Word: mother
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...emigres listened longingly to Mother Russia's call. Somehow the gulf between Tsar and Commissar seemed not so vast any more. The years had made them more Russian than White, their children more Red than White. The homeland had mellowed, too. To prove it, Shanghai's Soviet consul general, hulking Nicholas S. Ananiev, gave a reception for emigre clergymen, showed them pictures of the election in Moscow of Metropolitan Alexei as Patriarch of all Russia...
...Mother Russia, who always knows best, want them back? Many of the reclaimed believed that they would be resettled in Manchuria, where the Commissars now had a stake as big as that of the Tsars. Explained a Soviet newspaperwoman in Shanghai: "Manchuria is the dreamland for every Russian who has been there. The climate is good. There is work-where the railways are there will always be work, hospitals and universities. I think many will go to Manchuria. That would go very well with our Sino-Russian cultural relations, don't you think...
Young Donald ran home for a toboggan. Mother & son strained and tugged to pull Hutt up the icy hill, gave up, exhausted. They carted down blankets, built a fire, heated rocks to keep the wounded man warm. Then, as the boy kept solitary watch, Mrs. Hutt stumbled back to the lighthouse, desperately signaled to the mainland by blacking out the light with a curtain. She sounded the fog alarm, built seven brush fires on the hill. No help came. At 10 o'clock next morning Hutt died...
...hard-dying rumor, but no fact. Stokowski was born in London, to a Polish father, Josef Boleslaw Kopernicus Stokowski, and an Irish mother...
...lands on the water"). "How many stops?" asked Jess. "Eight," said the professor. "And that vox humana! . . . You can hear the voice of your lost child in it. Did you ever lose a child, Brother Birdwell?" "No," said Jess. "[Then] you can hear the voice of your old mother calling to you from the further shore," said the professor. "Ma lives in Germantown," said Jess. "Wet your whistle," cried the professor, taking a long swig from a flask, "and we'll sing it [The Old Musician and His Harp] through together...