The Yellow River—the “Sorrow of China”—comes down from the loess hills into the great plain of China on a gently sloping fan. The river has two possible outlets to the sea, the one north of the Shantung Peninsula into the Gulf of Chihli, the other some hundreds of miles to the south of the Peninsula.
the sanguine hue of the poppy and the hibiscus, the gold of the daisy and dandelion, the dark green of the sorrage on either side, and the blue and purple of the blossoming mulberry and sycamore
Piſcat[or]. [...] [T]heſe Hills though high, bleak, and craggy, breed and feed good Beef, and Mutton above ground, and afford good ſtore of Lead within. / Viat[or]. They had need of all thoſe commodities to make amends for the ill Land-ſchape: [...]
The Larch-tree, with us, groweth slowly, and to be found in few places; it hath a rugged bark, and boughts that branch in good order, with divers small yellowish bunched eminences, set thereon at several distances, from whence tufts of many small, long, and narrow smooth leaves do yearly come forth; it beareth among the green leaves many beautiful flowers, which are of a fine crimson colour […]
Pretty soon I struck into a sort of path[…]. It twisted and turned,[…]and opened out into a big clear space like a lawn. And, back of the lawn, was a big, old-fashioned house, with piazzas stretching in front of it, and all blazing with lights. 'Twas the house I'd seen the roof of from the beach.
VVhile in the mean time there iſſued out on the Eaſt-ſide a ſtrong VVind, but pure and refreſhing, vvhich dividing into ſeveral parts that turned round became ſo many innocuous VVhirl-vvinds of ſincere Air, tinctured only vvith a cool refreſhing ſmell, as if it had paſſed over ſome large field of Lilies and Roſes.
A beech wood with silver firs in it rolled down the face of the hill, and the maze of leafless twigs and dusky spires cut sharp against the soft blueness of the evening sky.
I stumbled along through the young pines and huckleberry bushes. Pretty soon I struck into a sort of path that, I cal'lated, might lead to the road I was hunting for. It twisted and turned, and, the first thing I knew, made a sudden bend around a bunch of bayberry scrub and opened out into a big clear space like a lawn.
Beyond here the tides are not felt, and we now entered upon a district of elevated forest, with a finer vegetation. Large trees stretch out their arms across the stream, and the steep, earthy banks are clothed with ferns and zingiberaceous plants.
No trees have grown on the windswept Falkland Islands in the South Atlantic Ocean for tens of thousands of years — just shrubs and other low-lying vegetation. That’s why a recent arboreal discovery nearly 20 feet (6 meters) beneath the ground caught researchers’ attention.
[…]belts of thin white mist streaked the brown plough land in the hollow where Appleby could see the pale shine of a winding river. Across that in turn, meadow and coppice rolled away past the white walls of a village bowered in orchards,[…]
We're havin a heat wave / A tropical heat wave / The temperatures rising, it isn't surprising / She certainly can, can can! / She started a heat wave / By letting her seat wave, / in such a way that the customers say / that she certainly can, can-can!
As Tarzan walked down the wild cañon beneath the brilliant African moon the call of the jungle was strong upon him. The solitude and the savage freedom filled his heart with life and buoyancy. Again he was Tarzan of the Apes—every sense alert against the chance of surprise by some jungle enemy—yet treading lightly and with head erect, in proud consciousness of his might.
At Esher we were getting out into bright sunshine, and apart from another foggy patch between Farnborough and Winchfield, we had a clear run from then on.