Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
This is a property of type Text.
C
<div class="poem">
<p>The gas tank had to be soldered, besides replacing the fenders and running boards, before they could start for Denver that night. While working in the garage, another car backed up in front of Fred and began shooting the exhaust in his face. He quit work, went over to the owner, and asked him to move the car, as the fumes were very annoying. The man answered that if he didn't like it, he could move his own car. There was no room to move back, so after a few words—tired from his climb and anxious to get home that night—Fred lost his temper and hit the man on the chin with his fist. The other shook his head and said, "Did you mean that?" Fred replied, "Yes, I did," and soon the two were a rolling heap on the floor. The cameraman had to separate them. The man then moved his car and before Fred left, he came back and apologized to him.
</p>
</div> +
T
<div class="poem">
<p>The girls turned again to their catalogues, and made long lists of articles, stopping every few minutes to discuss flash-lights, spare-tires, khaki breeches, in fact anything that came into their minds or to their notice. Alice’s aunt had told them that she would stand the expenditures for the equipment, and they were only afraid that they would buy more than they could comfortably carry.<br />
Nor did this danger grow any less during the next few days when they actually beheld the things themselves in the stores. Alice and Lily both wanted to spend lavishly; it was Marjorie who laid the restraining hand upon them.<br />
At the end of three days their purchasing was completed; there yet remained the more difficult task of mapping out the trip. Authorities seemed generally to recommend the Lincoln Highway as a good route across the continent, so the girls were glad that their benefactor had stipulated this road.<br />
They planned to start from Philadelphia on the fifteenth of June, aiming to reach their destination by the first of August.
</p>
</div> +
D
<div class="poem">
<p>The grim dawn lightens thin bleak clouds;<br />
In the hills beyond the flooded meadows<br />
Lies death-pale, death-still mist.
</p>
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F
<div class="poem">
<p>The guiding tread of the previous car was suddenly lost in a mass of heaving, bubble-scattered mud, like a batter of black dough. She fairly picked up the car, and flung it into that welter, through it, and back into the reappearing swastika-marked trail.
</p>
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T
<div class="poem">
<p>The intent escalator lifts a serenade<br />
Stilly<br />
Of shoes, umbrellas, each eye attending its shoe, then<br />
Bolting outright somewhere above where streets<br />
Burst suddenly in rain.... The gongs recur:<br />
Elbows and levers, guard and hissing door.<br />
Thunder is galvothermic here below.... The car<br />
Wheels off. The train rounds, bending to a scream,<br />
Taking the final level for the dive<br />
Under the river—<br />
And somewhat emptier than before,<br />
Demented, for a hitching second, humps; then<br />
Lets go.... Toward corners of the floor<br />
Newspapers wing, revolve and wing.<br />
Blank windows gargle signals through the roar.
</p>
</div> +
C
<div class="poem">
<p>The little car already had done strenuous work, so Fred went over it carefully to see that every part was sound, meanwhile selecting the necessary extra parts. The Brush's most serious fault was that it didn't hold enough gasoline for long distances in places where gas stations were few and far between. Fred had an extra gas tank built under the seat and in all we could carry 16 gallons. As the trip progressed, we took on extra gas every time we had the chance, so as to never run short of the precious fuel.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The look of their clean white curtains was the same as the rim of a nun's bonnet.
</p>
</div> +
T
<div class="poem">
<p>The man who says no use at all,<br />
Because his pay is only small,<br />
Will say the same when multiplied,<br />
For saving he has never tried.
</p>
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F
<div class="poem">
<p>The mind has shown itself at times<br />
Too much the baked and labeled dough<br />
Divided by accepted multitudes.<br />
Across the stacked partitions of the day—<br />
Across the memoranda, baseball scores,<br />
The stenographic smiles and stock quotations <br />
Smutty wings flash out equivocations.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The mind is brushed by sparrow wings;<br />
Numbers, rebuffed by asphalt, crowd<br />
The margins of the day, accent the curbs,<br />
Convoying divers dawns on every corner<br />
To druggist, barber and tobacconist,<br />
Until the graduate opacities of evening<br />
Take them away as suddenly to somewhere<br />
Virginal perhaps, less fragmentary, cool.
</p>
</div> +
O
<div class="poem">
<p>The mind of man has been so made,<br />
That happiness in him will quickly fade,<br />
If slothful habits he does acquire,<br />
And industry is not his chief desire.
</p>
</div> +
A
<div class="poem">
<p>The motor never flinched, its power never lagged, it pulled us through those rocks and up the stiff grades. Emigrants westward bound in the early days would never trust horses or mules to convey their wagons safely to the bottom of one particularly stiff and rugged grade which Mr. Winton caused the motor to ascend. Those early day pathfinders would tie a rope to the rear axle of the wagon, take a turn around a tree and lower it gently.
</p>
</div> +
T
<div class="poem">
<p>The mountains grim forever stand,<br />
While men will roam about the land.<br />
Men are fond of other men to greet,<br />
Mountains never have been known to meet.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The nasal whine of power whips a new universe...<br />
Where spouting pillars spoor the evening sky,<br />
Under the looming stacks of the gigantic power house<br />
Stars prick the eyes with sharp ammoniac proverbs,<br />
New verities, new inklings in the velvet hummed<br />
Of dynamos, where hearing's leash is strummed...<br />
Power's script,—wound, bobbin-bound, refined—<br />
Is stropped to the slap of belts on booming spools, spurred<br />
Into the bulging bouillon, harnessed jelly of the stars.<br />
Towards what? The forked crash of split thunder parts<br />
Our hearing momentwise; but fast in whirling armatures,<br />
As bright as frogs' eyes, giggling in the girth<br />
Of steely gizzards—axle-bound, confined<br />
In coiled precision, bunched in mutual glee<br />
The bearings glint,—O murmurless and shined<br />
In oilrinsed circles of blind ecstasy!
</p>
</div> +
C
<div class="poem">
<p>The night after the sale and delivery of the car, we were in a Pullman returning to Denver. We spent a day in Salt Lake City and reached home December 1, having been gone a little over two months.
</p>
</div> +
A
<div class="poem">
<p>The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on.<br />
“Who’s that man sleeping in the office chair?<br />
Has he had the refusal of my chance?”
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs<br />
And down a narrow passage full of doors,<br />
At the last one of which he knocked and entered.<br />
“Lafe, here’s a fellow wants to share your room.”
</p>
</div> +
T
<div class="poem">
<p>The noiseless wheels of my car<br />
rush with a crackling sound over<br />
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.
</p>
</div> +
C
<div class="poem">
<p>The odor of fried bacon led us to three loads of hay, with the wagon drivers camped by the roadside. They were on their way to the aqueduct workers with their teams, as trucks were rarely thought of then. The men aroused from their beds in the hay and waved us a greeting, evidently surprised to see the little car scampering across the hills in the dusk. This was a weird evening, passing tall cactus plants, yucca plants, and Joshua trees in the moonlight, coming down into a mountain-enclosed valley where cattle were so frightened at us we slowed to a snail's pace so they would not injure themselves, running away in panic. We found an exit where a river flowed out into another valley, and came to Onyx, which consisted of a store and post office with a southern California ranch house.
</p>
</div> +
A
<div class="poem">
<p>The officials of the Sierra Nevada Wood and Lumber Company (the "company" owns the town and all there is in it) were particularly generous in bestowing upon us many courtesies and making the time we spent with them in Hobart Mills that of delightful remembrance.
</p>
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