Word: brooked
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Approval of worm-fishing is not Author Bergman's only angling heresy. He considers wet fly fishing "as a finished art . . . much harder to master than dry fly fishing. ' Quoting directly from his field notes, Author Bergman tells about nights spent fishing Brandy Brook in the Adirondacks, days in which he did no fishing at all but sat watching a small stretch of stream to find out how its trout acted. Three years later he caught a trout in this part of the brook for the first time. Profoundly observant. Author Bergman caught trout...
Bruce Finlay Vanderveer '35, of Great Neck, Long Island, has been elected captain of the first Freshman crew. Vanderveer prepared at Stony Brook Academy...
...their sides are covered with the flower called the torch azalea, whose scentless beauty can teach the Vagabond more than all the sages can. Further on there is a valley where the sentinel pines stand black against a setting of green leaved oaks and hemlocks. There is also a brook, and horsemen clatter over the wooden bridge that bestrides it. A group of boys are sailing boats in a duckpond, and the birds retreat to the far end, haughtily ignoring the invasion of their domain. In such a place even the shoddiest of men take on graciousness, and old ladies...
Meanwhile in New Orleans the physicians of the nation, for whose professional discretion in the matter of contraceptives Mrs. Sanger has made herself champion, were flabbergasted when Dr. Jacob Daniel Brook, 56, county health officer of Grandville, Mich., rose up in the House of Delegates and proposed a resolution on Birth Control. Let the A. M. A., urged Dr. Brook, appoint a committee to spend one year pondering the effects of contraception on health, wealth, morals, happiness. Dozens of physicians leaped from their seats to shout pro & con on the long suppressed topic. Retiring President Edward Starr Judd cleverly...
...valley and lies along the plains beyond. In the pasture across the road a solitary hedgehog is pottering about some forgotten business before he sets out on the long waddle home. And in the air there is that strange silence that brings only happy sounds; the voice of the brook or the off-key whistle of a farm boy. It is that indefinable time of day or night which poets and song writers have tried to limit by a phrase without success. They call it gloaming, or twilight, or dusk and straightway destroy the illusion. It is none of these...