Word: mournings
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...last penetrated the granite reserve of the administration: it announced today that the Hall would be closed, beginning next year. While the gloomy interior of the place has made it an excellent site for the decay to which students are given, and while some of the more decadent may mourn its passing for that reason, none in his right mind will weep at the bier of the lecherous old incubus. A malignant growth, it has been dislodged only by repeated complaints of various natures, and by the manifesto of the Commissioner of Public Safety; the slowness of its demise...
...Charles M. Schwab, once a tedious exponent of the view that depression was all in the eye of the beholder, began in 1931 to mourn that there were no rich men any more, and has just abandoned this strain to move one inch closer to the bathos in which his oracle is suspended. Now, we are told, the people has passed through its crucible, and is prepared for the higher things which someone, perhaps Mr. Schwab, delayed until it could appreciate them. One almost expects that Mr. Schwab will wink indulgently and produce a cornucopia from under his coattails, unless...
...Vagabond recalls such things, and how Bismarck in his forsaken years had only dogs to love and mourn, how Kipling bid ". . . you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear." Phantom has taken his place among shades. The day is denied its white stone, for one remembers, not CAVE CANEM, but St. Bernard's "Qui Meamat, amet et canem meum...
...bronc, and EVEN PLOW, Or do anything, if you told him how. Like many men in the oldtime West, On any job, he did his best. He left a blank that's hard to fill For there'll never be another Bill. Both White and Black will mourn the day That the "Biggest Boss" took Bill away. "'Bill' Pickett was born about 1860; died April 2, 1932, from injuries received while roping a bronc on the 101 Ranch. He was the originator of that great rodeo sport, 'Bulldogging,' having been the first...
...April 27, 1882 the bell on the Unitarian Church in Concord tolled seventy-nine strokes, for Raiph Waldo Emerson had died. Well might Concord and all New England mourn, for that death marked the high tide of New England's leadership in the world of belles lettres. Hamlin Garland has told of the change. But Emerson was the flesh and blood of America's first native literature, and as such he has become a myth, godly, mysterious, and sacred. Moderns do not read Emerson much, perhaps because they fear the myth, perhaps because they cannot understand his strength...