Twelve miles from Gettysburg.
Out of the South they came.
Stove-pipe hats they had stolen.
No shoes.
Give me a drink, son.
That was Fitzhugh Lee.
After the third day we went over.
Devil’s Den.
Cemetery Ridge.
Stinking piles of arms and legs.
Some of it done with meat-saws.
Is the land richer now?
The great barns bigger than the houses.
Big eaters, all of us.
I hid the cattle in the thicket.
Belle Boyd, the Beautiful Rebel Spy. Sentenced to be shot four times.
Took the despatches from his pocket while they danced.
Probably a little chippie.
Hog-chitlins and hot cracklin’ bread.
Must get some.
The whole hog or none.
Always been a good provider.
Little I ever had done for me.
The car still climbing, mounted the flimsy cheap-boarded brown-gray smuttiness of Skyland Avenue.
America’s Switzerland.
The Beautiful Land of the Sky.
Jesus God!
Old Bowman said he’ll be a rich man some day.
Built up all the way to Pasadena.
Come on out.
Too late now.
Think he was in love with her.
No matter.
Too old.
Wants her out there.
No fool like — White bellies of the fish.
A spring somewhere to wash me through.
Clean as a baby once more.
New Orleans, the night Jim Corbett knocked out John L. Sullivan.
The man who tried to rob me.
My clothes and my watch.
Five blocks down Canal Street in my nightgown.
Two A.M. Threw them all in a heap — watch landed on top.
Fight in my room.
Town full of crooks and pickpockets for prizefight.
Make good story.
Policeman half hour later.
They come out and beg you to come in.
Frenchwomen.
Creoles.