Word: barrens
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...nervous Manhattan financier snatched at what he thought was his daily Wall Street Journal. What was this? Editor Kenneth C. Hogate, President C. W. Barren were getting after those bummers who undersold him yesterday! He called the fine news across the room to tell his secretary, found her tittering timorously and avoiding his look. Again he looked at his paper. Here was his name in print! What had he done? Dastardly impudence! Oh! . . . This was not the Wall Street Journal. He was reading the Bawl Street Journal, its gay, impish perfect imitation which the Manhattan Bond Club issues...
Last week the three still hung on, held their trysting with Death once more, but this time another draped chair, was added to the swaths of barren seats closing in on the survivors. An aged woman bustled about arranging the grim table prettily. She was the widow of the color bearer of old "B" company...
...Still, is his able secretary. A charming, competent demimondaine blackmails her way into the business, putting it on a wholesale basis through the post. After a certain number of months, of course, the jig seems up, and Mr. Marcus Faithful becomes small Mr. Crump again, dismayed when his hitherto barren wife bears twins as the result of secret correspondence with Mr. Faithful. The rich travesty on modern advertising is rounded off by an amazing rise in the male birth rate and universal posthumous acclaim for Marcus Faithful, whose only private explanation is: "It must have been faith...
...matter how well trained, is less flexible in pantomime than a dog. Yet a horse has an extroardinary, individual attraction that is quite irresistible. The story is as usual flimsy and absurd. Rex is shown making love to lovely mares of his acquaintance, running over leagues of attractively barren prairies, and avenging the Indians' murder of his owner's old father. It is, perhaps, too much to expect that the cinema will supply its animal actors with good stories when its expensive mortals must be content with so much trash. It is, however, the opinion of some cynics...
...hard to have a garden when you live on the tenth floor* of a hotel. Leaning out of the window of her apartment in the Hotel Charlotte (Charlotte, N. C.) a certain Mrs. A. A. Barren propped a heavy green box, filled with earth and flower seeds, on a corner of the ledge before lowering it to a little stone shelf that ran around the building a foot lower down. She reflected on the long way her garden would fall...