Word: roar
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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Discussing the President and the cowboy costume worn by President Coolidge in the Black Hills, Mr. Manly wrote: "And the moving picture audiences [watching news reels]roar with laughter as this bewildered little man teeters down the steps in his vaudeville chaps and timidly grasps the reins of the gift horse he fears to mount. So the Roman populace roared as Nero, seeking their fickle favor, twanged his lyre and in his effeminate voice sang the poor ballads which he had himself composed...
...going to land," scribbled Commander Richard Evelyn Byrd on a slip of paper. He crawled back through the fuselage of the giant Fokker monoplane, America, handed the paper to Lieut. George 0. Noville who was lying on the floor, exhausted, temporarily deafened by the roar of the motors. "It was just as if he were handing me an invitation to tea," said Lieutenant Noville. The paper was shown to Lieut. Bert Balchen who was piloting the plane, and to Bert Acosta who was so deaf and so miserable that he did not seem to care what happened...
Perhaps there seem to drum in imagination's ear those feverish midnight hoofbeats which so often heralded (in winter or summer, snow or clear) the approach of the mad yet somehow great King Ludwig II of Bavaria (1845-1886). The hoofbeats become a roar, and then the gilded coach or sleigh is seen. In the darkness its powerful interior lighting reveals the King, often in his golden crown, lolling at ease yet disconsolate. A robe of rich stuff lies across his knees and those of the young officer who is always beside him?for Ludwig will have none of women...
...black men; big Negroes with rhythm in their shoulders; strong, dark prophets of the Lord leaning far out from the warning places; holy fire in their eyes, holy rhythm in their sway, holy words rolling out from their mouths of wisdom; softly now, then louder, getting deep when they roar of the Fiery Furnace; thundering the Lord and his works on Sinai; now softly again, slower, crooning how the Lord was in his good works at little Jerusalem; sobbing how the humbler Lord was broken and crucified by the white soldiers; and then blaring it out, then trumpeting brass-throated...
...their fantastic patterns of black velvet shot with silver. A whippoorwill, the first I remember hearing as far north as this, is calling from the birches behind the tents. The thermometer registers 43, and we crawl into our sleeping bags and listen for a few happy minutes to the roar of the river--and the next thing I knew, a golden-coated three-year-old buck is pawing and snorting just outside the tent, in the broad morning sunshine. We have come home...