinal—<br /></br>Somewhere above Fourteenth TAKE THE EXPRESS<br /></br>To brush some new presentiment of pain—</br></p></br></div>KE THE EXPRESS<br /> To brush some new presentiment of pain— </p> </div>)
Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>He added attractive outing shirts, ties neither too blackly dull nor too flashily crimson, and a vicious nail-brush which simply tore out the motor grease that had grown into the lines of his hands. Also he added a book. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>Many cars had tried to climb Pike's Peak, but a Locomobile Steamer was the first. The second was a 70-horsepower Stearns. The Brush Runabout was the third and went every foot of the way under its own power. </p> </div>)
The Beautiful and Damned + (<div class="poem"> <p>Then with a last soothing brush that left an iridescent surface of sheer gloss he left his bathroom and his apartment and walked down Fifth Avenue to the Ritz-Carlton. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>This was a happy climax and far beyond our expectations, because we had thought of the trip only as an advertising stunt for the Brush factory and the Brush Runabout. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout +

Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>WESTWARD PIONEERS-A BRUSH AND THE TRINKLES </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>WESTWARD PIONEERS-A BRUSH AND THE TRINKLES </p> </div>)

Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>He added attractive outing shirts, ties neither too blackly dull nor too flashily crimson, and a vicious nail-brush which simply tore out the motor grease that had grown into the lines of his hands. Also he added a book. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>Many cars had tried to climb Pike's Peak, but a Locomobile Steamer was the first. The second was a 70-horsepower Stearns. The Brush Runabout was the third and went every foot of the way under its own power. </p> </div>)
The Beautiful and Damned + (<div class="poem"> <p>Then with a last soothing brush that left an iridescent surface of sheer gloss he left his bathroom and his apartment and walked down Fifth Avenue to the Ritz-Carlton. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>This was a happy climax and far beyond our expectations, because we had thought of the trip only as an advertising stunt for the Brush factory and the Brush Runabout. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout +
The Bridge: VII The Tunnel + (<div class="poem"> <p>The phon … <div class="poem"></br><p>The phonographs of hades in the brain<br /></br>Are tunnels that re-wind themselves, and love<br /></br>A burnt match skating in a urinal—<br /></br>Somewhere above Fourteenth TAKE THE EXPRESS<br /></br>To brush some new presentiment of pain—</br></p></br></div>KE THE EXPRESS<br /> To brush some new presentiment of pain— </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>When thi … <div class="poem"></br><p>When this route was pointed out to them, they looked up a thousand feet or more to a line on the mountain side which was their road. This seemed to be the crucial part of the climb as it was so steep most cars could not get gasoline to their carburetors and so became stalled. Up to this time no one had heard of vacuum tanks or fuel pumps, and automobiles obtained their gasoline supply by gravity only. This did not bother the Brush Runabout because it was equipped with the only known diaphragm fuel pump which brought the fuel from the tank under the floor boards to a fuel cup on top of the engine. With that arrangement, the motor could be kept running even if the car were standing on end, which accounted for the Brush's ability to get over steep places.</br></p></br></div> Brush's ability to get over steep places. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>We reach … <div class="poem"></br><p>We reached Rawlins at noon the next day and had lunch in a quite pretentious hotel. Sandy roads slowed us up in the afternoon and we had to stop at Daley's, a big sheep ranch, for the night. We were made welcome by six young men who showed every possible courtesy. One young man was very anxious about a bad ditch we would have to cross the next morning. He offered to take a team of horses and pull us through, but Fred said the car was going every foot of the way under its own power. I believe they felt sorry for us because our car was so small, not realizing the Brush could get through places impossible for a larger automobile.</br></p></br></div>places impossible for a larger automobile. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>After fo … <div class="poem"></br><p>After four or five miles Fred turned to me and asked if I had put the shovel back in the car and my heart sank when we found we had laid it down behind a sage brush and forgotten it in the confusion of starting. Every mile was gained with so much effort that we couldn't possibly think of going back for the shovel, because we could buy one at the next town if we were lucky enough not to need one before we got there; but here, again, we were to find that money did not avail us.</br></p></br></div> were to find that money did not avail us. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>We never … <div class="poem"></br><p>We never had had any mechanical trouble with the Brush, and its actions were a puzzle. Late in the afternoon the car took another rest. Fred dutifully alighted and began another search. Suddenly he announced he had found the trouble. My spirits rose at once; all I had been able to do all day was sit and worry when the car stopped and enthuse when it mysteriously started again. The trouble was a simple thing, but it had made the day tragic for us. The insulation was worn through on a wire under the machine, short circuiting the engine when the bare wire happened to touch the metal frame. Locating it was the difficult part, but a little tape remedied it and the car was itself again, fairly spurning the worst mud of the day with its wheels and bringing us to Kelton and a railroad for a Sunday night cold lunch, though we persuaded the waitress to augment it with some hot soup. There was a smug crowd of clerks, teachers, and the like at one table, with not a thought beyond food. They sat there in their Sunday best as we entered dressed in our soiled traveling clothes. They looked at us as though we were something the cat had dragged in. That didn't bother us in the least because we had completed another lap on our journey, with food and shelter for the night, and our trusty car waiting to go at the turn of the crank.</br></p></br></div>ar waiting to go at the turn of the crank. </p> </div>)
Automobiling in the West + (<div class="poem"> <p>When out … <div class="poem"></br><p>When out of the machine and walking around bunches of sage brush care was exercised in keeping out of striking range of these venomous reptiles. Mr. Winton has some tail end rattles as trophies, but I was not so anxious to get close enough to kill the snakes and cut off their tails.</br></p></br></div>o kill the snakes and cut off their tails. </p> </div>)
Automobiling in the West + (<div class="poem"> <p>"Not on … <div class="poem"></br><p>"Not on your life," retorted the plucky automobilist; into the carriage I jumped, he pulled the lever and off we went. The course led up a hill, but there was enough bottom to the sand to give the wheels a purchase and from the hill summit we forged down into the valley where the country was comparatively level. Nothing in sight but sage brush and sand, sand and sage brush.</br></p></br></div> sage brush and sand, sand and sage brush. </p> </div>)
Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>Strapped … <div class="poem"></br><p>Strapped above the tiny angle-iron step which replaced his running-board was an old spade. He dug channels in front of the four wheels of her car, so that they might go up inclines, instead of pushing against the straight walls of mud they had thrown up. On these inclines he strewed the brush she had brought, halting to ask, with head alertly lifted from his stooped huddle in the mud, "Did you have to get this brush yourself?"</br></p></br></div>"Did you have to get this brush yourself?" </p> </div>)
Across the Continent by the Lincoln Highway + (<div class="poem"> <p>From the … <div class="poem"></br><p>From the Pacific to the Atlantic by the Lincoln Highway, with California and the Virginias and Maryland thrown in for good measure! What a tour it has been! As we think back over its miles we recall the noble pines and the towering Sequoias of the high Sierras of California; the flashing water-falls of the Yosemite, so green as to be called Vernal, so white as to be called Bridal Veil; the orchards of the prune, the cherry, the walnut, the olive, the almond, the fig, the orange, and the lemon, tilled like a garden, watered by the hoarded and guarded streams from the everlasting hills; and the rich valleys of grain, running up to the hillsides and dotted by live oak trees. We recall miles of vineyard under perfect cultivation. We see again the blue of the Pacific and the green of the forest cedars and cypresses. High Lake Tahoe spreads before us, with its southern fringe of emerald meadows and forest pines, and its encircling guardians, lofty and snow-capped. The high, grey-green deserts of Nevada, Utah, and Wyoming stretch before us once more, and we can smell the clean, pungent sage brush. We are not lonely, for life is all about us. The California quail and blue-jay, the eagle, the ground squirrel, the gopher, the coyote, the antelope, the rattlesnake, the big ring snake, the wild horse of the plains, the jack rabbit, the meadow lark, the killdeer, the red-winged blackbird, the sparrow hawk, the thrush, the redheaded wood-pecker, the grey dove, all have been our friends and companions as we have gone along. We have seen them in their native plains and forests and from the safe vantage point of the front seat of our motor car.</br></p></br></div> point of the front seat of our motor car. </p> </div>)
Westward Hoboes + (<div class="poem"> <p>Nearby w … <div class="poem"></br><p>Nearby was a farmhouse, with two men and a Ford standing in the driveway. Hardly had we "boaged," our wheels churning a pool deep enough to bathe in, when we saw them loading shovels and tools into the car, and driving to our aid. They came with boreboding haste. They greeted us cheerfully—too cheerfully, we thought; joked about the hole, and admitted they spent most of their time shovelling people out. They knew their job—we had to admit that. They wrestled with the jack, setting it on a shovel to keep it from sinking in the swamp; profanely cheerful, fussed over the chains, which we later guiltily discovered were too short for our over-sized tires, backed their car to ours, tied a rope to it, and pulled. We sank deeper. They shoveled, jacked, chopped sage-brush, and commandeered every passing man and car. The leader of the wreckers was a Mr. Poole, a typical Westerner of the old school,—long, flowing gray whiskers, sombrero, and keen watchful face. He had also a delightful sense of humor,—was in fact so cheerful that we became more and more gloomy as we noted the array of Fords and men clustered about. It looked to us like a professional mud-hole.</br></p></br></div>looked to us like a professional mud-hole. </p> </div>)
The Beautiful and Damned + (<div class="poem"> <p>IN 1913, … <div class="poem"></br><p>IN 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him. Irony was the final polish of the shoe, the ultimate dab of the clothes-brush, a sort of intellectual "There!"—yet at the brink of this story he has as yet gone no further than the conscious stage. As you first see him he wonders frequently whether he is not without honor and slightly mad, a shameful and obscene thinness glistening on the surface of the world like oil on a clean pond, these occasions being varied, of course, with those in which he thinks himself rather an exceptional young man, thoroughly sophisticated, well adjusted to his environment, and somewhat more significant than any one else he knows.</br></p></br></div>re significant than any one else he knows. </p> </div>)
The Motor Boys Across the Plains; Or, the Hermit of Lost Lake (Book 4) + (<div class="poem"> <p>He gave … <div class="poem"></br><p>He gave a sudden start, for, at that instant one of the ugly reptiles, which had twined itself around the wheel spokes, reared its ugly head up, over the side of the front seat, and hissed, right in Jerry's face.<br /></br>"Here's one now!" the boy exclaimed as he made a motion to brush the snake aside.<br /></br>"Don't touch it as you value your life!" yelled the professor. "It's a diamond-backed rattler, and one of the most deadly!"<br /></br>"Here is another coming up on my side," called Bob.<br /></br>"Yes, and there are some coming up here!" shouted Ned. "They'll overwhelm us if we don't look out!"</br></p></br></div>p here!" shouted Ned. "They'll overwhelm us if we don't look out!" </p> </div>)
The Motor Boys Across the Plains; Or, the Hermit of Lost Lake (Book 4) + (<div class="poem"> <p>There wa … <div class="poem"></br><p>There was a crackling of brush and tree branches, and the big machine left the road and began plowing up the side of a slope, around the lower edge of which the road wound.<br /></br>"Duck!" cried Ned, as a tree branch hit him in the face.<br /></br>They all did so, and the next instant the big machine crashed through some briars, bending down several saplings in its journey. Then, having exhausted the momentum, the auto came to a stop, at the summit of the little slope, and Jerry jammed on the brakes to hold it there, the band this time gripping the axle firmly.</br></p></br></div>it there, the band this time gripping the axle firmly. </p> </div>)
The Motor Boys Across the Plains; Or, the Hermit of Lost Lake (Book 4) + (<div class="poem"> <p>The soun … <div class="poem"></br><p>The sounds of persons advancing through the bushes could be heard. The voices also sounded plainer. A minute later the brush was parted and the professor, followed by a woman, came out into the little clearing where the boys were. At the sight of the woman, Jerry started, for he recognized her as the strange person who had been with the old man the night previous. The professor seemed excited about something.</br></p></br></div> professor seemed excited about something. </p> </div>)
Our Singing Strength + (<div class="poem"> <p>IT snowe … <div class="poem"></br><p>IT snowed in spring on earth so dry and warm<br /></br>The flakes could find no landing place to form.<br /></br>Hordes spent themselves to make it wet and cold,<br /></br>And still they failed of any lasting hold.<br /></br>They made no white impression on the black.<br /></br>They disappeared as if earth sent them back.<br /></br>Not till from separate flakes they changed at night<br /></br>To almost strips and tapes of ragged white<br /></br>Did grass and garden ground confess it snowed,<br /></br>And all go back to winter but the road.<br /></br>Next day the scene was piled and puffed and dead.<br /></br>The grass lay flattened under one great tread.<br /></br>Borne down until the end almost took root,<br /></br>The rangey bough anticipated fruit<br /></br>With snowballs cupped in every opening bud.<br /></br>The road alone maintained itself in mud,<br /></br>Whatever its secret was of greater heat<br /></br>From inward fires or brush of passing feet.</br></p></br></div>road alone maintained itself in mud,<br /> Whatever its secret was of greater heat<br /> From inward fires or brush of passing feet. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>I don't … <div class="poem"></br><p>I don't suppose my husband and I could possibly make clear to modern motorists the intense affection we developed for a piece of machinery—our little Brush Runabout. But at the end of our ordeal (it was 1908) we parted with the car as if it had been a favorite child.</br></p></br></div>he car as if it had been a favorite child. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>My husba … <div class="poem"></br><p>My husband, Fred A. Trinkle, began driving and repairing automobiles in Denver, Colorado, as early as 1900, and in 1907 he became agent for the Brush automobile for the state of Colorado. The car was designed by Alonzo P. Brush and built in Detroit by the Briscoe Manufacturing Co. The Brush Runabout was a two-seated, one-cylinder, double side chain-driven car with a coil-type spring under each corner, acetylene headlights and Prest-O-Lite tank, with no top, windshield, or doors. It was a very sturdy car and could go anywhere there was a road. The chain-drive on each side gave it great climbing power although it was not fast. But that was not a serious deficiency because there weren't many good roads on which to speed in those days, and drivers were not speed-crazy.</br></p></br></div>se days, and drivers were not speed-crazy. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>To adver … <div class="poem"></br><p>To advertise the Brush in 1908, Frank Briscoe decided to send five factory models to different destinations, and asked Fred to come to Detroit and drive one to Kansas City, as he was the only Brush salesman familiar with the West.</br></p></br></div>nly Brush salesman familiar with the West. </p> </div>)
Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout + (<div class="poem"> <p>At a ban … <div class="poem"></br><p>At a banquet the evening before the start, each of the drivers was called on for a speech. When Fred's turn came, he told the crowd he could not make speeches, but he could drive a Brush Runabout and that, when he reached Kansas City, he would ask permission to drive on to Denver, climbing Pike's Peak on the way. After the applause had subsided, all forgot about the boast except Fred and Briscoe.</br></p></br></div>t about the boast except Fred and Briscoe. </p> </div>)