Word: hummed
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...murder and mystery seem irrelevant. During the Blitz the village had known a finer hour. In the silence before raids the guards had met, waited and talked. The bombs jarred loose ancient reserves, buried notions of guilt, stupidities and intolerances that lost their power in the irregular hum of the bombers and the distant crump of gunfire. During the broken, hesitant confidences of night "from time to time, a sudden low flash of faintly green light would appear on the eastern horizon. . . . The searchlight beams moved and crossed and then abruptly, on some unseen order, vanished instantaneously, leaving an even...
Several Congressmen sitting just below the sailor scuttled for safety, apparently afraid he was going to jump. The voice of the sailor cut across the hum: "I am a man from the service. Do I have the floor?" Then, before he was pulled from his perch, he shouted: "I speak for the thousands who cannot be here. Why does a man have to pay tribute for the right to vote? Why should a man be taxed to vote when he can fight without paying...
...What the hell!" Vag said aloud, getting up from his desk. Then everything was quiet again, and he seemed to hear the hum of the clock repeating "What the hell!" over and over again. His eyes passed over the open book and onto a little yellow card beside it. He sat down again and picked up the card. Its bright color interested his eyes more than the dull white pages of the book. Its bold black letters meant more to him than all the print of the wordy volume that lay before him. "Notice of Classification" it said...
...Village is booming also. Only the smoke-filled, low-ceiled jazz spots that sprang up while Manhattan had swing fever are (save for one or two like Kelly's Stable) on the syncopated skids. People want soft tunes they can sway to and old favorites they can hum. Most ubiquitous new song: Cole Porter's torchy-chornya You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To (best sung by the Riobamba's fresh-voiced Frank Sinatra...
...planes came in over the hills beyond the Havel, and the people in their cellars could hear the motors' hum. The guns were speaking now in chorus, their individual bangs and roars mixed in a hell of sound that thrummed the tight air in the shelters. Talk stopped; faces craned upward anxiously, waiting for the big bombs to fall...