Word: perching
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...Yalta, onetime fashionable resort, 1,300 fugitives fought vainly for a place on a departing steamer. At Balaklava, famed for the charge of the Light Brigade, houses toppled. At Miskhor the tower of the "Lark's Nest" (famed villa) fell from its lofty perch down the cliffs into...
...married Una Call Kuster in 1913. They have twin boys. Lean, athletic, needing solitude, he built a house of sea-boulders on a headland near Carmel, Calif. Falcons nested in his tower of "hawk-perch" stones. Some years ago he offered Tamar and Other Poems to Manhattan publishers but only an obscure Irish printer, Peter G. Boyle, would risk handling such inflammable material as a tragedy of incest (TIME, March 30, 1925). Reviews soon brought him to a notice for which he has small regard but which must become, despite the book world's busy piddlings, nationwide and perpetual...
Sunday has benerally been a dull day for the Vagabond. In the days of childhood, the seventh day was associated with interminable and dreary calls on friends of the family, where an incredibly hard and stiff-backed chair was usually provided for him, from which perch he was left to contemplate the family portraits while his elders discussed matters beyond his ken. Now that such ordeals are done, the Sabbath passes in a flaccid mood that contenplates and condemns all things, particularly those of an academic tinge. There is scant pleasure in a contemplation of Monday's lecture schedule...
...help of such a sapling, there is a limit to vandalism and that, in the philodendronic sense, is the bark or outer periphery of an Ibis tree. The poor old Ibis has done enough to hurt her breed in the last few days without becoming dispossessed of her perch upon the Ibis bough. Unlike Horace who was quite selfish when his famous tree fell, the CRIMSON worries more about the tree than the fact that its fall hurt no one but the reputation of him, who in the dark of night, saw fit to saw the Ibis tree. Such gestures...
...importunate proximity of her enamored kinsman, David Ancaster, who has literally essayed to climb into her boudoir. In London and on the continent she finds gallantry galore, some of it quite as much to her taste as was her "Mr. A." By better luck than judgment she keeps her perch until the entries end with: "Stupendous Discovery! Mr. A. is in Venice." There, an envoi assures us, she eloped at last, later mollifying her parent and bearing Mr. A. a round dozen of lusty offspring...