Word: heats
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...Cambridge there was no rest. The endless parade of trunks and suitcases jarred the heat into shimmering waves. Stillness was not for Cambridge. Somewhere out beyond the destination of the trunks and bundles, there lies the the quiet that the Vagabond sought. This week, he thought, was the end. Then he could seek the rest of the weary. For the Vagabond was weary. He was tired of exams, he was tired of Freshmen packing, he was tired of Seniors bidding hasty goodbyes. He thought again of mountain lakes, of leafy lanes...
...Clough, Leverett House's head waitress, has her troubles. During the recent heat wave she discovered to her horror that one of the House members had slipped into the dining room without a neektie and without a coat. After about fifteen minutes' consideration, she edged up to the table where he was sitting and left this note beside his plate...
...specious plea of economy of light and heat can be advanced for these unreasonable closing hours; the expense for the required attendants for the few days necessary would be comparatively slight in itself. And with time and books at a premium during the examination period the opening of Boylston and the House libraries during the hours indicated would be of material assistance in lightening the burden of study at this crucial time...
Foamy bones in their fresh grey teeth, 90 U. S. men-o'-war rolled out of the sunswept Gulf of Gonaives last week, skirted the heat-hazy shores of Haiti, furrowed their way up toward the Atlantic Coast. Far out in the empty sea, bos'ns' whistles suddenly piped all hands to the rails. Drums ruffled, trumpets flourished and while junior officers manned bridges with stadimeters to keep the vast armada precisely in line, bands crashed out the national anthem. Twenty-one times gunners tripped the breech blocks of the 6-pounders. These lonely pomps were...
...fused with his inner spirit, and until such fusion comes we must await the years of our own majority. Nor is Mr. Brooks without proof. What have Longfellow, with his untried sentiments, Bryant with his manufactured moralities, Emerson with his solitary self reliance got to do with the heat and the sweat of life? They are as a barrel organ beside the still, sad music of humanity. Poe and Hawthorne, the two greatest artists who ever lived in America were driven by the materialism of the actual world about them into neurotic dream universes of their own. Not until boisterous...