Instead of winds of inspiration,
Where names of business-places are in bold black print
And railway lines are ruled,
And capitals are marked with blots
And other places are invisible.
THE EAGLE SEES WHAT IS IN THE PIT
XIX. A MOUNTAIN POINT OF VIEW
“Wite man, you’s skeerin’ me to death,” cries Vachel playfully from behind me as we get out of forests and up among the naked rocks. “Wite man, you’s skeerin’ me to death,” or again, “You might as well kill a man as scare him to death.”
“This is no place to bring ladies,” I ventured.