The sides were covered with matted brushwood and were as slippery as glass.
"The Lost Valley" by J. M. Walsh
A belt of jungle and impenetrable brushwood intervenes, and then cacao and coffee plantations, vast in extent, arrest the eye.
"The Andes and the Amazon" by James Orton
Brushwood Boy, The, 148.
"Modern English Books of Power" by George Hamlin Fitch
Why, Brushwood's tobacker is known all over the United States.
"A Truthful Woman in Southern California" by Kate Sanborn
Her great guns were swung ashore, and buried, and the graves of them strewn with leaves and brushwood.
"On the Spanish Main" by John Masefield
The panther at that moment was rising, about to dash forward from the brushwood.
"In the Rocky Mountains" by W. H. G. Kingston
But we heard not even the cracking of brushwood under cautious feet.
"Tenting To-night" by Mary Roberts Rinehart
The fire can be placed in an iron furnace, around which arrange stones or brushwood.
"Home Pastimes; or Tableaux Vivants" by James H. Head
A few steps farther on they came to a little bay, covered with water-lilies and surrounded by brushwood.
"Debit and Credit" by Gustav Freytag
The land was absolutely treeless except for willow brushwood the size of one's finger.
"Vikings of the Pacific" by Agnes C. Laut
FORGET 'at iver I ran barefoot
An' danced round a brushwood fire,
An' oot of our vardo window watched
Stars dim a poplar spire!
"Gypsy Bride" by Dorothy Una Ratcliffe
Many a brake of brushwood covert,
Where cold darkness slumbers mute,
Slips a shrub to thwart her passage,
Slides a hand to clutch her foot.
"Daphne" by George Meredith
Sounds of cold-river rain grown familiar,
Autumn sun casts moist shadows. Below
Our brushwood gate, out to dry at the village
Mill: hulled rice, half-wet and fragrant.
"Rain" by Du Fu
At moments, wrestling with his fate,
His voice is harsh, but not with hate;
The brushwood, hung
Above the tavern door, lets fall
Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall
Upon his tongue.
"Ultima Thule: Robert Burns" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And caused them to be overlaid with turf and brushwood
Expecting the plan would prove effectual where his little army stood,
Waiting patiently for the break of day,
All willing to join in the deadly fray.
"The Battle of Bannockburn" by William Topaz McGonagall
Now mark yonder brake where the blood-hounds are howling;
And hark that hoarse sound — like the deep thunder growling;
'Tis his lair — 'tis his voice! — from your saddles alight;
He's at bay in the brushwood preparing for fight.
"The Lion Hunt" by Thomas Pringle