Word: wharf
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...boats, manned by grizzly "Kaintucks" lay at anchor. New Orleans was the richest city in the Americas and rivaled New York as a port. Bushy-whiskered rivermen were resentfully discussing that "outrageous sale of Louisiana to the United States." The boys disappeared in the bales piled high on the wharf. The suspicious guardsman peered about for a while, looked out over the muddy Mississippi and the waving grasses back in the impenetrable swamps, spat, returned to his post at the ale house, where he took up once more his duty with his cherie...
...great bow wave of the Renown feathered out and she steamed away, a slender male figure climbed atop a pile of chains and rubbish on the wharf. For some moments the handkerchief of Edward of Wales was waved by its owner...
...secretary, H. R. Hathaway, turned over a majority holding of common stock in the Victor Talking Machine Co. to J. and W. Seligman & Co., Manhattan brokers, and Speyer & Co., Manhattan bankers. For all 348,863 shares outstanding, the buyers were prepared to pay some 40 millions hospital, coal wharf, the largest yard of African mahogany and other cabinet woods in the world. Out of the town have come instruments by the tens of thousands to carry "canned music," on rubber records pressed in the Argentine, to hamlets, shacks and tents thousands of miles from a concert hall. The conduct...
...river thief and drunkard on his own initiative, received a pardon signed by Secretary of State [of New York] Chauncey M. Depew, after serving seven years of a fifteen-year sentence for highway robbery. Eight years later this McAuley founded a mission at No. 316 Water Street, Manhattan, where wharf life is drably vile. His slogan was "The Man No One Else Wants." Drunkards, drug addicts, broken down sports, panhandlers, sick street-creatures could get a bed, a wash, a meal. It was the first city rescue mission in New York, and remains the most famed...
Poem A boy sat on the Yachtsmen's Wharf at Atlantic City last Thursday, complacently fishing. Beside him dozed his necessary adjunct, a tawny, nondescript dog. The John Greenleaf Whittier poem was complete; bare feet, red hair, freckles; attired in a cotton shirt and overalls. Occasionally a promising dip of his long fishpole caused his eyes to sparkle momentarily; occasionally an intrepid fly was rewarded with an energetic slap. . . . Occasionallv, too, he shot a glance of stern disapproval across the wharf, where the Courtney children-Martha, four, and Jane, six-romped carelessly. Suddenly, simultaneous shrieks rent the air, mingling...