Word: graveyard
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: all
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...were deserted, except for a privileged few. Street cars did not run, shops were closed, automobiles were garaged. From Constantinople at the Golden Horn, along the length of the Bosporus, flanked by its minarets and white domes, diurnal scene of a thousand scurrying ships, all was silent as the graveyard...
...Postmaster General and his appointive aids have much to learn. Career men in the Department would understand perfectly what was meant if a report came in saying: "The Oscaloosa graveyard shift pulled three nixies in a Mother Hubbard." But First Assistant Postmaster General John H. Bartlett might have to scratch his head over such a message. In any case, there is no reason why U. S. postmasters should not use everyday language. So last week First Assistant Postmaster General Bartlett instructed his subordinates to omit "technical" terms from their reports...
...terms with which First Assistant Postmaster General Bartlett will no longer have to cope: beats-mail needing re-addressing or "unknown" bumper-2nd to 4th class cancelling stamp burns-damaged tie sacks clock ("on the" and "off the")-On or off duty decoy-matter mailed to catch crooks graveyard shift-9 p. m. to 5 a. m. green goods-counterfeit money jug (roundhouse)-upright, semicircular case for periodicals logs (trunks)-heavy parcels Mother Hubbard-large sack for paper mail nixie-insufficient address pull-"to pull a case"-to take mail from it reds-registered matter skin the rack-to take...
...daughter-in-law and numerous old friends, including Attorney General Sargent and the Governor of Vermont, assembled in his home and heard the service read. It lasted only 14 minutes. Officers of the National Guard carried his body to a sleigh hearse; other sleighs followed to a little graveyard on the hillside close to his ancestral acres...
...windy day: thin Susan Furly marching from door to door with the parish magazine; buxom Bella Jorden, preening her black silk on the porch of the Goat and Compasses; Rose Jorden talking furtively with some man through a hedge; old Mrs. Dunk, the charwoman, pottering about the graveyard; plump-breasted Sally Dunk, flirting boldly in the lane. Of an evening you hear the local males talking at the inn, Crome's moral centre. By night, the sleeping selves of the villagers come drifting, roaming, crying about the gusty square. In that ghostly company, the public fronts are removed from secret...