Word: curiousities
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...shoot rifles. Deep in France, shells displace bullets and flying shrapnel forces "us" to dig into the earth. Bang! rat-a-tat! whack! bang! "My" friend crawls under sheet. Showers of sparks on the ground, then Crash!?a dark brown cloud over the front line. There is a curious noise close by. Something moves under the sheet. A jagged hole in it appears. Boo-oom!?pat-pat-pat! The ground shakes. Gas. Shrieks. Four years of this. Escape: death, a wound, a breakdown, intoxication, an occasional stolen feast. In 1918 comes disintegration, lack of coordination between common soldier...
Conductor Fiedler has been troubled by open air acoustics. On the first night, as his music proceeded from the huge, conch-like acoustic shell, queer things happened. Tubas became thunderous, reverberant. Strings quavered into curious silences. Kettledrum tones were like feeble rasps on a gourd. Although untrained listeners were unaware, sensitive Conductor Fiedler was beside himself...
...wants to ride the rods or who does? The motorcar marked the passing of the trainride-stealing American bum, with his curious lingo. That there have never been a dozen masters in this profession is proved by the confusion of terms. To the next generation, the argot of the American hobo will be as incomprehensible as that of Villon's thieves, because apparently there is no one capable of setting them down now. Why doesn't TIME, for a time, open its columns to authoritative bum's language, so that the poets and novelists of future days...
...people, apparently neither Semitic nor Aryan, who, before Rome was founded, lived on the fertile land between the Tiber and the Alps. The modern world calls them Etrurians. They made strong bronze armour, neat wooden-soled shoes; jewelry, pottery and precious plate of a delicacy which has excited the curious admiration of artisans ever since. They worshipped strange gods in weird cypress groves and spoke a tongue which no one, except perhaps the scholar who drowned last week, has ever satisfactorily deciphered...
...sporty; Yes, you are not in the least degree wrong-I am a shade over forty. Not until last week did Colyumist Phillips suspect that WILFRED J. FUNK might be neither a great name taken in vain nor a nom de plume. A casual but curious reader informed Colyumist Phillips that Wilfred John Funk is the name of a 46-year-old, married resident of Montclair, N. J. (Manhattan suburb). Montclair's Funk answers Contributor Funk's self-description in all important particulars, with the added particular that he is Publisher of the large, middle-aged Literary Digest...