Word: tiller
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...forests ring with the harmonious din of the woodsman's ax, when our mills resound with the melodious hum of whirling saws, and when the flockmaster and the cattle man, who tend their flocks and herds beneath the wintry stars and scorching summer sun, and when the tiller of the soil, who tickles the earth with the plow that she may laugh forth her golden harvest, are all assured that the rewards of their prudence and honest toil shall not be filched from them...
...they are almost machinelike, the champions of the Gloucester and Lunenberg fleets make a healthy contrast. There is no hierarchy of yacht racing associations, of new tank-tested boats every year. The false atmosphere of tailored yachting uniforms, professionals who groom the sleek boats for "amateurs" to take the tiller in the races and a society that goes with them are all missing. Perhaps the cup yachts and their smaller sisters are not, as many a fishing skipper is apt to term them, just "damn toy boats"; but the sight of two vessels that have earned their...
Henry George Stebbins died in 1881, and his grandson, Henry George Stebbins Noble, took over his seat. He in turn was elected to the presidency, was at the tiller in 1914 when the torpedoed Exchange went into drydock for four and one-half months. Last week, at 79, he was the Exchange's oldest member in point of seniority (56 years), had been on its governing committee longer than any other man (37 years), was one of its few authors (The New York Stock Exchange in the Crisis of 1914 and The Stock Exchange: Its Economic Function). Author Noble...
When Franklin Roosevelt addressed all the People in depressed April, he said he proposed to "sail, not drift." But not until Congress had rigged the ship of state for him and cleared the decks by going home, was Skipper Roosevelt free to kick the tiller over and square away. Last week that moment came, and with vigorous word and action Franklin Roosevelt made perfectly clear what course he had laid out: through the narrow Strait of Recovery, boldly past the storm-ridden Primary Isles, to the snug harbor of Fall Elections...
...cruising cutter. There it was tucked away in the corner of the big shed. It's bottom was rough and brown but a little work would fix it up, he thought--as he climbed over the side and stepped quietly into the cockpit. He put his hand on the tiller and moved it slowly back and forth. The compass read 247 degrees--west-south-west--the very direction he had followed coming home down the coast last summer...