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Word: wail (lookup in dictionary) (lookup stats)
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Guitar atwangle, eyes aimed into a far corner, the voice pitched in a keening wail, the singer holds the rapt attention of the shaggy boys, girls and dogs scattered around his Greenwich Village pad. In a campus dormitory in Ohio, in a café alonng San Francisco's North Beach, in a living room in upper-class Grosse Pointe, Mich., other singers with guitars chant tales of tragic love. In fact, all over the U.S., people of all descriptions-young and middleaged, students, doctors, lawyers, farmers, cops-are plucking guitars and moaning folk songs, happily discovering that they...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Leisure: String 'Em Up | 1/5/1962 | See Source »

...becomes the Germans to wail about an impending "second Munich" now. I don't recall their protesting the first...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Letters: Sep. 1, 1961 | 9/1/1961 | See Source »

...night was tense around the University, though, as students, cruising police cars, and over 20 photographers and reporters kept an alert eye for possible trouble. Every wail from a police siren brought reporters running, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary occurred. Firecrackers exploded sporadically and pointlessly...

Author: By Joseph M. Russin, | Title: Rumored Riot Fizzles; Peace Reigns in Yard | 4/29/1961 | See Source »

...sounds that reverberated through Moscow's Teatr Estrady last week seemed strangely out of place in the drab, disciplined Soviet capital: the salivating slur of a trombone, the mellow wail of a muted trumpet, the throaty murmur of a saxophone and the staccato thunder of drums. U.S. tourists even thought they could identify the nearly indistinguishable melody: Lullaby of Birdland. They were right. At picnics and Komsomol dances, in cabarets and conservatories, the Soviet Union is swinging to the sound of jazz...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Russia: Red Hot | 3/10/1961 | See Source »

...wail of a child broke up a television taping session in the White House broadcasting room. Jumping to his feet, the President of the U.S. raced through the door, shouting, "Who's crying in this house?" A moment later, he returned, carrying his snuffling, snowsuited daughter. He handed her the first object that came to hand, a plastic Red Cross that he was using in the taping. "Here, Caroline," he soothed, "want a nice red cross? You've got that cap pistol in one hand, you might want this for the other." Caroline Kennedy's tears quickly...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: The Presidency: A Damned Good Job | 3/3/1961 | See Source »

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