Word: sunsets
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...were six feet five inches high; their average height was six feet three; even the coxswain was a big man. This display of brawn had caused some apprehension in the minds of Princeton undergraduates and now as the two shells slipped over a panel of golden water, glazed with sunset, it was apparent that this apprehension was not unfounded. The Princeton crew rowed hard; the Washington crew rowed easily; the Princeton coxswain barked excitedly; the Washington, coxswain chanted a beat as slow as a Baptist psalm. At the mile the men of Princeton, tiring, had slipped a little behind...
Gales Ferry, Conn., June 11--All four Yale crews had their first time trials on the Thames today. The Freshman, Junior University, and combination crews rowed over the two-mile course this morning, with the university eight pulling the full four miles before sunset...
...finish in that order, prophets said. The Yale crew of course has acquired, in the last three years, a legend of invincibility; people thought that Penn had a good crew, but not good enough; Columbia was not in it. In a wash of golden light that would have been sunset if daylight-saving had not turned it into midafternoon, the boats moved out; Penn was in front, Yale next, Columbia last. A mile went by. Was a Yale crew going to be beaten? The coxswain did not think so; he put his hand in his pocket, produced a red handkerchief...
Cynic, as anyone knows who has taken Philosophy A, and everyone knows who has taken Greek, is a polite name for the canine minded. For only a dog can keep his nose so close to the scent that he does not in some fashion appreciate sunset and saints and symbols. But in spite of the bad lineage which this word must admit, it still remains popular, not alone at tea parties where to be a cynic is to be lionized, but even in Harvard Yard, where to be a cynic is to be quite de rigeur...
...pouring out his music like beer carelessly dumped into a mug too small for it so that a turbulent foam froths over. And yet, by some strange madness in his playing he gave his technical vagaries the air of having been written for him by Wagner; he tumbled a sunset thunder-mountain into the fustian stalls of Carnegie Hall; he rocked the hearts of shriveled critics so that they swore no one who ever lived had an equal magic in his finger tips. He was Ignace Jan Paderewski...