Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
This is a property of type Text.
C
<div class="poem">
<p>After returning home, Fred received a communication from the Bureau of Tours of the American Automobile Association, with a map marking his route, and informing him they had a record in his name as the Seventeenth Transcontinental Automobile Trip.
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<div class="poem">
<p>After the first world war this nation became road-conscious, spending immense sums on new highways until improved roads with numerous signs and signals extended in every direction. Eventually the motorist was catered to in every state with such innovations as service stations, hot dog stands and motor clubs.
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<div class="poem">
<p>After the man was paid and given a cigar, he beamed all over and said, "I'll go back and tell the boys I've had an automobile ride." It was an eventful day for him, making extra money, getting a good cigar and having his first automobile ride even if the car didn't run under its own power. Being on the right side of the stream to suit us, we enjoyed a good laugh as he and his team waded back through the water.
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A
<div class="poem">
<p>After twelve hours' severe experience and the rain still pouring down, halt is made abreast of a lane leading to a ranchman's home. This ranchman is A. W. Butler. He came down to the road and replying to interrogations tells you that to Rio Vista, nine miles ahead, the road is particularly bad because of plowing and grading. Arrangements are made for our staying all night with him. The machine is run in his barn, we eat supper with intense relish, go to bed and get up early to find more rain, but a breaking up of the clouds with prospect of sunshine later.
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>Ah little road, brown as my race is brown,<br />
Your trodden beauty like our trodden pride,<br />
Dust of the dust, they must not bruise you down.<br />
Rise to one brimming golden, spilling cry!
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<div class="poem">
<p>Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze,<br />
A leaping clay hill lost among the trees,<br />
The bleeding note of rapture streaming thrush<br />
Caught in a drowsy hush<br />
And stretched out in a single singing line of dusky song.
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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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A
<div class="poem">
<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.
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<div class="poem">
<p>All morning the sky, which during the three weeks preceding had been clear and bright, was heavy with clouds. Before the opposite bank of the Sacramento was touched, the clouds opened. And what an opening it was. Adobe roads when dry and hard hold out opportunities for good going, but when the sponge-like soil is soaked with moisture, when your wheels cut in, spin around, slip and slide from the course and suddenly your machine is off the road and into the swamp ditch—buried to the axles in the soft "doby"—then the fun begins.
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P
<div class="poem">
<p>All summer in the close-locked streets the crowd<br />
Elbows its way past glittering shops to strains<br />
Of noisy rag-time, men and girls, dark skinned,—<br />
From warmer foreign waters they have come<br />
To our New England. Purring like sleek cats<br />
The cushioned motors of the rich crawl through<br />
While black-haired babies scurry to the curb:<br />
Pedro, Maria, little Gabriel<br />
Whose red bandana mothers selling fruit<br />
Have this in common with the fresh white caps<br />
Of those first immigrants—courage to leave<br />
Familiar hearths and build new memories.
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I
<div class="poem">
<p>All through life as taught by Him,<br />
If you take out you must put in,<br />
It’s things you do for all about,<br />
You take your biggest interest out.
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>Along the Road of Human Life,<br />
So very near, on either side,<br />
With winds and storms and billows rife,<br />
There is a sea that's wide;<br />
And woe to him who trips and falls<br />
Into that darkening tide.
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O
<div class="poem">
<p>Although California has perhaps the best all-the-year-round climate for motoring, it was our impression that the months of April and May are the most delightful for extensive touring. The winter rains will have ceased—though we found our first April and a recent May notable exceptions—and there is more freedom from the dust that becomes troublesome in some localities later in the summer. The country will be at its best—snow-caps will still linger on the higher mountains; the foothills will be green and often varied with great dashes of color—white, pale yellow, blue, or golden yellow, as some particular wild flower gains the mastery. The orange groves will be laden with golden globes and sweet with blossoms, and the roses and other cultivated flowers will still be in their prime. The air will be balmy and pleasant during the day, with a sharp drop towards evening that makes it advisable to keep a good supply of wraps in the car. An occasional shower will hardly interfere with one’s going, even on the unimproved country road.
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>Although he was alone, everything was spic and span. His wife was coming from Kansas City the following week, and he had everything shining. He served us a meal, even making hot biscuits, which we enjoyed greatly after our cold day. He built an extra fire in the front room of the good-sized house so we could dry our clothes, but he had no bed for us. We had to sleep on the floor in our clothes, but our host brought out some new wool blankets to soften the floor. In the morning, Fred remarked that there were a lot of wrinkles in the Trinkles.
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<div class="poem">
<p>Among his discoveries, he found that there was one piano in the town, and the owner and his daughter invited us to their home for the evening for some music. We went, but the piano was so out of tune it could not be used. A tuner from Ogden, across Salt Lake, would cost forty dollars, and since the girl did not play anyway, they had done nothing about it. The middle C was down a tone, and others nearly as bad. The owner loved music, and we sat there rather dejected when Fred, a resourceful chap, suggested we tune the piano with his monkey wrench. I was used to tuning a violin. I objected at first to what seemed like a ridiculous idea, but the man was delighted and urged so insistently that I finally relented. The front of the piano was off in no time, and I warned Fred to turn the pegs that held the wires very carefully as I plucked the strings. I was fearful of a wire breaking, but after the third tuning the pegs held and the instrument sounded fine. The man was delighted, and brought in a box of candy from his store, and we played and sang what could be remembered, there being no sheet music.
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F
<div class="poem">
<p>Anchises’ navel, dripping of the sea,—<br />
The hands Erasmus dipped in gleaming tides,<br />
Gathered the voltage of blown blood and vine;<br />
Delve upward for the new and scattered wine,<br />
O brother-thief of time, that we recall.<br />
Laugh out the meagre penance of their days<br />
Who dare not share with us the breath released,<br />
The substance drilled and spent beyond repair<br />
For golden, or the shadow of gold hair.<br />
Distinctly praise the years, whose volatile<br />
Blamed bleeding hands extend and thresh the <br />
<span class="mw-poem-indented" style="display: inline-block; margin-inline-start: 2em;">height</span><br />
The imagination spans beyond despair,<br />
Outpacing bargain, vocable and prayer.
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>And does the Daemon take you home, also,<br />
Wop washerwoman, with the bandaged hair?<br />
After the corridors are swept, the cuspidors—<br />
The gaunt sky-barracks cleanly now, and bare,<br />
O Genoese, do you bring mother eyes and hands<br />
Back home to children and to golden hair?
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>And in these dark cells,<br />
packed street after street,<br />
souls live, hideous yet—<br />
O disfigured, defaced,<br />
with no trace of the beauty<br />
men once held so light.
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F
B
<div class="poem">
<p>And many must have seen him make<br />
His wild descent from there one night,<br />
’Cross lots, ’cross walls, ’cross everything,<br />
Describing rings of lantern light.
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