Word: whisperingly
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...Crash! Crumple! At 4 o'clock one morning, an automobile driven by one Abe Schnider, Washington nighthawk, careened into and through the iron entrance gate at the southwest corner of the White House grounds. Abe Schnider's girl friends, terrified but unhurt, crept out to squeak and whisper over the damage. Rueful, Mr. Schnider rubbed his head. Watchmen soon haled the gatecrashers to court. Later in the morning Abe Schnider called at the White House. He was told that the White House's occupant and custodian would bring no charge against him if he would replace...
...magnificent tableau representing Justice and Liberty and Righteousness standing on Bigotry and Prejudice at the Crimson Building on free display to every passerby, nowhere else did a single man pause to meditate on his country's emblem. Did one man in Harvard College say to himself in a reverential whisper: "Red is for bravery, blue for truth, and white for chastity...
Suddenly a whisper. Lights flash up, blazing upon countless gems. The Peers and Peeresses rustle as they rise and bow. Majestically the King enters. As he paces slowly forward, his crown is a mount of diadems, his train seems to stretch behind inimitably, borne by chubby pages with neat legs and little slim Court swords. His Majesty is England, rich, historic. When he speaks, his Dominions will listen, in their newness and youth...
There is a long gap in the story after this. Then there is a picture, as brief and bright as something dreamed, of a slender, excited boy standing in the centre of a circle of old men. The gloom and whisper of a temple surrounds them, the rustle of wings is in the shadows above them. Then there is a picture of the boy, his face calm and thoughtful now, walking in the weary pageant of a slow, travel-stained procession along a road through the country. Roughly 18 years later the story goes on again. This time...
...night the wind blew a mist across them, muffling soft sounds, making a dog's voice, searching along some far hedgerow, an obscure dangerous signal, a portent of sorrow. The quiet tides of the country, the slow changes of the land and its people, were a solemn whisper always ringing in his ears like the sea's slow music echoing in a shell. It is easy to believe the legends of Hardy which picture him as he grew up writing love letters for illiterate or ineloquent country ladies; sitting in thatched cottages hearing farmers tell the stories about...