Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
This is a property of type Text.
F
<div class="poem">
<p>He stopped on his way to the garage to pet Emil Baumschweiger's large gray cat, publicly known as Rags, but to Milt and to the lady herself recognized as the unfortunate Countess Vere de Vere—perhaps the only person of noble ancestry and mysterious past in Milt's acquaintance. The Baumschweigers did not treat their animals well; Emil kicked the bay mare, and threw pitchforks at Vere de Vere. Milt saluted her and sympathized:
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>He gulped. He stammered, "I mean—I mean your shoes are soaked through. If you'll sit in the car, I'll put your shoes up by the engine. It's pretty well heated from racing it in the mud. You can get your stockings dry under the cowl."
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>She stopped two motorists. The first was sure that there was dirt on the point of the needle valve, in the carburetor. While Claire shuddered lest he never get it back, he took out the needle valve, wiped it, put it back—and the engine was again started, and again, with great promptness, it stopped.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>"Don't you think you'd better get somebody to help us?"
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>As joyously adventurous as going on day after day was his experimentation in voicing his new observations. He gave far more eagerness to it than Claire Boltwood had. Gustily intoning to Vere de Vere, who was the perfect audience, inasmuch as she never had anything to say but "Mrwr," and didn't mind being interrupted in that, he clamored, "The prairies are the sea. In the distance they are kind of silvery—no—they are dim silver; and way off on the skyline are the Islands of the—of the—— Now what the devil was them, were those, islands in the mythology book in high school? Of the—Blessed? Great snakes' boots, you're an ignorant cat, Vere! Hesperyds? No! Hesperides! Yea, bo'! Now that man in the hotel: 'May I trouble you for the train guide? Thanks so much!' But how much is so much?"
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>As she let herself down into the ooze, she reflected that all farmers have hearts of gold, anatomical phenomena never found among the snobs and hirelings of New York. The nearest heart of gold was presumably beating warmly in the house a quarter of a mile ahead.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Quietly, seriously, Claire said, "No, that wasn't accidental. If you touch me again, I'll stop the car and ask you to walk."
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>"Gee, you know, I thought he probably did have one. I was scared blue. I had a wrench to throw at him though," confided Milt.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The bleached man stared at her, and shoved forward the register and a pen clotted with ink. She signed. He took the bags, led the way to the stairs. Anxiously she asked, "Both rooms are with bath?"
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>She thought of the people she knew, especially of Jeff Saxton. But she could not clearly remember his lean earnest face. Between her and Jeff were sweeping sunny leagues. But she was not lonely. Certainly she was not lonely for a young man with a raincoat, a cat, and an interest in Japan.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The harness broke, with a flying mess of straps and rope, and the car plumped with perfect exactness back into its bed.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>In his pockets were a roll of bills and an unexpectedly good gold watch. For warmth he had a winter ulster, an old-fashioned turtle-neck sweater, and a raincoat heavy as tarpaulin. He plunged into the raincoat, ran out, galloped to Rauskukle's store, bought the most vehement cap in the place—a plaid of cerise, orange, emerald green, ultramarine, and five other guaranteed fashionable colors. He stocked up with food for roadside camping.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>He was not the preoccupied Milt of the garage but a gay-eyed gallant, the evening when he gave a lift to the school-teacher and drove her from the district school among the wild roses and the corn to her home in the next town. She was a neat, tripping, trim-sided school-teacher of nineteen or twenty.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>In discomfort of spirit and wetness of ankles Claire shuddered, "Oh dear, I don't believe he expects us to pay him. He seems like an awfully independent person. Maybe we'd offend him if we offered——"
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p> Swiftly the brazen car comes on.<br />
It burns in the East as the sunrise burns.<br />
I see great flashes where the far trail turns.<br />
Butting through the delicate mists of the morning,<br />
It comes like lightning, goes past roaring,<br />
It will hail all the windmills, taunting, ringing,<br />
On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills—<br />
Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills.<br />
Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn,<br />
Ho for the gay-horn, bark-horn, bay-horn.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>"—the same way, you wouldn't mind my trailing, if I didn't sit in too often; and I thought maybe I could help you if——"
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>From the folds of the strapped-down top she pulled out Compton Mackenzie's <i>Youth's Encounter</i>, and Vachel Lindsay's <i>Congo</i>. With a curious faint excitement she watched him turn the leaves. His blunt fingers flapped through them as though he was used to books. As he looked at <i>Congo</i>, he exclaimed, "Poetry! That's fine! Like it, but I don't hardly ever run across it. I—— Say—— I'm terribly obliged!"
</p>
</div> +
