Word: grinder
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Dates: during 1870-1879
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PEOPLE outside of college seem to think that we are in a sort of lion-lying-down with-the-lamb condition here, and are all loving friends. "Of course you know John Grinder; he is in your class," they say; - John G. being a man whom you know merely in the catalogue, or, at most, have a nodding - I can't say bowing - acquaintance with. Now, shall we confess to these outsiders that there are many different circles of friends in each class, and that we are, in short, cliquish? Doggy, who never speaks to any one except the four...
...occasion of depreciating each other. Ah, my dear Freshmen, keep your mouths shut, if you want to get along at this college! Doggy got the presidency of the X. Y. Z., a position that Beck coveted; so Beck hates him most cordially, - a feeling which is fully reciprocated. Grinder was trying for the third place in the &t;. B. K., but Dig got ahead of him, and Grinder is fourth; these gentlemen, too, in a milder way detest each other thoroughly. In fact, the more a man succeeds here, the more he gets himself disliked. And the moral of this...
...lives, and not content ourselves with the acquaintances, mostly of chance or policy, to whom the name friends is often falsely applied, and be on terms of suppressed warfare with every one else. I don't ask Doggy, who, I see, is looking shocked, to be intimate with Grinder, but merely not to treat all except his few associates
...coming out from Boston. When you spend the night with your uncle on Commonwealth Avenue, do not come out before ten. Grinder takes the half-past-eight car every morning; he lives at his home in East Chelsea, and has a nine-o'clock recitation - which he never cuts - every day in the week, as he takes twenty-eight hours of electives this year. An exception may be made of Monday morning, when Mr Beck, of Beacon Street, refreshed by his devotions at Trinity, takes the nine-o'clock car, to the great delight of his parents, - and then plays...
...bends over the baby's crib, and whispers "charco' " in the little ear. The youngster cooing with delight, tosses up his arms, and echoes "harko' " just as the hills had been doing all day long. Now, why cannot one of our homely poets immortalize a scene in the organ-grinder's life? Let him be pictured coming into his home, chinking the coin in his pockets, and as he enters he strikes up the "Beautiful Blue Danube," and all the children fall into a spontaneous jig that is perfectly infectious in its jollity. May there not really be such...