Word: twilighter
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...chief impression afforded by this film is that all the cows in the world were assembled. This bovine convention purports to be the "last great Western herd," driven from the ranges by the squatter settlers, on its way to wider grazing lands in Mexico. In other words, the twilight of the old West. The idea and the purpose were commendable but the endless appearances of thousands of cows simply became monotonous. Woven roughly into the migration was the love story of the head cowboy and a girl whose cabin on the plains was wrecked in a stampede...
...dear," quoth the tiger, leaping out of the locker room and baring its chief fangs, Backs Slagle and Williams. No doughty woodsman bobbed up at the psychological moment to save the heroine and for a gruesome hour or so the sound of munching was heard on Soldiers' Field. At twilight, an autopsy was performed which revealed Harvard's condition as the most serious she has ever been in after a meeting with her New Jersey relative. Score: Princeton 34, Harvard...
...Golden Twilight. A five-gaited saddle horse, owned by Hugh B. Wick, of Cleveland. This type of horse, common in the South and West, was first seen at the national show three years...
...difference between these people and Mr. Powys lies in the fact that the latter is an artist. His book is in formed with the spirit of Africa as with a sensible presence, is haunted with the shadow of that jungle in whose twilight incredible beasts wage their truceless wars and come down by night to drink from the river-pools under the swinging constellations of the Cross- constellations that see, here and there, man's fugitive campfires, how dwarfed in that illimitable waste! Reading, one can almost detect an odor, acrid, animal, exciting -the smell of Africa...
...would have slept the sun down. Now, poor creature, his ashes are jarred and desecrated a thousand times a day-by mechanisms like that." To scan more closely Puncheon's mound, the two enter the ancient graveyard and stay there reading the epitaphs till twilight falls around them. This is the tenuous framework upon which Walter De La Mare has shaped one more unearthly, sad and lovely book. Turning, as always, from what is to him the Stench, trespass and futility of the present, he breaks bread with phantoms; in these pages the dead stand up and breathe...