Word: cousin
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...never realized it before, but the Vagabond has relatives. Two in particular. These two are gentlemen: one second cousin on his mother's side and an uncle-by-marriage. Three weeks ago they assailed the Vagabond's serenity (at that time he was tasting the wicked but delectable fruits of a class-cutting spree) by sending him letters on the same day. Each letter demanded in slightly officious terms, peculiar to the writing of middle-aged college men, that he obtain a ticket to the Harvard-Yale game for "your loving Cousin Arthur" and for "your ever-faithful Uncle Henry...
...coincidence the cousin and uncle arrived on the same train. He was waiting for them, a cigar in one pocket, a package of Beechnut in another, and a determination in his mind to collect within short order the price of two tickets. He saw them descend from different Pullmans at the same moment. Rushing to the uncle on the right, he cried, "Wait a minute, Cousin Arthur is approaching on my left!" His uncle-by-marriage looked startled and gave the porter only a quarter instead of fifty cents. Already the Vagabond had raced one Pullman length and accosted...
...sarcasm off-key. "I suppose you're both keyed up for the game and ready to burst your lungs rooting for Harvard." Dimly he remembered hearing his mother say that Uncle Henry graduated from Harvard in 1897; he also thought that something similar had once been said about Cousin Arthur. So the explosion from Cousin Arthur left him gasping. "Hmph!" he lit the fuse. "For a Yale man to root for Harvard would be a worse crime than for Mr. Roosevelt to turn Republican...
...uncle turned to him with a look approaching condescension and a tone faintly suggestive of superior indifference, "YOU went to Yale? My, my, I am not sure if that is an insult to you or one to Yale!" His cousin was biting his lip to make his retort sharper when the Vagabond spoke: "Gentlemen, I must stop here a minute to fetch my girl...
Early in this text-&-camera picture of contemporary life in the cotton States. Erskine Caldwell observes: "The South has always been shoved around like a country cousin. It buys mill-ends and wears hand-me-downs. ... It is that dogtown on the other side of the railroad tracks that smells so badly every time I he wind changes." Mindful of the "bad smells"* that have come from the South recently, and with an avowed pro-underdog bias. Author Caldwell and Photographer Bourke-White went down to look things over. After a year and a half of investigation they returned with...