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Updated: May 22, 2025
Everything about this American family, speaking as it did of a land of new and strange customs and habits of thought, appealed strongly to the ardent young man. He was a devoted admirer of Walt Whitman, and thought he knew America.
But the proof that there is a very remote probability of your ever being recalled by the powers that consigned you here is this wish on the surgeon's part for you to learn the Russian language so as to become more useful here." "I will not learn it," said Barnwell, with a sudden burst of indignation. "Walt a moment. Will you take me for a guide?" "With all my heart I will."
"I am not homesick; I was just thinking how she chased me, and how narrowly I escaped." "It was much as ever," said Teezle, "much as ever that the critter didn't mutton you. She skipped like a painter, and whet up her teeth for a whalin' bite. But don't think on it now. Here, who'll tell a good story, and cheer up Fabens a little? Uncle Walt, tell one of your painter stories.
The New York skyline wears a very different silhouette against the sky, with its marvelous peaks and summits drawing the eye aloft. I do not know just when the City Hall tower was finished: Walt speaks of it as "three-fifths built" in 1879. That, of course, is the dominant unit in the view from Camden. Otherwise there are few outstanding elements.
His very shadow seems to flit over the frosted foliage of the artemisias as lightly as the figure of a gossamer-robed belle gliding across the waxed floor of a ball-room. Walt Wilder no longer hungers or thirsts.
Walt Whitman was born at West Hills, Long Island, May 30, 1819, and died at Camden, N. J., March 26, 1892. Though born in the country, most of his life was passed in cities; first in Brooklyn and New York, then in New Orleans, then in Washington, and lastly in Camden, where his body is buried.
"Has anybody a portable audiovisual pickup that I can use to get some pictures in to my paper with?" That started general laughter among the operators on the ships that were coming in. "We have one, Walt," Oscar Fujisawa's voice told me. "I'm coming in ahead in the Pequod scout boat; I'll bring it with me." "Thanks, Oscar," I said. Then I asked him: "Did you see Bish Ware before you left port?"
"Nineteen, weak eyes, white hair, little round nose," said the maid. "Then it's he! then it's he!" said Tant Sannie triumphantly; "little Piet Vander Walt, whose wife died last month two farms, twelve thousand sheep. I've not seen him, but my sister-in-law told me about him, and I dreamed about him last night."
It would be as reasonable to ascribe a Walt Whitman chant to Emerson, or a Bernard Shaw satire to Jonathan Edwards, as to ascribe these crude, meandering pages to the crystalline intellect of Theodor Herzl.
I left it at that and hurried down the block to the tenement where the Gomez family lived, and then I found out why. They were sprawled on the filthy floor of the cellar like winoes in an alley. Fayo, who ran the gang; Jap; Baker; two others I didn't know as well. They were breathing, as Walt had said, but you just couldn't wake them up.
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