buffalo grass

I really turned on in particular to James Joyce, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Günter Grass.

The grass had a delightful fragrance, like new-mown hay, and was neatly wound around the tunnel, like the inside of a bird's-nest.

She threw out her arms as if swimming when she walked, beating the tall grass as one strikes out in the water.

The weed growing over every water, and at the bank of the river, shall be pulled up before all grass.

One or two of the buffalo-hunters exchanged words with us while Mac was building his cigarette and lighting it.

At Buffalo, where this fountain was exhibited, it received honorable mention.