Word: moaned
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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Most of us can think of a few otherwise intelligent people who are hidebound on the subject of the Younger Generation; professional pessimists who moan and become vehement over the lack of taste and the low standards of the Jazz-mad, Whoopee young people of the day. These pessimists are no doubt permanent fixtures of society, but if they were to glance about with a little more regard for facts and a little loss regard for their own enviable position, the story would be of quite another color; and a color more favorable to the pathetic, abused Orphans...
with the simple explanatory phrase beneath: "A Moan by Marjorie Oelrichs." But no sooner had the story appeared than Miss Oelrichs denied she was its author. Said she: "I have no idea who wrote it. ... But I intend to bring suit against Liberty." More surprised than Liberty readers were Liberty editors, who hastened to deny the truth of her denial. Said Executive Editor Sheppard Butler: "Perhaps Miss Oelrichs has forgotten she wrote the story. We purchased it some months ago." Said General Manager Max Annenberg: "We will sue her . . . only ask minimum damages. We must clear the name of Liberty...
...American." The Foreign Secretary actually confirmed the Ambassador's assertion that "a further effort will be made," but he did it so ungraciously that he seemed to repudiate him. Naturally the British opposition Press headlined "Sir Esme Repudiated!" and the Labor Daily Herald seized the chance to moan...
...howls of mournful hopelessness. A long rattling crescendo of protesting crashes, And a great voice shrieking like a lunatic with the Christ bug, And one eager eye squinting into the distance, searching out the red, the yellow, the cool green signal lights. The song of the freight is the moan and the broken cry of a woman dying in a train wreck, The clear sharp challenge hurled at the moon by a lonely defiant farm-dog, A nocturne in an unknown key torn by the wind from the throat of a steam whistle in a nightmare, . . . An all-metal Walt...
...sweating oxen strained over furrows; hives were loud with bees; joyous honeyed mead was brewed in the glades. With the arching zest of dolphins the Slavs plunged in the waters of the Vistula, Pripet, Upper Dniester rivers. At nightfall they huddled in their river bank encampments, shuddered at the moan of the werewolf, the fleet shadow of Baba-Jaga, man-eating witch. Meanwhile their more venturesome brethren, scowling pirates of the Aegean and Baltic, forgot their ferocity beneath a vibrant pattern of stars...