Word: shrilled
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...more than skin deep: a serenity, a confidence, and, at times, an incisive if grandmotherly air of authority, which are startling to those who have not seen her since her days in the White House. Her voice is pitched lower, and she seldom breaks into the shrill upper register in which her early speeches were delivered. She has almost lost the nervous giggle, the nervous gestures which nightclub comics mimicked for two decades...
Look Out, Little Bird! The result, to say the least, was unique: Republican dowagers have been refreshing their souls ever since by putting on the records, leaning back with smiles of dreamy malice, and listening to Mrs. Roosevelt and the wild, shrill piccolos, excitedly warning a little bird that the cat is creeping ("Look out!") toward its perch. Mrs. Roosevelt is content to know that her grandchildren enjoyed her performance immensely...
Flotsam & Jetsam. On the other hand, the Freeman often shouts at its enemies in the same shrill tones it damns the left for using. In defending Senator McCarthy, for example, it calls his critics "mad" people who, like Pavlov's dogs, "foam" at the mouth every time his name is mentioned. It extravagantly hails John T. Flynn (The Road Ahead, While You Slept) as the "keenest journalist of our day," although many rightists think Flynn's hatred of Franklin Roosevelt has blinded his once sharp reporter's eye. The Freeman itself is often so blinded...
Earsplitting Indictment. Tiger, in China's current Communist jargon, means corrupt capitalist. But last week, as Red China's tiger hunt (TIME, March 17) screamed into new heights of shrill persecution, the quarry seemed less like vicious beasts of the jungle than treed and terrified house-cats. Chinese Communism has developed a new weapon to rout out it's bourgeois enemies, a weapon unthought of by less imaginative dictatorships: trial by sound-truck. Like baying hounds at the foot of a tree, Communism's sound-trucks last week planted themselves in the streets outside of tradesmen...
...trainers and relatives, who seem most alive. It is not where Odets tries to be poetic but where, in hurried scribbles and scrawls, he forgets to try, that he brings a kind of impassioned feeling to life itself. His violin music is mostly pretentious, his trumpet notes today seem shrill; where he seems uniquely vivid and vibrant is on a mouth organ he pulls out of his pocket...