Word: nearer
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...plays mediocre golf, desultory family bridge, would rather spend an evening reading history or talking international finance with Charles and Henry. He takes his Fair job seriously. Last winter he closed his old remodeled house on suburban Evanston's lakefront. moved into a town apartment to be nearer the Fair. That is why his Daughter Margaret was married in town instead of Evanston last month...
...predictions about the world's "going to hell" have materialized. Today he seems a much better prophet than he did in 1919. The Versailles Treaty is in disrepute. Reparations have ceased. Germany is again a world power to be reckoned with. The Russian problem is no nearer solution than it was when he went to Moscow. But Special Assistant Bullitt is too smart to say openly, "I told...
...down by a sandstorm, had to anchor the plane with sandbags, shelter themselves in a trench under it. The storm over, they flew peacefully Timbuctoo's on to landing-field, Timbuctoo Khabara. (Traveler Seabrook winds up his book with bitter remarks about the present impossibility of landing anywhere nearer a desired destination than "baseball fields and suburbs.") Not all Saharan oases are natural, Seabrook discovered. Some have been fed for centuries by long underground aqueducts which pick up moisture in the distant mountains, carry a thin stream of water some 30 ft. under the baking sand. These conduits, bored...
...there really nothing to be done about that would-be carilloneur who shatters the foggy calm of each early Sabbath morn with one-finger renditions of such dear old favorites as "Nearer My God To Thee" and "Onward Christian Soldiers"? Undaunted by occasional mistakes, undeterred by the combined sarcastic clangor from six other steeples, he crashes out his pathetic revival-meeting cacophonies without benefit of half-notes, but with a boundless enthusiasm comparable only to that of a small boy with a horn on Christmas morning. I don't know which egliso employs this generous artist, but if there...
Regrettably, by the hand of fate assisted by a grimier hand nearer home, the mark of Boston's salty fame has had strange bedfellows in the public press: Benny the Alligator, James the Polecat, The (Sacred) Owl, the (Sacred) Ibis, and other stuffed nonsense. Weary of swinging in the winds of State House oratory, the grand old effigy could have taken its leave, alone and in honor. It deserved better than to disappear with a zoo-full of mildewed bridge-prizes. For the sacred cod, aloof and unsullied, is no kin to these doubtful deities, these gods brought down...