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Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>For the … <div class="poem"></br><p>For the first time since she had been ten—and in a state of naughtiness immediately following a pronounced state of grace induced by the pulpit oratory of the new rector of St. Chrysostom's—she permitted herself the luxury of not stopping to brush her teeth before she went to bed. Her sleep was drugged—it was not sleep, but an aching exhaustion of the body which did not prevent her mind from revisualizing the road, going stupidly over the muddy stretches and sharp corners, then becoming conscious of that bed, the lump under her shoulder blades, the slope to westward, and the creak that rose every time she tossed. For at least fifteen minutes she lay awake for hours.</br></p></br></div>she lay awake for hours. </p> </div>)
Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>She agai … <div class="poem"></br><p>She again followed the swastika tread. To avoid a hole in the road ahead, the unknown driver had swung over to the side of the road, and taken to the intensely black earth of the edge of an unfenced cornfield. Flashing at Claire came the sight of a deep, water-filled hole, scattered straw and brush, débris of a battlefield, which made her gaspingly realize that her swastikaed leader had been stuck and--</br></p></br></div>her swastikaed leader had been stuck and-- </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>)
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>)
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>)
Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>She agai … <div class="poem"></br><p>She again followed the swastika tread. To avoid a hole in the road ahead, the unknown driver had swung over to the side of the road, and taken to the intensely black earth of the edge of an unfenced cornfield. Flashing at Claire came the sight of a deep, water-filled hole, scattered straw and brush, débris of a battlefield, which made her gaspingly realize that her swastikaed leader had been stuck and--</br></p></br></div>her swastikaed leader had been stuck and-- </p> </div>)
Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>For the … <div class="poem"></br><p>For the first time since she had been ten—and in a state of naughtiness immediately following a pronounced state of grace induced by the pulpit oratory of the new rector of St. Chrysostom's—she permitted herself the luxury of not stopping to brush her teeth before she went to bed. Her sleep was drugged—it was not sleep, but an aching exhaustion of the body which did not prevent her mind from revisualizing the road, going stupidly over the muddy stretches and sharp corners, then becoming conscious of that bed, the lump under her shoulder blades, the slope to westward, and the creak that rose every time she tossed. For at least fifteen minutes she lay awake for hours.</br></p></br></div>she lay awake for hours. </p> </div>)
Automobiling in the West + (<div class="poem"> <p>But a ki … <div class="poem"></br><p>But a kind providence was with us during the storm, and the lightning kept off. Getting up the Wadsworth sand hill, we cut sage brush and kept piling it up in front of all four wheels to give them something to hold to and prevent slipping and burrowing in the soft sand until the machine was buried to the axles and it became necessary to use block, tackle, and shovels to pull up to the surface. Got to the top at last, but found no improvement in sand conditions. It was the hardest kind of work to make the slightest progress, but at 5:45 in the evening halted at Desert Station, a place inhabited by D. H. Gates, section boss, his wife, Train Dispatcher Howard (his office, cook house, etc., were all combined in a box car which had been set out on a short siding), and a dozen Japanese section hands.</br></p></br></div>ding), and a dozen Japanese section hands. </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>)
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>)
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>)
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>)
Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>She turn … <div class="poem"></br><p>She turned up the collar of her gray tweed coat, painfully climbed out—the muscles of her back racking—and examined the state of the rear wheels. They were buried to the axle; in front of them the mud bulked in solid, shiny blackness. She took out her jack and chains. It was too late. There was no room to get the jack under the axle. She remembered from the narratives of motoring friends that brush in mud gave a firmer surface for the wheels to climb upon.</br></p></br></div> for the wheels to climb upon. </p> </div>)
Free Air + (<div class="poem"> <p>She wade … <div class="poem"></br><p>She waded down the road toward an old wood-lot. At first she tried to keep dry, but she gave it up, and there was pleasure in being defiantly dirty. She tramped straight through puddles; she wallowed in mud. In the wood-lot was long grass which soaked her stockings till her ankles felt itchy. Claire had never expected to be so very intimate with a brush-pile. She became so. As though she were a pioneer woman who had been toiling here for years, she came to know the brush stick by stick—the long valuable branch that she could never quite get out from under the others; the thorny bough that pricked her hands every time she tried to reach the curious bundle of switches.</br></p></br></div>each the curious bundle of switches. </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>All duri … <div class="poem"></br><p>All during the afternoon, it rained and the wind blew a gale, but the temperature was high and we did not mind. Had it not been for the rain and its cooling effect there on the sand and sage brush desert, I doubt whether we could have stood it.</br></p></br></div>t, I doubt whether we could have stood it. </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>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>)