Word: misting
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...surprised to see so many young college women in the place--and was quite delighted. A study in contrasts--or are they--is always amusing. Especially when two of those burly brothers in blue--the kind that read the Lampoon begin to extract certain indiscrete yeomen from the crowded mist. Oh! for a maestro to paint the Georgian at evening. What a work, what a glorious achievement for any artist. "Aw, come on, big boy, you're wanderin'. Lay off the bowkays. Spring aient here...
...possible advantages to be gained from the stimulation of friendship between students become legion. Its immense significance to the cause of peace need not be emphasized. If international good-will is ever to be achieved, it will be only through mutual understanding, through the dissipation of the miasmal mist of national prejudice and bigotry which have in the past played the role of fairy god-mothers at the birth...
Second Game began with the solemn memorial exercises for Christy Mathewson (see below). A heavy mist made it hard to follow the ball. In the sixth inning Aldridge (Pittsburgh) hit boyish-faced Bluege behind the ear with a pitched ball. Spectators moaned. Having just commemorated one death, they feared they had witnessed another. Bluege revived, walked off the field. Moist-handed Pitcher Coveleskie, the Polish Spitballer (Washington), did well until the eighth inning when with the score tied, Kiki Cuyler (Pittsburgh) knocked a home run into the convenient right-field fence. Washington retaliated by filling the bases with none...
...gloomy as a Scottish murderer, he strides with downcast head, while battlements rise out of mist about him and chasms open at his feet. Again, in a lyric moment, his face shines with the ardor of a lover, and when he slips off his shaggy sweater his beholders see a long cloak slip from the shoulders of one who stands under a balcony in Verona. Best of all he loves the thrill of impending defeat, when the pitying crowd can read in his visage the despair of one who has striven and failed, and perceive by his labored breathing...
...summons of his fantastic torch, assumed around him an aspect of exaggerated horror; water-rotted trees at the river's edge stretched their arms in stiff attitudes of torment, like ghouls petrified in the death-agony; the motionless grain at his feet seemed to have been cemented, by the mist and the strange light, into an acre of solid stone. As he peered under his hand, trying in vain to see beyond the circle his flare had chiseled in the concave night, he looked like a man standing in a cave, beset by prodigious walls...