Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
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O
<div class="poem">
<p>As long as one lives and stirs all around,<br />
There’s food and dress for him to be found.<br />
Industry is said to be a health maker,<br />
We find it in selling the Six Studebaker.
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C
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<p>As night approached and we had ridden many miles without seeing any sign of habitation, black clouds were gathering. We decided to try another section house on the railroad for food and lodging for the night, as we had no idea how far it was to the next town, Medicine Bow, but we knew there was a river which we did not care to ford after dark in such a small car. We found a Japanese man who looked at us in such a surly way, only grunting at our questions, that Fred said, "Let's get out of here," and we hurried out over the railroad track, feeling safer in the dark and storm. To cross the railroad we had to open and shut a wire gate on each side of the tracks. We couldn't see far beyond our dim headlights in the darkness and rain, and the feeling of loneliness was great. Finally we saw a tiny light to our right in the distance and Fred told me not to lose sight of it.
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<div class="poem">
<p>As soon as the Runabout was in commission that night, they started for Denver, two very tired men anxious to get home. I was wakened by a noise to see a man standing in the bedroom door about four o'clock in the morning. I thought it was a burglar with a brown mask over his face, with eyes looking like two burned holes in it, but Fred's grin relieved me of my fears and a bath brought out the original man.
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<div class="poem">
<p>As we started down Weber Canyon, Utah, we saw a tiny stream of water which, by the time we left the canyon that night, had become a roaring stream of water, rushing out to the valley between towering cliffs. Weber Canyon was beautiful in its immensity and autumn coloring, but a sucking, sighing wind made us fearful, and we hurried down the narrow roads past Mormon towns in the valleys, and out by the side of the noisy river, reaching Ogden late that night.
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>As will be seen from the appended table the mortality among red-headed woodpeckers is higher than that of any other form observed, and I believe that a combination of circumstances will account for this situation. In the first place, these birds have a propensity for feeding upon insects and waste grain in and along the roads; second, they remain as long as possible before the approaching car, in all probability not being keen discriminators of its speed; and third, they have a slow "get-away," that is, they can not quickly acquire a sufficient velocity to escape the oncoming car and so meet their death. However, I feel certain that a speed of from 35 to 40 miles an hour is necessary in order to catch these birds. Of course this is not true for some other forms such as turtles and snakes which depend upon terrestrial progression and are comparatively slow movers. In most cases all animals, if given a reasonable time to escape, will cause the hurried motorist little if any delay.
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O
<div class="poem">
<p>As you follow where you find them, up along the high Plateau, <br />
In the hollows left behind them Spanish chapels fade below—<br />
Shaded court and low corrals. In the vale the goat-herd browses. <br />
Hollyhocks are seneschals by the little buff-walled houses. <br />
Over grassy swale and alley have you ever seen it so— <br />
Up the Santa Clara Valley, riding on the Great Plateau? <br />
Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, <br />
Where the trenchèd waters’ ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints, <br />
Shining backwards, singing downwards towards horizons blue and bay. <br />
All the haunts the bluffs ensconce so breathe of visions far away, <br />
As you ride near Ildefonso back again to Santa Fé. <br />
Pecos, mellow with the years, tall-walled Taos—who can know <br />
Half the storied faiths and fears haunting Green New Mexico? <br />
Only from her open places down arroyos blue and bay, <br />
One wild grace of many graces dallies towards another day. <br />
Where her yellow tufa crumbles, something stars and grasses know, <br />
Something true, that crowns and humbles, shimmers from the Great Plateau: <br />
Blows where cool-paced waters dally from the stillness of Puyé, <br />
Down the Santa Clara Valley through the world from far away—<br />
Far and far away—far away.
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>At Lakin, Kansas, he stopped with cousins for a few days, meanwhile selling two cars to be delivered later.
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<div class="poem">
<p>At a banquet the evening before the start, each of the drivers was called on for a speech. When Fred's turn came, he told the crowd he could not make speeches, but he could drive a Brush Runabout and that, when he reached Kansas City, he would ask permission to drive on to Denver, climbing Pike's Peak on the way. After the applause had subsided, all forgot about the boast except Fred and Briscoe.
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S
<div class="poem">
<p>At a certain round-table a good-natured bunch<br />
Of finest of fellows met daily for lunch.<br />
An hour’s interchange of thoughts and ideas,<br />
All would depart each feeling at ease.
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P
<div class="poem">
<p>At dusk we feel our way along the wharf<br />
That juts into the harbor: anchored ships<br />
With lifting prow and slowly rocking mast<br />
Ink out their profiles; fishing dories scull<br />
With muffled lamps that glimmer through the spray;<br />
We hear the water plash among the piers<br />
Rotted with moss, long after sunset stay<br />
To watch the dim sky-changes ripple down<br />
The length of quiet ocean to our feet<br />
Till on the sea rim rising like a world<br />
Bigger than ours, and laying bare the ships<br />
In shadowy stillness, swells the yellow moon.
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>At ten A.M. the young housewife<br />
moves about in negligee behind<br />
the wooden walls of her husband's house.<br />
I pass solitary in my car.
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X
<div class="poem">
<p>At the theatre, playing tennis, driving motor cars we had, <br />
In our continental villas, mixing cocktails for a cad.
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G
<div class="poem">
<p>At the theatre, playing tennis, driving motor cars we had, <br />
In our continental villas, mixing cocktails for a cad.
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>At the top, before getting out of sight of Cascade, Fred backed the car into the bank and the two got out to stretch their muscles. Looking below, they saw a large crowd gathered in the street, each person seemingly only an inch tall, watching them climb the steep shelf on the mountain side. They took off their hats and waved and the crowd answered by waving hats, handkerchiefs, aprons, or anything that was handy.
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O
<div class="poem">
<p>At this writing (1921) the two trunk lines from San Diego to San Francisco are practically completed and the motorist between these points, whether on coast or inland route, may pursue the even tenor of his way over the smooth, dustless, asphalted surface at whatever speed he may consider prudent, though the limit of thirty-five miles now allowed in the open country under certain restrictions leaves little excuse for excessive speeding. It is not uncommon to make the trip over the inland route, about six hundred and fifty miles, in three days, while a day longer should be allowed for the coast run.
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>Away then, with soft ideals:<br />
Brace yourself with bitterness:<br />
A drink of that biting liquor, the Truth...
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<div class="poem">
<p>Back of our feet in the car were a shovel and an umbrella, ready for quick use. We dressed in serviceable, warm clothing, gauntlet gloves, and high, waterproof boots. At the very last, I added a silk face mask and goggles to my wardrobe. We each had a rubber coat that slipped over the head to protect us from rain, snow, and cold. We each carried a suitcase with one full change of clothes, knowing we could buy more on the way. We divided our money in case of emergency, and both of us had a revolver.
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K
<div class="poem">
<p>Batch o' p'licemen, lookin' fine,<br />
Tramp away to de car line;<br />
No more pólicemen can be<br />
Smart as those from Half Way Tree:<br />
Happy, all have happy faces,<br />
For 'tis Knutsford Park big races.
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>Be minimum, then, to swim the hiving swarms<br />
Out of the Square, the Circle burning bright—<br />
Avoid the glass doors gyring at your right,<br />
Where boxed alone a second, eyes take fright<br />
—Quite unprepared rush naked back to light:<br />
And down beside the turnstile press the coin<br />
Into the slot. The gongs already rattle.
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C
<div class="poem">
<p>Because of the extremely low level, which affects me seriously, Fred began to make inquiries in Tonopah, seeking another route into the southern part of California, and was told there was a horse-and-cart trail used by a power line rider, going west. He consulted the power line officials about taking this road and they said a rider with a horse and cart went over this road three times a week, weather permitting. They telephoned and found there was no snow on the passes and fair weather was predicted, so we decided to go that way, avoiding the deep sand below sea level and saving the towing bill.
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