Word: pathe
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...author cannot avoid partisanship any more than all the other commentators who have flooded Russia and regurgitated their findings to us. Throughout the book Hindus impresses upon the reader his own firm conviction that despite all difficulties and whatever the cost, the Revolution will sweep on, brushing from its path all impediments, crushing all opposition. "The Great Offensive" will continue, for the idea has become part of the modern, Russian's soul; it is the nation's expression if itself. The Soviet Union has been committed to the industrialization of the country of a socialist basis, to the collectivization...
...Army weekend, a small group, which represents a bare majority of the Liberal Club, has arranged a monster program, intended to combat war. To start the proceedings, it has decided to hold a mass-meeting on Boston Common this Saturday morning, for the discussion of the path to peace; at the meeting, "The Horror of It," a collection of choice photos of corpses and the like, will be sold. This gathering, it is said will be an intercollegiate affair; at least, some Wellesley students are expected to attend. Afterwards, if the plan goes through, there will be another meeting...
...whose whole program is an infelicitous falling between the stools of Marx and Mill, has already had occasion to discover that the capitalists will not brook serious interference in the other parts of their program. Surely they will not suffer him, or his successors, to block them in a path so clear and vital as this. POLLUX...
...south of the Golden Gate, a dense fog closed around her. Suddenly just before the 8 o'clock morning watch was called, a large brown ship loomed out of the mists across her bow. The Chicago slackened speed, veered sharply to port. The brown ship scurried across her path, disappeared into the fog. Before the Chicago could swing her bow around again, a second ship, the British freighter Silver Palm, came plowing down on her out of the fog on the port side. The Chicago reversed engines, blared a long shrill collision call. The Silver Palm tried to stop...
Across the wild northern hills comes the winter wind, painting the leaf and foliage dun and red, as age brings chrome and artificial scarlet to the cheeks of the decayed beauty. The skies are leaden, every rainy gust sweeps the skeleton branches cleaner, spreading on valley path and craggy niche a Turkey carpet. The airs, acrid with frost and aromatic from the sting of wood-smoke, freeze the new-pressed cider in the half-buried hogshead...