Word: slights
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...rather a pity that the Freshman number of the Lampoon, something supposedly, to agitate the thoracic vertebra of the very youngest class, should be the first number of the year. It is generally such a lame affair, for which, let us add, there is some slight reason. Two or more summer months of idleness, a flood of special deliveries and telegrams the week before college opens, a few haphazard, pointless contributions by editors whose thoughts are at the time still waiting for the sunrise, and the lone editor who has returned to Cambridge, duty-bound and royally peevish, scrambles...
...department. In Military Science 1 there are 300 students, while last year there were 100 less than this. In the whole unit there are about 500, a gain of approximately 130 over last year. No reason is given for this large gain, which has occurred in spite of the slight agitation in the University against...
When rumors circulated last year that the Student Council had appointed a committee to examine into the raisons 'd'etre of the traditional "Harvard Indifference", the College shook with the rhythms of a ribald and not too subdued chuckle. Also appeared a slight atmosphere of resentment. The idea of doing away with one of the most sacredly cherished of all Harvard institutions seemed almost a sacrilege. At which the Council, perceiving that the time was not yet come, gave over its crude investigations and devoted itself to more subtle amusements...
Walter F. White is a slight, light-haired, blue-eyed, soft-voiced young man, clever, wide-awake, efficient. He writes with skill and force. He has just published his first novel, The Fire in the Flint.* It is a story of the oppression of the Negro race in the South, a story of melodramatic intensity and some bitterness. Walter White knows whereof he writes. He is a Negro. He was graduated from Atlanta University in 1916 and has done graduate work in Economics and Sociology at the College of the City of New York. For a time...
...crypt of St. Peter's, a tomb lay covered with flowers. Heavy candles diffused their ethereal light, revealing black-draped and kneeling figures, bent in devout prayer. A slight murmur of subdued voices disturbed the restful silence. Occasionally, the firm voice of a prelate would rise above the murmur as he pronounced a benediction, or sometimes low, sad chants would break the stillness. Close to the tomb were two elderly sisters of the dead, absorbed in reciting the Ave Maria, as they tremblingly counted their beads. All that long day, figures shuffled in and shuffled out of the crypt...