Word: clopping
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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Thirty years ago Detroit was a far-seeing city. Horses still clop-clopped over its pavements but people were talking about steam and electric transportation. Those who were foolish enough to think of gasoline got what they deserved. They had faith in the ex-superintendent of the Detroit Edison Company, who promised to build ten cars for $10,000. He spent $86,000 of their money and they thought they were lucky to get him to resign. The urchins were right when they chased the gas buggies through the streets and shouted, "Hire a horse...
WHATEVER WE DO ? Allan Upde-graff?John Day ($2.50). Cloppety-Clop. The little French train rushed through the pines toward Valloire, modest neighbor of Cannes, bearing Peleus Chalfont, young U. S. expatriate in search of health. Cloppety-Clop. The same little train bore the pretty Bobbie Parsons and her too ancient husband George, un- pleasantly far from his native Missouri. The toot of a motor horn. Came drunken old Henry-oh with ribalt Mimi, the Duchess. World-weary pilgrims, they journeyed back through the hills to the Temple of Hercules, there to utter loose prayers. Someone answered...
Lily Sue. "Maw, if yer never prayed before, pray now, while I ride to save 'Duke' from the drunken lynchers." Clip-clop, clip- clop-the heroine's off-stage horse arrives in time for a happy ending. The popularity of the cowboy thriller is revived by Willard Mack, dean of melodramatists. Hokum it is, and oldfashioned, but, none the less, it keeps the onlooker clutching, crinkling his program throughout. Beth Merrill, who looks like Jeanne Eagels, plays the gawky pride of the prairies, rolls out her pointed conversation with a pleasant, if not authentic, Western drawl...
...last 25 years, improved methods of teaching, medical education of the public, etc. At last someone asked the question : "Why are the doctors leaving the country? Where is the rural practitioner?" The discussion ambled along; listeners caught, in its labored periods, the clip-clop of slow hoofs, the rattle of a dry axle, saw, in the rutted lane of the imagination, a buggy swaying along with reins pulling slack from the hands of a threadbare, weary man who followed where his nag took him- down the lane, away from the sombre fields, the farmhouses smelling of disinfectant, toward the city...