Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>A man cooked us a meal there. Many Indians were around the place. Our principal thought was to get an early start the next day, but Fred took time to go to the woodpile, where he found a piece of broken doubletree of hard, tough wood from which he shaped a substitute for the broken truss rod. It lasted more than 200 miles across a desolate section of Nevada. Perhaps Mr. Briscoe had been right to call him resourceful.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>A man pointed down a road but it took us through a marshy field and we could find no way through, so we came back to Tacoma late in the afternoon for further directions, and the man said we should have turned but he had not told us, and there were no signs of any kind. It was late, but Montello was only seven miles away and we decided to continue that evening because we had lost so much time the day before, so we left Tacoma the second time.
</p>
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>A motor car is like a man,<br />
Some cannot save and others can,<br />
The one of all that saves the most,<br />
It’s Studebaker’s right to boast.
</p>
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I
<div class="poem">
<p>A naked swimmer dives. A knife in his right hand shoots a streak at the throat of a shark. The tail of the shark lashes. One swing would kill the swimmer... Soon the knife goes into the soft underneck of the veering fish... Its mouthful of teeth, each tooth a dagger itself, set row on row, glistens when the shuddering, yawning cadaver is hauled up by the brothers of the swimmer.
</p>
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F
<div class="poem">
<p>A thousand light shrugs balance us<br />
Through snarling hails of melody.<br />
White shadows slip across the floor<br />
Splayed like cards from a loose hand;<br />
Rhythmic ellipses lead into canters<br />
Until somewhere a rooster banters.
</p>
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>A tugboat, wheezing wreaths of steam,<br />
Lunged past, with one galvanic blare stove up the River.<br />
I counted the echoes assembling, one after one,<br />
Searching, thumbing the midnight on the piers.<br />
Lights, coasting, left the oily tympanum of waters;<br />
The blackness somewhere gouged glass on a sky.<br />
And this thy harbor, O my City, I have driven under,<br />
Tossed from the coil of ticking towers.... Tomorrow,<br />
And to be.... Hereby the River that is East—<br />
Here at the waters’ edge the hands drop memory;<br />
Shadowless in that abyss they unaccounting lie.<br />
How far away the star has pooled the sea—<br />
Or shall the hands be drawn away, to die?
</p>
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O
<div class="poem">
<p>A week's stay in Los Angeles and a free use of the Pacific Electric gave us a fair idea of the city and its lesser neighbors, but we found ourselves longing for the country roads and retired nooks of mountain and beach inaccessible by railway train and tram car. We felt we should never be satisfied until we had explored this wonderland by motor—which the experience of three long tours in Europe had proved to us the only way to really see much of a country in the limits of a summer vacation.
</p>
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A
<div class="poem">
<p>A white road between sea and land,<br />
Night and silence on either hand––<br />
Pointing to some unknown gate<br />
A white forefinger of fate.
</p>
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>About 200 miles of the road were graveled; the remainder was just "plain dirt," most of which had been brought to grade. Of course the surfaced roads permit of greater speed, together with more comfort to the speeder and correspondingly greater danger to human and other lives.
</p>
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>About halfway to Montello the car came to a stop. One look under the hood was all that was needed. Three teeth were broken out of the timing gear. That meant three things: First, to get a team to tow the car into Montello, for we were determined to keep advancing; second, to get a new gear from the factory; and third, a long wait, perhaps making us get to the Coast too late, although we still were on the main railroad and that was in our favor in getting the gear from the factory. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, and now to have our cheerful little car silent and still was tough luck.
</p>
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O
<div class="poem">
<p>About me young and careless feet<br />
Linger along the garish street;<br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 2em;"> Above, a hundred shouting signs</span><br />
Shed down their bright fantastic glow<br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 2em;"> Upon the merry crowd and lines</span><br />
Of moving carriages below:<br />
O wonderful is Broadway—only <br />
My heart, my heart is lonely.
</p>
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F
<div class="poem">
<p>Accept a lone eye riveted to your plane,<br />
Bent axle of devotion along companion ways<br />
That beat, continuous, to hourless days—<br />
One inconspicuous, glowing orb of praise.
</p>
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>Across the barren uplands, sere and brown,<br />
We drive until the evening wind blows drear,<br />
And so at last we turn again toward town;<br />
The roar of traffic beats upon the ear.
</p>
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>After driving for a couple of hours, Fred stopped the car, got out his compass and map, consulted them and said, "We should leave Salt Lake at Lucin, but here it is on our left, with a mountain range on our right. We must turn around and go back to Lucin."
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>After fifteen miles we came to the hot springs steaming out of the ground and rocks. There is always an uncanny feeling about an earthquake or steam coming out of the ground. We stopped, and Fred took off his shoes and stockings and waded around in the water as I took pictures. Indians came here from miles around for hot bath treatments, running the water from pool to pool as they wanted different temperatures.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<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.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>After good food and a restful night at Rock Springs, we were quite ourselves again as we started another day's work. We ate lunch at Green River and continued, slowly covering ground in this barren land. About sundown we came to a river which high-wheeled wagons and long-legged horses could ford, and Fred was sure he could drive the car through it, but it was pretty wide with rapids and I walked over the railroad bridge, while he and the little car plunged into the water. The motor stopped in midstream.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>After leaving this place we had to use the shovel three times in the first mile, and put in a strenuous time over lonely country roads, reaching Rock Springs for the night. There we found a new hotel with steam heat, but we shocked the proprietor by asking him for a room with bath, and found there was no such thing in the building.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>After leaving this place we had to use the shovel three times in the first mile, and put in a strenuous time over lonely country roads, reaching Rock Springs for the night. There we found a new hotel with steam heat, but we shocked the proprietor by asking him for a room with bath, and found there was no such thing in the building.
</p>
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<div class="poem">
<p>After lunch a well-dressed man gave us directions, pointing up a hill. It was long and steep and we climbed it slowly. I noticed a crowd watched us from below near the restaurant, but I thought nothing of it at the time because so many people were surprised to see the car climb steep grades.
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