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The ABC of the Automobile +

Bibliographic Information Author Weeks, Carrie Foote Genre Poetry Journal or Book The Outing Magazine Publisher - Year of Publication 1906 Pages 687 Additional information - A at the start was an Automobile. It answers to motor car, just as you feel. car B is the Brake that gives you control. If the Bubble Breaks you, you're in a Big hole. car part C stands for Cylinder, and your Chauffeur, Who takes many Chances at sixty-five per. car part speed D is the up-to-Date Dealer serene, And the Dance that he leads you about the machine. E is Experience for young and old; We pay dearly for it, and often are sold. F is the Factory where you will find It is Foolish to Fuss, if they're four months behind. G is Garage, and the God, Gasoline, Who Guides all his subjects, yet never is seen. gasoline infrastructure H is H. P., your Heaven and Hell. What pace are you making? The police can tell. law speed I is Ignition, Insurance and Ice. These three you must have on an expert's advice. car part J might stand now for a new Jeremiah, Who foretells disasters by flame, speed, or tire. car part risk speed K stands for all Kinds of cars on the mart. To pick the Kingpin would take cleverest art. car L stands for License, and Lawyer, and Lie— You're in touch with them all when an auto you buy. car law M is the Model you choose with great care, The Map that you follow for roads that aren’t there. car car model road map N is the Number attached to your car, And the Name (not a rose) that proclaims it a star. car law O is the Oil used for food and for drink, By this Ogre, half human, the real missing link. metaphor oil P stands for "Plain Clothes Men" always about. Police you can spot. For the others, watch out. Q is the Quest for a feminine hat, That will stay on the head, and have style, and all that. R stands foe Rules which must be obeyed, And the Races we win,—in our dreams, I'm afraid. law S means the Songs that we sing late at night, As the Search light weaves Shadows, now ghostly, now bright. T is the Tonneau for five, three or two. If a Tack finds your Tire, it’s all up with you. car part U is the Unruly, and also Uncertain. On the manners of autos and maids drop the curtain. car law V is Vibration—in sunshine, in gale, It's with us like goggles, or long auto Veil. W stands for Weight, and all kinds of Wheels. (Not Wheels in your head, or Weight in your heels) car part X is Xcess. Pray keep well in hand, For motor-car maniacs people the land. car risk Y stands for Yearnings to go far and fast. O bright Yellow Moon! we'll reach you at last. affect speed Z is the Zany so puffed up with Zeal, That he thinks he has mastered the automobile. car skill  

The Value of Thrift +

Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 104 Additional information - Every man from day to day Should save a portion of his pay. If what you save is only small, Still it’s more than none at all. There’s not a man who doesn’t know, To pay is better as you go. You'll find if you do not keep up, You'll be forever on the jump. It’s not the savings that you make That turn into a rich man’s stake. It’s lessons soundly learned of thrift, That are to you a priceless gift. Do not discouraged ever be Because the end you cannot see. Many possessing the lion’s part, Had to make the poor man’s start. If some investments have not paid, From the savings you have made, The gift for thrift to you He gave, You cannot lose if still you save. The man who says no use at all, Because his pay is only small, Will say the same when multiplied, For saving he has never tried. Just save a five and then a ten, And when you add some more again, You’re bound to make your saving score, Each little makes a little more. A motor car is like a man, Some cannot save and others can, The one of all that saves the most, It’s Studebaker’s right to boast. car car model metaphor pleasure safety —The Car with Character.  +

S

Sunday Morning +

Bibliographic Information Author MacNeice, Louis Genre Poetry Journal or Book The Faber Book of Modern Verse Publisher Faber and Faber Year of Publication 1923 Pages 304 Additional information - Down the road someone is practising scales, The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails, Man’s heart expands to tinker with his car For this is Sunday morning, Fate’s great bazaar, Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now, And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow, Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past, That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme. pleasure speed maintenance car part road But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire Opens its eight bells out, skulls’ mouths which will not tire To tell how there is no music or movement which secures Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures. architecture music sound metaphor haptic death  +

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The Man Speaks +

Bibliographic Information Author Oppenheim, James Genre Poetry Journal or Book Songs for the New Age Publisher The Century Co. Year of Publication 1914 Pages 83-84 Additional information - You and I in the night, spied on by stars... You and I in the belovéd night... You and I within these walls. A breath from the sea is kissing the housetops of the city, Kissing the roofs, And dying into silence. Earth and stars are in a trance, They dream of passion, but cannot break their sleep. They pass into us, and we are their passion, we are their madness, So shaped that we can kiss and clasp... One kiss, then death, the miracle being spent. Watchman, what of the night? Sleep and birth! Toil and death! Now the light of the topmost tower winks red and ceases: Now the lonely car echoes afar off... Helen looked over the wine-dark seas of Greece, and she was young. But not younger than we, touching each other, while dawn delays... car sound night intertext Dare we betray this moment? Dare we die, missing this fire? Whither goes massive Earth tonight, flying with the stars down eternity? We are alive: we are for each other.  +

B

Brown’s Descent or, the Willy-Nilly Slide +

Bibliographic Information Author Frost, Robert Genre Poetry Journal or Book Selected Poems Publisher Henry Holt and Company Year of Publication 1920 Pages 132-135 Additional information - Brown lived at such a lofty farm That everyone for miles could see His lantern when he did his chores In winter after half-past three. And many must have seen him make His wild descent from there one night, ’Cross lots, ’cross walls, ’cross everything, Describing rings of lantern light. Between the house and barn the gale Got him by something he had on And blew him out on the icy crust That cased the world, and he was gone! Walls were all buried, trees were few: He saw no stay unless he stove A hole in somewhere with his heel. But though repeatedly he strove And stamped and said things to himself, And sometimes something seemed to yield, He gained no foothold, but pursued His journey down from field to field. Sometimes he came with arms outspread Like wings, revolving in the scene Upon his longer axis, and With no small dignity of mien. Faster or slower as he chanced, Sitting or standing as he chose, According as he feared to risk His neck, or thought to spare his clothes, He never let the lantern drop. And some exclaimed who saw afar The figures he described with it, “I wonder what those signals are Brown makes at such an hour of night! He’s celebrating something strange. I wonder if he’s sold his farm, Or been made Master of the Grange.” He reeled, he lurched, he bobbed, he checked; He fell and made the lantern rattle (But saved the light from going out.) So half-way down he fought the battle Incredulous of his own bad luck. And then becoming reconciled To everything, he gave it up And came down like a coasting child. “Well—I—be——” that was all he said, As standing in the river road, He looked back up the slippery slope (Two miles it was) to his abode. road roadside river road condition risk safety Sometimes as an authority On motor-cars, I’m asked if I Should say our stock was petered out, And this is my sincere reply: car Yankees are what they always were. Don’t think Brown ever gave up hope Of getting home again because He couldn’t climb that slippery slope; car metaphor Or even thought of standing there Until the January thaw Should take the polish off the crust. He bowed with grace to natural law, And then went round it on his feet, After the manner of our stock; Not much concerned for those to whom, At that particular time o’clock, It must have looked as if the course He steered was really straight away From that which he was headed for— Not much concerned for them, I say. road navigation car driving driving skill But now he snapped his eyes three times; Then shook his lantern, saying, “Ile’s ’Bout out!” and took the long way home By road, a matter of several miles. road affect navigation  

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School Days +

Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 131-132 Additional information - In years of yore it made us sore, When teacher called our name, And said next Friday afternoon, You’re one that must declaim. Now we were always timid quite, To stand before the school, But declamations once a week, Was teacher’s golden rule. There’s nothing to declaim about, We then did fairly shout. Then teacher said with nasty flout, Keep still or you go out. But teacher loaned us many books, And all she did indorse, And that is how we came to tell The school about the horse. One book had pictures and a tale That sounded very fine, But we could never memorize No more than just a Iine, We then proceeded right away To join a horses’ band, And study horses in their play, And learn them out of hand. We then declaimed to all the school, Don’t take us for a fool, We find the horse is good to work, And bigger than a mule. He has two eyes so very keen, They see when you are coming, In front two feet and two behind, That move when he is running. He has two ears with which he hears, And tail to scare the flies, Sometimes he balks but never talks, By eating he survives. Some are bay and some are gray, And some of color muggy, The big and tall look best of all, In a Studebaker buggy. equipment car model If we again had to declaim And take a teacher’s jars, We'd tell you all about mistakes Of certain motor cars. We’d tell it true in words a few, The car of any maker, Is one we sell, the best for you, And made by Studebaker. car car model —The Car with Character.  

X

XI (The Right of Way) +

Bibliographic Information Author Williams, William Carlos Genre Poetry Journal or Book Spring and All Publisher - Year of Publication 1923 Pages - Additional information - In passing with my mind on nothing in the world but the right of way I enjoyed on the road by road law virtue of the law – I saw law an elderly man who smiled and looked away to the north past a house – a woman in blue who was laughing and leaning forward to look up into the man’s half averted face and a boy of eight who was looking at the middle of the man’s belly at a watchchain – The supreme importance of this nameless spectacle sped me by them without a word – speed Why bother where I went? for I went spinning on the driving four wheels of my car along the wet road until car car part road road condition I saw a girl with one leg over the rail of a balcony  +

W

When Dawn Comes to the City +

Bibliographic Information Author McKay, Claude Genre Poetry Journal or Book Spring in New Hampshire and Other Poems Publisher London Grant Richards Ltd Year of Publication 1920 Pages 36-37 Additional information - The tired cars go grumbling by, The moaning, groaning cars, And the old milk carts go rumbling by Under the same dull stars. Out of the tenements, cold as stone, Dark figures start for work; I watch them sadly shuffle on, ‘Tis dawn, dawn in New York. car anthropomorphism personification sound sky urban But I would be on the island of the sea, In the heart of the island of the sea, Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! There, oh there! on the island of the sea There I would be at dawn. The tired cars go grumbling by, The crazy, lazy cars, And the same milk-carts go rumbling by Under the dying stars. A lonely newsboy hurries by, Humming a recent ditty; Red streaks strike through the gray of the sky, The dawn comes to the city. personification sound car urban sky But I would be on the island of the sea, In the heart of the island of the sea, Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! There, oh there! on the island of the sea There I would be at dawn.  

T

The Steering Wheel +

Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 240 Additional information - sublime technology You may have your blooded speeding horse, We have given him up without remorse. The glory that all the nerves can feel, Is in a Six Studebaker wheel. car car model car part The swift and silent pedal machine, We once considered no wise mean. O’er us its magic has ceased to steal, Since turning a Six Studebaker wheel. car part sound speed The rushing of racing motor boats, Our mind no longer on them dotes. Flying through water has not the appeal, Of a Six Studebaker steering wheel. car part metaphor There is joy in a limited fast express, If a first class ticket you possess. But you'll better enjoy an evening meal, From holding a Six Studebaker wheel. car part Give us the still California night, When the moon is full and shining bright. Then life to us is never so real, If turning a Six Studebaker wheel. car part sky time West With miles of road like polished floor, At sixty per and sometimes more, We glide with ease mid laughters peal, Safe at a Six Studebaker wheel. car part infrastructure pleasure road safety speed Like a panther leaping through the air, With plenty of power and some to spare, For a Six Studebaker more of zeal, You'll have when once you turn the wheel. car model car part metaphor We'll warrant your mind will quickly fill With thoughts for a Six so full of thrill. To drive the ideal Six Automobile, Get back of a Six Studebaker wheel. affect car car model car part metaphor —The Car with Character.  

I

Interest Bearing Investments +

Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 55 Additional information - It’s known to all to be the law, That interest should you wish to draw, On something that you have within, You first must put that something in. For you, your business does not pay, And you lament from day to day, You have not to your business given, That from which pay is deriven. Your goose it lays a golden egg, Marks up your interest just a peg, But feed, you must, your goose of old, If you would get your egg of gold. If interest in your church has died, It doesn’t revive although you’ve tried, Just ask yourself and look within To see what you are putting in. If your home is not going right, You stay out late most every night, You have no longer interest there, You’ve no investment worth the care. If you have brothers in your lodge, You now quite often try to dodge, Then your interest’s growing slim, You must put in if you would win. All through life as taught by Him, If you take out you must put in, It’s things you do for all about, You take your biggest interest out. With motor cars it’s just the same, What’s been put in comes out again. Now you can make your own deduction, From the Studebakers’ big production. car car model metaphor technology —The Car wih Character.  +

W

Who Lies? +

Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 24 Additional information - Somebody said it can't be done, Salaries to all and commissions none. We smiled till tears were in our eyes, For can't is a word we do despise. We have done the thing that couldn't be done. Somebody scoffed it can't be done, Seven per cent to every last one. No compound rate or broker's fee, Will send you sure into bankruptcy. We have done the thing that couldn't be done. Somebody sneered it can't be done, Carry your paper for each mother's son. You can't collect, your loss run high, Let broker and banker cut the pie. We have done the thing that couldn't be done. Somebody croaked it can't be done, Service by night without the sun. Expenses great will bring you ruin, We heard them not with all their wooin'. We have done the thing that couldn't be done. Somebody mocked it can't be done, Back with you name the cars that 'ave run. Your profits will in them surely go, The public be d—d so take them low. We have done the thing that couldn't be done. car Somebody gibed it can't be done, This thing and that and the other one. So we took off our coat and defied the whole ring, And we started to sing as we tackled the thing. We have done the thing that couldn't be done. Some people live neath clouds of dread And never see a single star. Happier, they would be, if dead And riding in a Studebaker Car. car model —The Car with Character.  +

T

To Beachey +

Bibliographic Information Author Sandburg, Carl Genre Poetry Journal or Book Chicago Poems Publisher Henry Holt and Company Year of Publication 1916 Pages 52 Additional information - Riding against the east, A veering, steady shadow Purrs the motor-call Of the man-bird Ready with the death-laughter In his throat And in his heart always The love of the big blue beyond. driving personification zoomorphism sound Only a man, A far fleck of shadow on the east Sitting at ease With his hands on a wheel And around him the large gray wings. Hold him, great soft wings, Keep and deal kindly, O wings, With the cool, calm shadow at the wheel. car part driver  +

O

On the Great Plateau +

Bibliographic Information Author Wyatt, Edith Genre Poetry Journal or Book - Publisher - Year of Publication 1915 Pages 157-159 Additional information - In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away, Cool-breathed waters dip and dally, linger towards another day— Far and far away—far away. Slow their floating step, but tireless, terraced down the great Plateau. Towards our ways of steam and wireless, silver-paced the brook-beds go. Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, Where the back-locked river’s ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints, Shining backwards, singing downwards, towards horizons blue and bay. All the roofs the roads ensconce so dream of visions far away— Santa Cruz and Ildefonso, Santa Clara, Santa Fé. Ancient, sacred fears and faiths, ancient, sacred faiths and fears— Some were real, some were wraiths—Indian, Franciscan years, Built the Khivas, swung the bells; while the wind sang plain and free, "Turn your eyes from visioned hells!—look as far as you can see!" In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away, Dying dreams divide and dally, crystal-terraced waters sally— Linger towards another day, far and far away—far away. agriculture plant road scenery sublime West As you follow where you find them, up along the high Plateau, In the hollows left behind them Spanish chapels fade below— Shaded court and low corrals. In the vale the goat-herd browses. Hollyhocks are seneschals by the little buff-walled houses. Over grassy swale and alley have you ever seen it so— Up the Santa Clara Valley, riding on the Great Plateau? Past the ladder-walled Pueblos, past the orchards, pear and quince, Where the trenchèd waters’ ebb flows, miles and miles the valley glints, Shining backwards, singing downwards towards horizons blue and bay. All the haunts the bluffs ensconce so breathe of visions far away, As you ride near Ildefonso back again to Santa Fé. Pecos, mellow with the years, tall-walled Taos—who can know Half the storied faiths and fears haunting Green New Mexico? Only from her open places down arroyos blue and bay, One wild grace of many graces dallies towards another day. Where her yellow tufa crumbles, something stars and grasses know, Something true, that crowns and humbles, shimmers from the Great Plateau: Blows where cool-paced waters dally from the stillness of Puyé, Down the Santa Clara Valley through the world from far away— Far and far away—far away.  

T

The Young Housewife +

Bibliographic Information Author Williams, William Carlos Genre Poetry Journal or Book - Publisher - Year of Publication 1916 Pages - Additional information - At ten A.M. the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband's house. I pass solitary in my car. car driver Then again she comes to the curb to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands shy, uncorseted, tucking in stray ends of hair, and I compare her to a fallen leaf. road roadside The noiseless wheels of my car rush with a crackling sound over dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling. car car part driver sound speed plant  +

The Road to Glory +

Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 38 Additional information - religion We know a good old Missouri town, Where "niggers" a-plenty live all around. On a little hill down near the mill, The "nigger" church is standing still. When we were there some years ago, This church each night gave quite a show. To enter the house we had to strive, For the building was packed to all revive. The snow outside the church was deep, Inside were shouts while some did weep. The preacher's voice above the din, Proclaimed to all their awful sin. He said, "I's read de Good Book thro', I's fahmiliar with all de ol' an' new. Now you's all bette' believe in dis story, If you's a gonna get yo' a home in glory." Just then a gal, big, black and tall, Shouted, "Fo' de story I sho' does fall. With de dev'l I's fightin' both day an' night, But with yo' story I's winnin' de fight." The preacher replied, "My siste' host, You's get on de side o' de Holy Ghost. He'll look down deep in yo' po' ol' heart, You'll sho' beat de dev'l if yo' do yo' part." "lf yo' read de Book fo' to get yo' light, Yo' can dodge de ol' dev'l an' keep out o' sight. Jus' read fo' to keep from makin' colleesions, 'Bout Paul with his 'pistle after the 'Phesians." "If yo' faith go to shakin' an' yo' go to slippin', Jus' read de Good Book without no skippin', De dev'l am swif', but yo' stick to yo' Maker, Yo' can beat him to glory in de Six Studebaker." car model —The Car with Character.  +

W

Westward Hoboes +

Bibliographic Information Author Dixon, Winifred Hawkridge Genre Non-Fiction Journal or Book Westward Hoboes Publisher - Year of Publication 1921 Pages 1-6 Additional information - "WESTWARD HO!" [ edit | edit source ] TOBY'S real name is Katharine. Her grandmother was a poet, her father is a scientist, and she is an artist. She is called Toby for Uncle Jonas' dog, who had the habit, on being kicked out of the door, of running down the steps with a cheerful bark and a wagging tail, as if he had left entirely of his own accord. There is no fact, however circumstantially incriminating, which this young doctrinaire cannot turn into the most potent justification for what she has done or wishes to do, and when she gets to the tail wagging stage, regardless of how recently the bang of the front door has echoed in our ears, she wags with the charm of the artist, the logical precision of the scientist, and the ardor of the poet. Even when she ran the car into the creek at Nambe—— car accident river At the outset we did not plan to make the journey by automobile. Our destination was uncertain. We planned to drift, to sketch and write when the spirit moved. But drifting by railroad in the West implies time-tables, crowded trains, boudoir-capped matrons, crying babies and the smell of bananas, long waits and anxiety over reservations. Traveling by auto seemed luxurious in comparison and would save railroad fares, annoyance and time. We pictured ourselves bowling smoothly along in the open air, in contrast with the stifling train; we previsioned no delays, no breakdowns, no dangers; we saw New Mexico and Arizona a motorist's Heaven, paved with asphalt and running streams of gasoline. An optimist is always like that, and two are twenty times so. I was half-owner of a Cadillac Eight, with a rakish hood and a matronly tonneau; its front was intimidating, its rear reassuring. The owner of the other half was safely in France. At the time, which half belonged to which had not been discussed. It is now a burning question. I figure that the springs, the dust-pan, the paint, mud-guards and tires constituted her share, with a few bushings and nuts thrown in for good measure, but having acquired a mercenary disposition in France, she differs from me. car train road surface asphalt gasoline pleasure car model car part Southwest What I knew of the bowels of a car had been gained, not from systematic research, but bitter experience with mutinous parts, in ten years' progress through two, four, six and finally eight-cylinder motors of widely varying temperaments. I had taken no course in mechanics, and had, and still have, a way of confusing the differential with the transmission. But I love to tinker! In the old two-cylinder days, when the carburetor flooded I would weigh it down with a few pebbles and a hairpin, and when the feed became too scanty, I would take the hairpin out and leave the pebbles in. I had a smattering knowledge of all the deviltry defective batteries, leaky radiators, frozen steering-wheels, cranky generators, wrongly-hung springs, stripped gears and slipping clutches can perpetrate, but those parts which commonly behaved themselves I left severely alone. Toby could not drive, but a few lessons made her an apt pupil. She paid her money to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts for a license, and one sparkling evening in early February we started for Springfield. We were to cover thirteen thousand miles before we saw Boston again,—eleven thousand by motor and the rest by steamship and horseback. car part personification mechanic As I threw in the clutch, we heard a woman's voice calling after us. It was Toby's mother, and what she said was, "Don't drive at night!" car part night gender In New York we made the acquaintance of a map—which later was to become thumbed, torn and soiled. A delightful map it was, furnished by the A.A.A., with an index specially prepared for us of every Indian reservation, natural marvel, scenic and historical spot along the ridgepole of the Rockies, from Mexico, to Canada. Who could read the intriguing list of names,—Needles, Flagstaff, Moab, Skull Valley, Keams Canyon, Fort Apache, Tombstone, Rodeo, Kalispell, Lost Cabin, Hatchita, Rosebud, Roundup, Buckeye, Ten Sleep, Bowie and Bluff, Winnemucca,—and stop at home in Boston? We were bent on discovering whether they lived up to their names, whether Skull Valley was a scattered outpost of the desert with mysterious night-riders, stampeding steer, gold-seekers, cattle thieves and painted ladies, or had achieved virtue in a Rexall drugstore, a Harvey lunchroom, a jazz parlor, a Chamber of Commerce, an Elks' Hall, and a three story granite postoffice donated by a grateful administration? Which glory is now Skull Valley's we do not yet know, but depend on it, it is either one or the other. The old movie life of the frontier is not obsolete, only obsolescent, provided one knows where to look. But the day after it vanishes a thriving city has arrived at adolescence and "Frank's" and "Bill's" have placed a liveried black at their doors, and provided the ladies' parlor upstairs with three kinds of rouge. map It was love at first sight—our map and us. Pima and Maricopa Indians, Zuni and Laguna pueblos, the Rainbow Bridge and Havasupai Canyon beckoned to us and hinted their mysteries; our itinerary widened until it included vaguely everything there was to see. We made only one reservation—we would not visit California. California was the West, dehorned; it possessed climate, boulevards and conveniences; but it also possessed sand fleas and native sons. It was a little thing which caused us to make this decision, but epochal. At the San Francisco Exposition, I had seen a long procession of Native Sons, dressed in their native gold—a procession thousands strong. Knowing what one native son can do when he begins on his favorite topic of conversation, we dared not trust ourselves to an army of them, an army militant. map West What we planned to do was harder and less usual. We would follow the old trails, immigrant trails, cattle trails, traders' routes,—mountain roads which a long procession of cliff dwellers, Spanish friars, gold seekers, Apache marauders, prospectors, Mormons and scouts had trod in five centuries, and left as they found them, mere footprints in the dust. The Southwest has been explored afoot and on horse, by prairie schooners, burro, and locomotive; the modern pioneer rattles his weather beaten flivver on business between Gallup and Santa Fe, Tucson and El Paso, and thinks nothing of it, but the country is still new to the motoring tourist. Because a car must have the attributes of a hurdler and a tightrope walker, be amphibious and fool-proof, have a beagle's nose for half-obliterated tracks, thrill to the tug of sand and mud, and own a constitution strong enough to withstand all experiments of provincial garage-men, few merciful car owners will put it through the supreme agony. Had not the roads looked so smooth on the map we wouldn't have tried them ourselves. pioneer road train car road condition mud road surface mechanic garage personification And then, in New York, we met another optimist, and two and one make three. It was not until long afterward, when we met the roads he described as passable, that we discovered he was an optimist. He had motored through every section of the West, and paid us the compliment of believing we could do the same. When he presented us with our elaborate and beautiful itinerary he asked no questions about our skill and courage. He told us to buy an axe and a shovel, and carry a rope. A tent he advised as well, and such babes in the woods were we, the idea had not occurred to us. road affect "And carry a pistol?" asked Toby, eagerly. "Never! You will be as safe—or safer than you are in New York City." Toby was disappointed, but I heard him with relief. By nature gun-shy, I have seen too many war-dramas not to know that a pistol never shoots the person originally aimed at. The procedure never varies. A pulls a gun, points it at B. B, unflinching, engages A in light conversation. Diverted, A absent-mindedly puts down the gun, which B picks up, shooting to kill. I realized that as B my chances were better than as A, for while I would surely fall under the spell of a western outlaw's quaint humor and racy diction and thus hand over the weapon into his keeping, the chances were that he might be equally undermined by our Boston r's, and the appeal to his rough Western chivalry which we intended to make. Toby held out for an ammonia pistol. We did debate this for a while, but in the excitement of buying our tent we forgot the pistol entirely. Our Optimist directed us to a nearby sports'-goods shop, recommending us to the care of a certain "Reggi," who, he guaranteed, would not try to sell us the entire store. Confidently we sought the place,—a paradise where elk-skin boots, fleecy mufflers, sleeping bags, leather coats, pink hunting habits and folding stoves lure the very pocketbooks out of one's hands. We asked for Mr. Reggi, who did not look as Italian as his name. He proved a sympathetic guide, steering us to the camping department. He restrained himself from selling the most expensive outfits he had. At the price of a fascinating morning and fifty-odd dollars, we parted from him, owners of a silk tent, mosquito and snake proof, which folded into an infinitesimal canvas bag, a tin lantern, which folded flat, a tin biscuit baker which collapsed into nothing, a nest of cooking and eating utensils, which folded and fitted into one two-gallon pail, a can opener, a hunting knife, doomed to be our most cherished treasure, a flashlight, six giant safety-pins, and a folding stove. The charm of an article which collapses and becomes something else than it seems I cannot analyze nor resist. Others feel it too; I know a man who once stopped a South American revolution by stepping into the Plaza and opening and shutting his opera hat. Only one incident marred our satisfaction with the morning's work; we discovered, on saying farewell to Reggi, that we had been calling him by his first name! <poem> FROM NEW YORK TO ANTOINE'S <mw:editsection page="Westward Hoboes" section="1">FROM NEW YORK TO ANTOINE'S</mw:editsection> THERE were, we found, three ways to transport an automobile from New York to Texas; to drive it ourselves, and become mired in Southern "gumbo," to ship it by rail, and become bankrupt while waiting weeks for delivery, or, cheaper and altogether more satisfactory, to send it by freight steamer to Galveston. By this means we avoided the need of crating our lumbering vehicle; we also could calculate definitely its date of arrival, and by taking a passenger boat to New Orleans, and going thence by rail, be at the port to meet it. infrastructure car mud driving train Our baggage we stowed in a peculiarly shaped auto trunk containing five peculiarly shaped suitcases, trapezoids all,—not a parallelepiped among them. Made to fit an earlier car, in its day it had been the laughing stock of all the porters in Europe. Too bulky to be strapped outside, it was to become a mysterious occupant of the tonneau, exciting much speculation and comment. It was to be the means of our being taken for Salvation lassies with a parlor organ, bootleggers, Spiritualists with the omnipresent cabinet, show-girls or lady shirt-waist drummers, according to the imagination of the beholder; but it never was aught but a nuisance. Whatever we needed always reposed in the bottom-most suitcase, and rather than dig down, we did without. Next time, I shall know better. A three-piece khaki suit, composed of breeches, short skirt split front and back, and many-pocketed Norfolk coat, worn with knee-high elk boots, does for daily wear in camping, riding or driving. It sheds rain, heat and cold, does not wrinkle when slept in, and only mellows with successive accumulations of dirt. For dress occasions, a dark jersey coat and skirt, wool stockings and low oxfords is magnificence itself. A heavy and a light sweater, two flannel and a half dozen cotton or linen shirts, and sufficient plain underwear suffice for a year's knocking about. Add to this a simple afternoon frock of non-wrinkling material, preferably black, and no event finds you unprepared. car part Our trunk made us trouble from the start. The administration had given us to understand we might ship it with the car, but at the last moment this was prevented by a constitutional amendment. Accordingly, an hour before our boat left, we took the trunk to the line on which we were to travel, and shipped it as personal baggage. It was only the first of many experiences which persuaded us to adopt the frontiersman's motto, "Pack light." Every true yarn of adventure should begin with a sea voyage. The wharves with their heaped cargoes tying together the four ends of the world, the hoisting of the gang-plank, the steamer flirtations, the daily soundings, the eternal schools of porpoises, the menus with their ensuing disillusionments, and above all, the funny, funny passengers, each a drollery to all the others,—all these commonplaces of voyage are invested by the mighty sea with its own importance and mystery. On board, besides ourselves, were some very funny people, and some merely funny. A swarthy family of Spaniards next us passed through all the successive shades of yellow and green, but throughout they were gay, eating oranges and chanting pretty little Castilian folk-songs. At table sat a man wearing a black and white striped shirt, of the variety known as "boiled," a black and white striped collar of a different pattern, and a bright blue necktie thickly studded with daisies and asterisks. He looked, otherwise, like a burglar without his jimmy, especially when we saw him by moonlight glowering prognathously through a porthole. He turned out to be only a playwright and journalist, with a specialty for handing out misinformation on a different subject each meal. The stout lady, the flirtatious purser—why is he of all classes of men the most amorous?—the bounder, the bride and groom, the flappers of both sexes, the drummer, the motherly stewardess and the sardonic steward were all present. And why does the sight of digestive anguish bring out the maternal in the female, and only profanity in the male? Our plump English stewardess cooed over us, helpless in upper and lower berths; our steward always rocked with silent mirth, and muttered, "My God!" Our own stout lady was particularly rare. She appeared coquettishly the first calm day off Florida, in a pink gingham dress, a large black rosary draped prominently upon her,—which did not much heighten her resemblance to a Mother Superior, owing to her wearing an embroidered Chinese kimona and a monkey coat over it, and flirting so gayly with the boys. On the Galveston train later, we heard her say helplessly, "Porter, my trunk is follering me to Galveston. How shall I stop it?" She could have stopped an express van merely by standing in front of it, but we did not suggest this remedy. The picture of a docile Saratoga lumbering doggedly at her rear was too much for words. As to the purser, we left him severely alone. We did not feel we could flirt with him in the style to which he had been accustomed. The last night of the voyage, when the clear bright green of the Gulf of Mexico gave place to the turbulent coffee color of the Mississippi, our stewardess knocked. "On account of the river, miss, we don't bathe tonight." It was a small tragedy for us. Earlier in the voyage we could not bear to see the water sliding up and down in the tub,—so much else was sliding up and down. It was on one of those days that the stewardess informed us that there were "twenty-seven ladies sick on this deck, to say nothing of twenty-four below," and asked us how we would like a little piece of bacon. We firmly refused the bacon, but the Gilbertian lilt of her remark inspired us to composing a ballad with the refrain, "Twenty-seven sea-sick ladies we." The river which deprived us of our baths presented at five next morning a bleak and sluggish appearance. I missed Simon Legree and the niggers singing plantation melodies, but it may have been too early in the day. Most picturesque, busy, low-lying river it was, nevertheless, banked with shipyards, newly built wharves, coaling stations, elevators, steamship docks—evidences to a provincial Northerner that the South, wakened perhaps by the Great War, has waited for none, but has forged ahead bent on her own development, achieving her independence—this time an economic independence. To the insular Manhattanite, who thinks of New York as the Eastern gate of this country, and San Francisco as the Western, the self-sufficiency, the bustle and the cosmopolitanism of the Mississippi's delta land, even seen through a six A.M. drizzle, gives a surprising jolt. Six months later we were to cross the Mississippi near the headwaters not many miles from Canada. More lovely, there at the North, its broad, clear placid waters shadowed by green forests and high bluffs, it invites for a voyage of discovery. On both banks of the river, whose forgotten raft and steamboat life Mark Twain made famous, are now being built concrete boulevards, designed to bisect the country from Canada to the Gulf. Huck Finns of the near future will be able to explore this great artery through what is now perhaps the least known and least accessible region of the country. construction highway road New Orleans, those who knew it twenty or forty years ago will tell you, has become modern and ugly, has lost its atmosphere. Drive through the newer and more pretentious outskirts, and you will believe all you are told. You will see the usual Southwestern broad boulevard, pointed with staccato palmettos, but otherwise arid of verdure, bordered with large, hideous mansions which completely overpower an occasional gem of low-verandahed loveliness, relic of happier days. For such grandeur the driver of our jitney,—undoubtedly the one used by Gen. Jackson during his defence of the city,—had an infallible instinct. I don't think he missed one atrocity during the whole morning's drive. Yet we passed one quite charming "colored" dwelling,—a low rambling cottage covered with vines, proudly made of glittering, silvery tin! driving city urban highway road tree driver bus But in the old French or Creole quarters you find all the storied charm of the city intact,—a bit of Italy, of Old Spain, of the milder and sunnier parts of France, jumbled together with the romance of the West Indies. In the cobbled narrow pavements, down which mule teams still clatter more often than motors, the mellow old houses, with iron balconies beautifully wrought, broad verandahs, pink, green or orange plastered walls, peeling to show the red brick underneath,—shady courtyards, high-walled with fountains and stone Cupids, glimpsed through low arched doorways, markets like those of Cannes and Avignon, piled with luscious fruits, crawfish, crates of live hens, strings of onions, and barrels of huge oysters,—oh, the oysters of New Orleans,—here lies the fascination of the town. road cobblestone animal car urban city Set down close to the wharves is this jumble of old streets, so close that the funnels of docked tramps mingle with the shop chimneys. From the wharves drift smells of the sea and sea-commerce, to join the smells of the old town. It is a subtle blend of peanuts, coffee, cooked food, garlic, poultry,—a raw, pungent, bracing odor, inclining one to thoughts of eating. And just around the corner is Antoine's. Eating? There should be a word coined to distinguish ordinary eating from eating at Antoine's. The building is modest and the lettering plain, as befits the dignity of the place. The interior, plainly finished and lined with mirrors, resembles any one of five hundred un-noteworthy restaurants where business New York eats to get filled. There the resemblance stops. A sparkle, restrained and sober withal, rests on the mirrors, the glasses and the silver. The floors and woodwork have a well scrubbed look. The linen is carefully looked after, the china business-like; everything decent, adequate, spotless,—nothing to catch the eye. It is not visual aestheticism which lures us here, or causes the millionaire Manhattanite to order his private car to take him to Antoine's for one hour of bliss. Antoine is an interior decorator of subtler but more potent distinction. And I would go even farther than that New York multi-millionaire whose name spells Aladdin to Americans; for such a meal as Antoine served us that morning, I would travel the same distance in one of those wife-killing contrivances which are the bane of every self-respecting motorist. The waiters at Antoine's are not hit-or-miss riff-raff sent up by a waiters' employment bureau. They are grandfatherly courtiers who make you feel that the responsibility for your digestion lies in their hands, and for the good name of the house in yours. Old New Orleans knows them by name, and recognizes the special dignity of their priesthood, with the air of saluting equals. Their lifework is your pleasure,—the procuring of your inner contentment. You could trust your family's honor to them, or the ordering of your meal. Only at Antoine's and in the pages of Leonard Merrick does one find such servitors. We accepted our Joseph's suggestion that we allow him to bring us some of the specialties of the house. It was a wise decision,—from the prelude of oysters Rockefeller,—seared in a hot oven with a sauce of chives, butter and crumbs,—to the benediction of café brulôt. Between came a marvel of a fish, covered with Creole sauce, a sublimated chicken a la King , a salad and a sweet, all nicely proportioned to each other, but their memory was crowned by the café brulôt. In came Joseph, like all three Kings of Egypt, bearing a tall silver dish on a silver platter. The platter contained blazing brandy, the dish orange peel, lemon peel, cloves, cinnamon stick, four lumps of sugar, and two spoonfuls of brandy. Joseph stirred them into a melted nectar, then with a long silver ladle and the manner of a vestal virgin, swept the blazing brandy into the mixture above, and stood like a benevolent demon over the flame. An underling brought a pot of black coffee, which was added little by little to the fiery mixture, and stirred. Finally it was ladled into two small glasses. We swam in Swinburnian bliss. We paid our bill, and departed to a new New Orleans, where the secondhand stores were filled with genuine, priceless antiques, the pavings easy on our weary feet, the skies, as the meteorologist in the popular song observed, raining violets and daffodils. Mr. Volstead never tasted café brulôt. A LONG WAYS FROM HOME TWO days of downpour greeted us at Galveston while we waited for our car to arrive. It was the climax of three months of rain which had followed three drouthy years. The storm swept waves and spray over the breakwater toward the frame town which has sprung up hopefully after twice being devoured by the sea monster. A city of khaki tents dripped mournfully under the drenching; wet sentries paced the coast-line, and looked suspiciously at two ladies—all women are ladies in Texas—who cared to fight their way along the sea-wall against such a gale. Toby and I were bored, when we were not eating Galveston's oysters. The city, pleasant enough under the sun, had its usual allotment of boulevards, bronze monuments, drug stores, bungalows of the modest and mansions of the local plutocrats, but it had not the atmosphere of New Orleans. We were soon to learn that regardless of size, beauty or history, some towns have personality, others have about as much personality as a reception room in a Methodist dormitory. road Next day, news came that our boat had docked, and telephoning revealed that the car was safely landed. There are joys to telephoning in the South. Central is courteous and eager to please, and the voices of strangers with whom one does curt business at home become here so soft and winning that old friendships are immediately cemented, repartee indulged in, and the receiver hung up with a feeling of regret. That is the kind of voice the agent for the Mallory Line had. To be sure, it took us a day to get the car from the dock to the street, when it would have taken half an hour at home, but it was a day devoted to the finer shades of intercourse and good fellowship. I reached the dock half an hour before lunch time. car infrastructure "Yes'm, the office is open, but I reckon yo' won't find any hands to move yo' car," was the accurate prediction of the official to whom I applied. "Pretty nearly lunch time, yo' know." So I waited, filling in time by answering the guarded questions the watchman put to me. I was almost as fascinating an object of attention to him as his Bull Durham, though I must admit that when there was a conflict between us, I never won, except once, when he asked where the car and I came from. car personification "Massachusetts?" Bull Durham lost. A great idea struggled for expression. I could see him searching for the right, the inevitable word. I could see it born, as triumph and amusement played over his features. Then caution—should he spring it all at once or save it for a climax? Nonchalantly, as if such epigrams were likely to occur to him any time, he got it off. "You're a long ways from home , ain't yo'?" With the air of saying something equally witty, I replied, "I surely am." Like "When did you stop beating your wife," his question was one of those which has all the repartee its own way. For six months, we were to hear it several times daily, but it always came as a shock, and as if hypnotized, we were never to alter our response. And it was so true! We were a long ways from home, further than we then realized. At times we seemed so long that we wondered if we should ever see home again. But we were never too far to meet some man, wittier than his fellows, who defined our location accurately. After his diagnosis and my acceptance of it, further conversation became anticlimactic. The "hands" were still absent at lunch, so I followed their example, and returning at two, found them still at lunch. But at last the agent drifted in, and three or four interested and willing colored boys. Everybody was pleasant, nobody was hurried, we exchanged courtesies, and signed papers, and after we really got down to business, in a surprisingly few minutes the car was rolled across the street by five-man power, while I lolled behind the steering wheel like Cleopatra in her galley. At the doorway the agent halted me. car car part "Massachusetts car?" he asked. "Yes, sir," said I. Were there to be complications? In a flash he countered. "Yo' surely are a long ways from home." I laughed heartily, and with rapier speed replied, "I surely am ." They told us the road from Gal ves ton to Houston(Hewston)was good—none better. road road condition "Good shell road all the way. You'll make time on that road." This is the distinction between a Southerner and a Westerner. When the former tells you a road is good, he means that it once was good. When a Westerner tells you the same thing, he means that it is going to be good at some happy future date. In Texas the West and South meet. road We crossed the three-mile causeway which Galveston built at an expense of two million dollars, to connect her island town with her mainland. On all sides of us flatness like the flatness of the sea stretched to the horizon, and but for the horizon would have continued still further. The air was balmy as springtime in Italy. Meadow larks perched fat and puffy on fenceposts, dripping abrupt melodies which began and ended nowhere. The sky, washed with weeks of rain, had been dipped in blueing and hung over the earth to dry. After enduring gray northern skies, we were intoxicated with happiness. animal sound coast ocean pleasure The happier I am, the faster I drive. The road of hard oyster shell we knew was good. They had told us we could make time on it, in so many words. Forty-eight miles an hour is not technically fast, but seems fast when you suddenly descend into a hard-edged hole a foot and a half deep. speed pleasure road condition road surface accident When we had separated ourselves from our baggage, we examined the springs. By a miracle they were intact. In first gear, the car took a standing jump, and emerged from the hole. For one of her staid matronly build, she did very well at her first attempt. Later she learned to leap boulders, and skip lightly from precipice to precipice and if we could have kept her in training six months longer, she could have walked out halfway on a tightrope, turned around and got back safely to land. accident car part personification The holes increased rapidly until there was no spot in the road free from them. Our course resembled an earthworm's. Except for the holes, the road was all its sympathizers claimed for it. We maneuvered two partly washed away bridges, and came to a halt. road condition bridge Airplanes were soaring above us in every direction. We were passing Ellington Field. But the immediate cause of our halt was two soldiers, who begged a lift to Houston. We were glad to oblige them, but after a hopeless glance at the tonneau piled high with baggage, they decided to ride on the running board. If the doughboy on the left had only been the doughboy on the right running board, this chapter would have been two days shorter. It was Friday, and we had thirteen miles to go, and Friday and thirteen make a bad combination. hitchhiker car part Toby chatted with her soldier and I with mine, who was a mechanician at the flying field. It was a disappointment not to have him an aviator, though he admitted a mechanician's was a far weightier responsibility. Before the war, he had been a professional racer, had come in second in a championship race between San Francisco and Los Angeles, and gave such good reasons why he hadn't come in first that he seemed to have taken a mean advantage of the champion. driver driving speed "Sixty-three miles is about as fast as I've ever driven," I said in an off-hand way. speed driving "Sixty-three? That's not fast. When you get going ninety-five to a hundred, that's something like driving." speed driving "This car," I explained, "won't make more than fifty. At fifty she vibrates till she rocks from side to side." car speed He looked at the wheel hungrily. "Huh! I bet I could bring her up to seventy-five." car part Stung, I put my foot on the gas, and the speedometer needle swung to the right. As we merged with the traffic of Houston, shell-holes were left behind us, and passing cars were taking advantage of a perfect concrete road. A Hudson with a Texas number passed us with a too insistent horn, the driver smiled scornfully and looked back, and his three children leaned out from the back to grin. And they were only going a miserable thirty. The near-champion looked impotently at the steering wheel, and in agonized tones commanded, "Step on it!" speed car part affect traffic city road condition car model sound driver The Hudson showed signs of fight, and lured us through the traffic at a lively pace. My companion on the running board was dying of mortification. I knew how he itched to seize the wheel, and for his sake I redoubled my efforts. In a moment the impudent Hudson children ceased to leer from the back of their car, and were pretending to admire the scenery on the other side. Then suddenly the Hudson lost all interest in the race. car model traffic speed affect car part "Turn down the side street," yelled my passenger, frantically. I tried to turn, wondering, but the carburetor sputtered and died. car part I will say that it is almost a pleasure to be arrested in Texas. Two merry motor-cops smiled at us winsomely. There was sympathy, understanding and good fellowship in their manner,—no malice, yet firmness withal, which is the way I prefer to be handled by the police. As officers they had to do their duty. As gentlemen, they regretted it. Toby, chatting about aviation with the man on her running-board, was completely taken by surprise to hear "Ah'm sahry, lady, but we'll jest have to ask you-all to come along with us." car part What an embarrassing position for our passengers! They had accepted our hospitality, egged us on to unlawful speed, and landed us in the court-house,—with pay-day weeks behind. Their chagrin deepened as their efforts to free us unlawfully went for naught. Our indulgent captors could not have regretted it more if we had been their own sisters, but they made it clear we must follow them. passenger speed affect "You go ahead, and I'll show her the way," suggested my tempter. That he had traveled the same road many, many times became evident to us. In fact, he confided that he had been arrested in every state in the Union, and his face was so well known in the Houston court that the judge had wearied of fining him, and now merely let him off with a rebuke. So hoping our faces would have the same effect on the judge, we trustingly following his directions into town, our khaki-clad friends leading. "Turn off to the right here," said my guide. I turned, and in a flash, the motor-cycles wheeled back to us. risk Smiling as ever, our captors shook their heads warningly. "Now, lady, none of that! You follow right after us." Profusely my guide protested he had merely meditated a short cut to the station house. Elaborately he explained the route he had intended to take. Poor chap, D'Artagnan himself could not have schemed more nimbly to rescue a lady from the Bastille. I saw how his mad-cap mind had visioned the quiet turn down the side street, the doubling on our tracks, the lightning change of himself into the driver's seat, a gray Cadillac streaking ninety miles an hour past the scattering populace of Houston, then breathless miles on into the safety of the plains—the ladies rescued, himself a hero—— car part driver car model speed Instead, we tamely drew up before a little brick station-house two blocks beyond. He did all he could, even offering to appear in court the next day and plead for us, but from what we now knew of his local record, it seemed wiser to meet the judge on our own merits. Our arrival caused a sensation. The police circles of Houston evidently did not every day see a Massachusetts car piled high with baggage driven by two women, flanked by a soldier on each running board. When we entered the sheriff's office, every man in the room turned his back for a moment and shook with mirth. They led me to a wicket window with Toby staunchly behind. The sheriff, in shirt sleeves and suspenders, amiably pushed a bag of Bull Durham toward me. I started back at this unusual method of exchanging formalities. A policeman, also in shirt sleeves and suspenders, a twinkle concealed in his sweet Southern drawl, explained, car gender driver car part "The lady thawt yo' meant them fixin's for her, Charley, instead of fo' that mean speed-catcher." speed The sheriff took my name and address. "Massachusetts?" he exclaimed. Then, all of a sudden, he shot back at me. "You're a lawng ways from home !" "I wish I were longer," I said. "Never mind, lady," he said, soothingly and caressingly. "Yo' give me twenty dollars now, and tell the judge your story tomorrow, an' seein' as how you're a stranger and a lady, he'll give it all back to you." On that understanding, I paid him twenty dollars. At three next afternoon, Toby and I sought the courthouse to get our twenty dollars back, as agreed. The ante-room was filled with smoke from a group of Houstonians whose lurking smiles seemed to promise indulgence. The judge was old and impassive, filmed with an absent-mindedness hard to penetrate. Yet he, too, had a lurking grin which he bit off when he spoke. "Yo' are charged with exceeding the speed limit at a rate of fo'ty-five miles an hour." speed "Your Honor, this was my first day in the State, and I hadn't learned your traffic laws." He looked up over his spectacles. "Yo're from Massachusetts?" "Yes, sir!" Toby and I waited in suspense. We saw a faint spark light the cold, filmed blue eye, spread to the corner of his grim mouth, while a look of benevolent anticipation rippled over his set countenance. It was coming! I got ready to say with a spontaneous laugh "We surely are ." And then he bit it off! "Yo' know speeding is a very serious offense——" speed "I wouldn't have done it for worlds, your Honor, if I hadn't seen all the Texas cars going quite fast, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I did the same. I only arrived yesterday from Massachusetts." speed "Thet's so. Yo're from Massachusetts?" We waited hopefully. But again he bit it off. "It's a mighty serious offense. But, seein' as yo're a stranger and a lady at that——" His voice became indulgently reassuring. We felt we had done well to wait over a day, and trust to Southern chivalry. "Considering everything, I'll be easy on you. Twenty dollars." His tone was so fatherly that I knew only gratitude for being saved from two months in a Texas dungeon. "Thank you, your Honor," I faltered. Outside, Toby looked at me in scorn. "What did you thank him for?" she asked. Whether it be contempt of court or no, I wish to state that subsequent inquiry among the hairdressers, hotel clerks, and garage men of Houston, revealed that a fine of such magnitude had never been imposed in the annals of the town. The usual sentence was a rebuke for first offenses, two dollars for the second and so on. The judge was right. I was a stranger—— But what could you expect from a soul of granite who could resist such a mellowing, opportune, side-splitting bon mot?—could swallow it unsaid? I hope it choked him. <poem> CHIVALRY VS. GUMBO A GUIDE, who at the age of twelve had in disgust left his native state, once epitomized it to me. "Texas is a hell of a state. Chock full of socialists, horse-thieves and Baptists." Socialists and horse-thieves we did not encounter; it must have been the Baptists, then, who were responsible for the law putting citizens who purchase gasoline on Sunday in the criminal class. Unluckily the easy-going garage man who obligingly gave us all other possible information neglected to tell us of this restriction on Saturday night. Accordingly, when we started on Sunday morning, we had only five gallons and a hundred odd miles to go. We had no desire to meet Houston's judiciary again. garage gasoline A little group of advisers gathered to discuss our problem. The road our New York optimist had routed for us as "splendid going all the way" was a sea of mud. Four mule teams could not pull us out, we were told. Three months of steady rain had reduced the State of Texas to a state of "gumbo." Each man had a tale of encounter and defeat for each road suggested. Each declared the alternatives suggested by the others impossible. But, at last, came one who had "got through" by the Sugarland road the day before. He voiced the definition of a good road in Texas, a definition which we frequently encountered afterward. road condition mud "The road's all right, ef yo' don't boag, otherwise you'll find it kinder rough." road condition With this dubious encouragement we started, at nine in the morning, hoping the Baptists further out in the country would grow lenient in the matter of gasoline, as the square of their distance from Houston. gasoline law It was a heavenly day, the sun hot and the vibrant blue sky belying the sodden fields and brimming ditches. The country, brown and faintly rolling, under the warmth of the Southern springtime was reminiscent of the Roman Campagna. Song sparrows filled the air with abrupt showers of music, and now and then a bald and black-winged buzzard thudded down into a nearby field. For miles on both sides of the road we saw only black soil soaked and muddy, with rivers for furrows, and only a few brown stalks standing from last year's cotton or rice crop. The eternal flatness of the country suggested a reason for the astounding height of the loose-jointed Texans we had seen; they had to be tall to make any impression on the landscape. It accounted, too, for their mild, easy-going, unhurried and unhurriable ways. What is the use of haste, when as much landscape as ever still stretches out before one? sunshine sky spring scenery animal sound mud plant topography Before we reached Sugarland, a lonesome group of houses on what had once been a huge sugar plantation, our misgivings began. Mud in Texas has a different meaning from mud in Massachusetts; it means gumbo, morasses. Sargasso Seas, broken axles, abandoned cars. From the reiteration of the words, "Yo' may git through, but I think yo'll boag" we began to realize that it was easier to get into Texas, even through the eye of the police court, than to get out of it. mud accident car part At Sugarland we took on illicit gasoline and a passenger. He was bound for a barbecue, but volunteered to steer us through a particularly bad spot a mile further. We roused his gloom by a reference to the Blue Laws of Texas. law gasoline passenger "Ef this legislatin' keeps on," he said, "a man'll have to git a permit to live with his wife. Texas aint what it used to be. This yere's a dry, non-gambling county, but this yere town's the best town in the state." We followed his gesture wonderingly toward the lonely cluster of houses, a warehouse, a store, an ex-saloon with the sign badly painted out, and "refreshments" painted in, and the usual group of busy loafers at the store. "Yes ma'am. It's a good town. Twice a year on Gawge Washin'ton's birthday and the Fo'th we hold a barbecue an' everyone in the county comes. I'm right sorry I cain't take yo' ladies along; I'm sure I could show yo' a good time. Whiskey flows like water, we roast a dozen oxen, and sometimes as much as fifteen thousand dollars will change hands at one crap game. We whoop it up for a week, and then we settle down, and mind the law again." Under the guidance of our kindly passenger, we learned a new technique in driving. In first gear, avoiding the deceptively smooth but slimy roadside, we made for the deepest ruts, racing the engine till it left a trail of thick white smoke behind, clinging to the steering wheel, while the heavy car rocked and creaked in the tyrannical grip of the ruts like a ship in the trough of the waves. Without our friend, we never should have got through. He walked ahead, selected the impassable places from those which merely looked so, and beamed, when rocked and bruised from the wheel I steered the good car to comparatively dry land. A little further, where the barbecue began, he bade us a regretful farewell, and requested us to look him up when next we came to Texas. passenger driving skill road side road condition engine speed car part sound haptic pollution "I sure would 'a liked to have went to Boston," he added, "but I aint sure ef I had 'a went theah, whetheh I could 'a understood their brogue." Since Houston we had learned the full meaning of Texas optimism. "Roads are splendid, ma'am. I think you'll git through," we mentally labeled as "probably passable." But when we heard, in the same soft, gentle monotone, "Pretty poor roads, ma'am; I think yo'll boag," we knew we should "boag"—bog to the hubs in a plaster of Paris cast. At Richmond, where they told us that the roads which Houston had described as "splendid" were quite impassable, we sadly learned that to a Texan, any road twenty miles away is a "splendid road," ten miles away is "pretty fair," but at five, "you'll sure boag." road condition car part affect Again we faced the probability of progressing only a few miles further on Texas soil, but the town flocked to our aid, told us of two alternate roads, and promptly split into two factions, each claiming we should "boag" if we took the road advised by the other. A friendly soda clerk gained our confidence by asserting he never advised any road he had not traveled personally. He was such a unique change from the rest of Texas that we took his advice and the East Bernard road to Eagle Lake. It was only the fourth change from our original route planned when overlooking the asphalt of New York, and each detour decreased our chances of getting back to the highways. But there was no alternative. The soda clerk as he served us diluted ginger ale, reassured us. "It's a pretty good road, and ef yo' don't boag, I think yo'll git through." road highway asphalt road condition We bogged. We came, quite suddenly to a tell-tale stretch of black, spotting the red-brown road, and knew we were in for it. At each foot, we wondered if we should bog in the next. Eliza must have felt the same way, crossing the ice, especially when a cake slipped from under her. As directed, I kept to the ruts. Sometimes they expanded to a three-foot hole, into which the car descended with a heart-rending thump. Once in a rut, it was impossible to get out. The mud, of the consistency of modeling clay, would have made the fortune of a dealer in art supplies. At last, a wrong choice of ruts pulled us into this stiff mass to our hubs, almost wrenching the differential from the car, and we found ourselves stopping. As soon as we stopped, we were done for. We sank deeper and deeper. road condition affect risk sound mud car part accident We got out, sinking ourselves halfway to the knees in gumbo. We were on a lonely road in an absolutely flat country, with not a house on the horizon. We had no ropes, and no shovel. We looked at the poor car, foundered to her knees in sculptor's clay, and wondered how many dismal days we must wait before the morass dried. mud road topography equipment personification And then came the first manifestation of a peculiar luck which followed us on our entire trip. Never saving us from catastrophe, it rescued us in the most unlikely fashion, soon after disaster. Along rode a boy—on horseback—the first person we had seen for hours. We stopped him, and inquired where we could find a mule, a rope and a man. Having started out to make the trip without masculine aid, it chagrined us to have to resort to it at our first difficulty, but we were not foolish enough to believe we could extricate the car unaided from its bed of sticky clay. The boy looked at us, looked at the imprisoned machine, and silently spat. Texas must have a law requiring that rite, with penalties for infringement thereof. We never saw it broken. road condition animal accident gender The formality over, he replied, "I don't know." We suggested planks,—he knew of none. We put him down, bitterly, as an ill-natured dolt. But, as we learned later, Texans move slowly, but their hearts are in the right place. He was only warming up. Finally he spat again, lighted a cigarette, got off his horse, silently untied a rope from his saddle, and bound it about our back wheel, disregarding calmly the mire sucking at his boots. I started the engine. No results. All three watched the fettered Gulliver helplessly. Then, while Toby and I lifted out heavy suitcases and boxes from the seat which held the chains, he watched us, with the mild patience of an ox. car part equipment animal mud engine metaphor Reinforcements came, a moment later, from a decrepit buggy, containing a boy and two girls. They consulted, on seeing our plight, and the girls, hearty country lasses in bare feet and sunbonnets, urged their escort, apparently to his relief, to stay the Sunday courtship and give us aid. Of more agile fettle than our first knight, he galvanized him into a semblance of motion. Together they gathered brush, and, denuding their horses for the purpose, tied bits of rope to the rear wheels. The engine started, stalled, and started again a dozen times. animal equipment car part engine plant At last the car stirred a bit from her lethargy, the two boys put their country strength against her broad back and pushed; the engine roared like a man-eating tiger—and we got out. personification engine sound But we still had to conquer a black stretch of about one hundred yards, in which one of our rescuers had broken an axle, so he cheerfully told us, only yesterday. We were faced with the problem to advance or retreat? Either way was mud. We might get caught between two morasses, and starve to death before the sun dried the roads. We might turn back, but why return to conditions we had worked two hours to escape? We decided to advance boldly, and, if need be, gloriously break an axle. "Race her for all she's worth," counseled the livelier of our rescuers, from the running board where he acted as pilot. I raced her, though it nearly broke my heart to mistreat the engine so cruelly. We wavered, struck a rut, and were gripped in it, as in the bonds of matrimony, for better or worse. It led us to a gruesome mass of "soup," with a yawning hole at the bottom. car part risk road condition mud speed passenger affect engine accident "Here's where I broke my axle," shouted my pilot. To break the shock meant to stick; to race ahead might mean a shattered car. There was no time to think it over. I pushed down on the gas. A fearful bump, and we went on, the mud sucking at the tires with every inch we advanced. Cheering, the others picked their way to us. Our friends piled our baggage into the tonneau. Toby and I looked at each other, worried by the same problem,—the problem that never ceased to bother us until we reached Chicago;—to tip or not to tip? car part accident speed mud affect They were such nice lads; we already seemed like old friends. Yet they were strangers who had scratched their hands and muddied their clothes, and relinquished cheerfully the Sunday society of their ladies on our behalf. Too much to offer pay for, it seemed too much to accept without offering to pay. We learned then that such an offer outrages neither Western independence nor Southern chivalry when made in frank gratitude and good- fellowship. The first suggestion of payment invariably meets an off-hand but polite refusal, which tact may sometimes change to acceptance. If accepted, it is never as a tip, but as a return for services; offer it as a tip, and you offer an insult to a friend. We found it a good rule, as Americans dealing with Americans, to be graceful enough to play the more difficult role of recipient when we decently could, and in the spirit of the West, "pass it on to the next fellow." Eagle Lake seemed as difficult to attain as the treasure beyond seven rivers of fire and seven mountains of glass. An hour's clear sailing over roads no worse than ploughed fields brought it nearly in sight,—seven miles to go, under a pink sky lighted by a silver crescent. And then Toby, seeing a grassy lake on the side of the road, forsook two tried and trusty mud-holes for it, and ditched us again! road condition metaphor sky twilight accident mud Nearby was a farmhouse, with two men and a Ford standing in the driveway. Hardly had we "boaged," our wheels churning a pool deep enough to bathe in, when we saw them loading shovels and tools into the car, and driving to our aid. They came with boreboding haste. They greeted us cheerfully—too cheerfully, we thought; joked about the hole, and admitted they spent most of their time shovelling people out. They knew their job—we had to admit that. They wrestled with the jack, setting it on a shovel to keep it from sinking in the swamp; profanely cheerful, fussed over the chains, which we later guiltily discovered were too short for our over-sized tires, backed their car to ours, tied a rope to it, and pulled. We sank deeper. They shoveled, jacked, chopped sage-brush, and commandeered every passing man and car. The leader of the wreckers was a Mr. Poole, a typical Westerner of the old school,—long, flowing gray whiskers, sombrero, and keen watchful face. He had also a delightful sense of humor,—was in fact so cheerful that we became more and more gloomy as we noted the array of Fords and men clustered about. It looked to us like a professional mud-hole. car model car part equipment plant They hitched two Fords to the car, while eight men pushed from the back, but nothing came of the effort. A fine looking man named Sinclair, with gentle manners, was elected by the crowd to go for his mule team, "the finest pair in the county." An hour later he came back. He had gone two miles, changed to overalls, and hitched up his mules in the meantime, returning astride the off beast. car model animal At sight of the fallen car, the mules gave a gently ironic side-glance, stepped into place, waited quietly, and at the word of command, stepped forward nonchalantly, while I started the car simultaneously. It took them exactly five minutes to do what eight men, two women, two Fords and a Cadillac had failed to do in two hours' hard work. For days after, when we passed a mule, we offered him silent homage. accident animal While Toby, looking and acting like a guilty wretch, piled the baggage into the car, I approached Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Poole, who stood watching the rescued leviathan with eyes gleaming satisfaction, and put the usual timid question. "Will you tell me what I can offer all these people for helping us out?" Mr. Sinclair, owner of the stalwart mules, smiled and said: "I shouldn't offer them a thing. We all get into trouble one time or another, and have to be helped out. Just you tell them 'thank you' and I reckon that'll be all the pay they want." And before we could turn around to carry out his injunction, half the crowd had melted away! To all motorists who become "boaged," I beg to recommend the mud-hole of my friends, Mr. Poole and Mr. Sinclair, of Lissie, Texas. mud driver  

With the Brain at the Wheel +

Bibliographic Information Author Josephson, Matthew Genre Poetry Journal or Book Merz6 Imitatoren , watch step! / Arp1: Propaganda und Arp Publisher Merz Verlag Year of Publication 1923 Pages 62 Additional information The poem was simultaneously published in a German and an American journal. With the brain at the wheel The eye on the road And the hand to the left Pleasant be your progress Explorer producer stoic after your fashion Change Change to To what speed to what underwear Here is a town here a mill Nothing surprizes you old horseface Guzzle guzzle goes the siren And the world will learn to admire and applaud your concern with the parts your firmness with employees and your justice to your friends. Your pride will not be overridden Your faith will go unmortified. car part vision haptic sound metaphor driving road affect pleasure speed urban rural  +

O

On Broadway +

Bibliographic Information Author McKay, Claude Genre Poetry Journal or Book Spring in New Hampshire and Other Poems Publisher Grant Richards Ltd Year of Publication 1920 Pages 18 Additional information - About me young and careless feet Linger along the garish street; Above, a hundred shouting signs Shed down their bright fantastic glow Upon the merry crowd and lines Of moving carriages below: O wonderful is Broadway—only My heart, my heart is lonely. urban Desire naked, linked with Passion, Goes strutting by in brazen fashion; From playhouse, cabaret and inn The rainbow lights of Broadway blaze All gay without, all glad within; As in a dream I stand and gaze At Broadway, shining Broadway—only My heart, my heart is lonely. urban  +

A

A South Carolina Forest +

Bibliographic Information Author Lowell, Amy Genre Poetry Journal or Book Ballads for Sale Publisher Houghton Mifflin Company Year of Publication 1927 Pages 199-200 Additional information - Hush, hush, these woods are thick with shapes and voices, They crowd behind, in front, Scarcely can one’s wheels break through them. For God’s sake, drive quickly! There are butchered victims behind those trees, And what you say is moss I know is the dead hair of hanged men. Drive faster, faster. The hair will catch in our wheels and clog them; We are thrown from side to side by the dead bodies in the road, Do you not smell the reek of them, And see the jaundiced film that hides the stars? Stand on the accelerator. I would rather be bumped to a jelly Than caught by clutching hands I cannot see, Than be stifled by the press of mouths I cannot feel. Not in the light glare, you fool, but on either side of it. Curse these swift, running trees, Hurl them aside, leap them, crush them down, Say prayers if you like, Do anything to drown the screaming silence of this forest, To hide the spinning shapes that jam the trees. What mystic adventure is this In which you have engulfed me? What no-world have you shot us into? What Dante dream without a farther edge? Fright kills, they say, and I believe it. If you would not have murder on your conscience, For Heaven’s sake, get on! forest tree car car part driving speed risk road condition death smell vision haptic personification metaphor intertext  +

W

Washington Square +

Bibliographic Information Author Oppenheim, James Genre Poetry Journal or Book Songs for the New Age Publisher The Century Co. Year of Publication 1914 Pages 115-116 Additional information - Starless and still... Who stopped this heart? Who bound this city in a trance? With open eyes the sleeping houses stare at the Park: And among nude boughs the slumbering hanging moons are gazing: And somnambulant drops of melting snow glide from the roofs and patter on the pave... I in a dream draw the echoes of my footfall silvery sharp... Sleep-walking city! Who are the wide-eyed prowlers in the night? What nightmare-ridden cars move through their own far thunder? What living death of the wind rises, crackling the drowsy twigs? urban car personification sound In the enchantment of the ebb of life, In the miracle of millions stretched in their rooms unconscious and breathing, In the sleep of the broadcast people, In the multitude of dreams rising from the houses, I pause, frozen in a spell. We sleep in the eternal arms of night: We give ourselves, in the heart of peril, To sheer unconsciousness: Silently sliding through space, the huge globe turns. I cannot go: I dream that behind a window one wakes, a woman: She is thinking of me.  +