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Updated: May 22, 2025
"I should like to see enough to excite me just once. I shouldn't mind being lured that way. Would you, Walt?" Walter Perkins shook his head and smiled. "I fear you will have to shake yourself get over your natural laziness before you can hope to," chuckled Ned. "I doubt if you would know a lure if you met one on Main Street in Chillicothe." "Try me and see," grinned Stacy.
A tempest of bullets rattled about the boys' heads as they felt the rope part. It was no moment for sentimental hesitation. Walt raised his foot, and the next instant brought his heavy boot down with crushing force on Ramon's clinging fingers. With a yelp of pain, the fellow let go and was rolled over and over in the river, while half a dozen of his men waded in to rescue him. "Yip-ee-ee-ee!
Still, as Jack had said, it was "their only chance." All at once, from their rear, they heard shouts and bugle calls. Jack turned a shade paler. The demonstration was much too close to be pleasant. He had hardly believed that it was possible for the Mexicans to have gained upon them so rapidly. "Guess we're up against it," muttered Walt Phelps, in his usual laconic manner.
Indeed the excess of wealth in energy is bound to produce shocking excrescences; our Springfield poet is sometimes absurd when he means to be sublime, bizarre when he means to be picturesque. The same is true of Walt Whitman it is true of all creative writers whom John Burroughs calls primary men, in distinction from excellent artists who remain in the secondary class.
The least line, or fragment of a line, is redolent of Walt Whitman. It is never so much the theme treated as it is the man exploited and illustrated. Walt Whitman does not write poems, strictly speaking, does not take a bit of nature or life or character and chisel and carve it into a beautiful image or object, or polish and elaborate a thought, embodying it in pleasing tropes and pictures.
Imagine a man who has secured passage by a ship bound for some far-off foreign land, and delayed by some trifling affair, comes upon the pier to see the hawser cast off, the plank drawn ashore, the sails spread, himself left hopelessly behind! His chagrin might be equal to that felt by the Texans, but slight compared with what harrows the hearts of Hamersley and Walt Wilder.
Niver say die till yur dead, and the crowner are holdin' his 'quest over yur karkidge. Thet's the doctryne o' Walt Wilder." As if to give illustrative proof of it, he catches hold of his comrade's sleeve; with a pluck turns him around, and leads him back to the place where they had parted from the mules.
The critics perpetually misread Whitman because they fail to see this essentially composite and dramatic character of his work, that it is not the song of Walt Whitman the private individual, but of Walt Whitman as representative of, and speaking for, all types and conditions of men; in fact, that it is the drama of a new democratic personality, a character outlined on a larger, more copious, more vehement scale than has yet appeared in the world.
After we got through with the happy reunion, I asked him what was the situation in Port Sandor. He shook his head. "Not good, Walt. The word's gotten around that there was a bomb planted aboard the Javelin, and everybody's taking just one guess who did it. We haven't expressed any opinions one way or another, yet. We've been waiting for confirmation." "Set for recording," I said.
The following lines by Walt Whitman are inscribed on the arch beneath the group of the Nations of the West: "Facing west from California's shores, inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound, I a child, very old, over waves towards the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar: look off the shores of my western sea, the circle almost circled."
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