Word: sullens
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...legally at the flock of plump, brown-black Belchen (coots) paddling peacefully across the nippy surface of Lake Constance. Suddenly, a single shot sounded-then a rapid fusillade. Out of the reeds raced a Swiss patrol boat. "Wrho fired those shots?" roared an angry official. "Not us," answered a sullen German hunter. "It was those damned Tierschutzverein [i.e., S.P.C.A.] people trying to warn the birds...
...referee and greet home-team blunders with showers of eggs and cries of "Ya jerk, ya"-a provincialism once reserved for the bumbling baseball players who inhabited Brooklyn's Ebbets Field. Last week, when the New Yorkers blew a 2-1 lead to the Toronto Maple Leafs, a sullen crowd clustered outside the Ranger dressing room to taunt their tarnished heroes. "Aw, go back to Montreal!" one fan yelled at Player-Coach Doug Harvey. "Whatsamatter, Gump, no guts?" somebody asked Goalie Lome Worsley, who answered with a brisk curse. But then Center Andy Bathgate stepped quietly onto the sidewalk...
...guitar), and what is described as "a 200-voice singing audience." The audience is not omnipresent, and all of the songs (like all Irish songs, I'm convinced) have the gift o' th' gab. The performers, too, are ebullient, effervescent, and effusive, a welcome change from the generally sullen mien of the folksinger. Songs include the famous "Tim Finnegan's Wake" ("a song of death...a song of resurrection"), "Brennan On the Moor," and (Orangemen take note) "The Old Orange Flute." I cannot recommend it too highly. (This means I own a copy.) The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem have...
According to one report, "The Princeton stands reacted with sullen rebellion; it was into this mood that the 'Poon injected a fake Crimson extra at halftime. Headed BILL ROPER, PRINCETON COACH, DIES ON FIELD with the explanatory crossline HELD BREATH TOO LONG, the issue left Mrs. Roper in a dead faint and football relations between the schools with an eight-year...
...smolder malevolently, and thin lips curl in a perpetual pout. "I was born surly," says Roger Eugene Maris, "and I'm going to stay that way. Everything in life is tough." But last week, as he has all season, Yankee Outfielder Maris knew just where to direct his sullen anger: at a baseball. Leaning into a low fastball thrown by Baltimore's Milt Pappas, Maris sent a whistling drive soaring high into the rightfield seats. It was his 59th homer in 154 games; he had come within one heart-stopping wallop of tying baseball's most dramatic...