Up the road a ways was the Methodist church and down the road the other direction was the township school.

“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

The logs had been lost from the big log booms that were towed down the lake to the mill by the steamer Magic.

Dick kneeled down in the sand and looked at the mark of the scaler’s hammer in the wood at the end of the log.

There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air.

I heard the drums coming down the street and then the fifes and the pipes and then they came around the corner, all dancing.

She liked it the way he walked over from the shop and often went to the kitchen door to watch for him to start down the road.

There was no moon and they walked ankle deep in the sandy road through the trees down to the dock and the warehouse on the bay.

He sat down in the sand and puked and they held a cape over him while the crowd hollered and threw things down into the bull ring.

Bill reached over to the table under the window for the book that lay there, face down, where he had put it when he went to the door.

It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again.

So I went down and caught up with them and grabbed him while he was crouched down waiting for the music to break loose and said, “Come on, Luis.”

They stood together looking out across the country, down over the orchard, beyond the road, across the lower fields and the woods of the point to the lake.

The crowd shouted all the time, and threw pieces of bread down into the bull ring, then cushions and leather wine bottles, keeping up whistling and yelling.

The horse’s entrails hung down in a blue bunch and swung backward and forward as he began to canter, the monos whacking him on the back of his legs with the rods.

Finally the bull was too tired from so much sticking and folded his knees and lay down and one of the cuadrilla leaned out over his neck and killed him with the puntillo.

When they stopped the music for the crouch he hunched down in the street with them all and when they started it again he jumped up and went dancing down the street with them.

There was a certain inner comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody who was snooty to him, although, being very shy and a thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym.

Nick’s father always assumed that this was what would happen, and hired the Indians to come down from the camp and cut the logs up with the crosscut saw and split them with a wedge to make cord wood and chunks for the open fireplace.

His family were enormously wealthy⁠—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach⁠—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest.

If it happened right down close in front of you, you could see Villalta snarl at the bull and curse him, and when the bull charged he swung back firmly like an oak when the wind hits it, his legs tight together, the muleta trailing and the sword following the curve behind.