Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
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A
<div class="poem">
<p>Ordinarily there would be great danger in speed under such conditions—and there may have been risk to life and limb at the time, but I knew Mr. Winton, I knew him for his skill and that there was no call for nervousness with him at the wheel, so I sat back and enjoyed the scenery.
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<p>It was a condition never encountered by an automobilist in the history of the industry. We were in soft, shifting quicksand where power counted as nothing. We were face to face with a condition the like of which cannot be imagined—one must be in it, fight with it, be conquered by it, before a full and complete realization of what it actually is will dawn upon the mind.
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<div class="poem">
<p>Reached Wadsworth splashed and covered with mud, wet through and hungry. Spent night at Wadsworth. Residents warned Mr. Winton about sand, more especially the sand hill just east of the town. Next morning we took on stock of rations and drinking water. That "sand hill," or rather the remembrance of it and the balance of our trip to Desert Station that day, are like the remembrance of another beastly nightmare.
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<p>Next morning, May 22, at 6:45 o'clock, the ascent was recommenced. Up and up we went, winding around and turning in many directions--but always up. From Gold Run we passed along through Dutch Flat, Towle, Blue Canon, Emigrant Gap, Cisco, and on to Cascade. Roads became particularly rugged after leaving Gold Run, and when we reached Emigrant Gap the few inhabitants who make that their home told us fully what rock roads and snow deposits would have to be encountered between their station and across the summit down to Donner Lake.
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<div class="poem">
<p>Two miles of it were covered. Progress was slow, the sand became deeper and deeper as we progressed. At last the carriage stopped, the driving wheels sped on and cut deep into the bottomless sand. We used block and tackle, got the machine from its hole, and tried again. Same result. Tied more ropes around wheels with the hope that the corrugation would give them sufficient purchase in the sand. Result: wheels cut deeper in less time than before.
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<p>Got upon the road 7:40 A.M. Reached Rio Vista and two miles further on to "Old River" at 8:40. Go east on the levee road, which is of adobe formation with steep descending banks on both sides. On the left side is the river; the opposite bank runs down to a thicket, beyond which are orchards. Slide off the treacherous road on either side and nothing short of a derrick and wrecking crew could serve to a practical and satisfactory end.
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B
<div class="poem">
<p>Albert! <br />
Hey, Albert!<br />
Don't you play in dat road. <br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 2em;">You see dem trucks </span><br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 2em;">A-goin' by. </span><br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 2em;">One run ovah you </span><br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 2em;">An' you die. </span><br />
Albert, don't you play in dat road.
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<div class="poem">
<p>The opening window, closing door, <br />
Open, close, but not <br />
To finish or restore; <br />
These wishes get <br />
No further than <br />
The edges of the town, <br />
And leaning asking from the car <br />
Cannot tell us where we are; <br />
While the divided face<br />
Has no grace, <br />
No discretion,<br />
No occupation <br />
But registering <br />
Acreage, mileage, <br />
The easy knowledge <br />
Of the virtuous thing.
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<div class="poem">
<p>Between attention and attention<br />
The first and last decision <br />
Is mortal distraction <br />
Of earth and air,<br />
Further and nearer, <br />
The vague wants <br />
Of days and nights, <br />
And personal error; <br />
And the fatigued face. <br />
Taking the strain <br />
Of the horizontal force <br />
And the vertical thrust, <br />
Makes random answer<br />
To the crucial test; <br />
The uncertain flesh <br />
Scraping back chair <br />
For the wrong train, <br />
Falling in slush, <br />
Before a friend’s friends <br />
Or shaking hands <br />
With a snub-nosed winner.
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<div class="poem">
<p>" Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow.<br />
That's always the way with the blueberries, though :<br />
There may not have been the ghost of a sign<br />
Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine,<br />
But get the pine out of the way, you may burn<br />
The pasture all over until not a fern<br />
Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,<br />
And presto, they're up all around you as thick<br />
And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick."
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<div class="poem">
<p>" I don't know what part of the pasture you mean."
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<div class="poem">
<p>" He seems to be thrifty ; and hasn't he need,<br />
With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed ?<br />
He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,<br />
Like birds. They store a great many away.<br />
They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat<br />
They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet."
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<div class="poem">
<p>" I wonder you didn't see Loren about."
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>" We shan't have the place to ourselves to enjoy—<br />
Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.<br />
They'll be there to-morrow, or even to-night.<br />
They won't be too friendly—they may be polite—<br />
To people they look on as having no right<br />
To pick where they're picking. But we won't complain.<br />
You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,<br />
The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,<br />
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves."
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<div class="poem">
<p>" Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think ? "
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<div class="poem">
<p>" I've told you how once not long after we came,<br />
I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth<br />
By going to him of all people on earth<br />
To ask if he knew any fruit to be had<br />
For the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad<br />
To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad.<br />
There had been some berries—but those were all gone.<br />
He didn't say where they had been. He went on :<br />
' I'm sure—I'm sure '—as polite as could be.<br />
He spoke to his wife in the door, ' Let me see,<br />
Mame, we don't know any good berrying place ? '<br />
It was all he could do to keep a straight face.
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<div class="poem">
<p>" He may and not care and so leave the chewink<br />
To gather them for him—you know what he is.<br />
He won't make the fact that they're rightfully his<br />
An excuse for keeping us other folk out."
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<div class="poem">
<p>" The best of it was that I did. Do you know,<br />
I was just getting through what the field had to show<br />
And over the wall and into the road,<br />
When who should come by, with a democrat-load<br />
Of all the young chattering Lorens alive,<br />
But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive."
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<div class="poem">
<p>" He seems to be thrifty ; and hasn't he need,<br />
With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed ?<br />
He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,<br />
Like birds. They store a great many away.<br />
They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat<br />
They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet."
</p>
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