Word: cockcrow
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Whitman was by his own admission "furtive like an old hen," and he likened his poems to eggs laid in concealment. But once they hatched between hard covers, he knew how to sound the cockcrow of publicity. If his tone was frequently more holistic than thou, the reason was that he believed passionately in his power to relate all things. His own experience was wide. He grew up with the sun, sea and wildlife of Long Island and the muddy streets and busy docks of Brooklyn. Whitman the urbanite was a printer, newsp perman, editor, publisher, teacher, building contractor...
...Good Morning, Good Morning," interpreted by most Beatleologists as an affirmation of everything happy in life. But this is an ambiguous song, in which can also be seen a denunciation of the urban rat race. It uses country metaphors to comment on city life, starting out with a hearty cockcrow, but ending up with a pack of hounds yelping after their prey. Maybe life has the singer at bay, and he doesn't know...
...cockcrow one day last week, loudspeaker trucks began to cruise slowly through Saigon's streets. "Countrymen," they blared, "come to the popular meeting to protest against the Geneva agreements. This is the 20th of July, a national mourning day. One year ago at Geneva our country was partitioned against our will...
...many Americans, an egg roll is something on the menu of a Chinese restaurant; to the citizens of Washington, D.C., however, it is a mystic sign of spring. For generations, every Easter Monday, young Washingtonians have been aroused at cockcrow and subjected to the city's egg rolls. On that day thousands of citizens flock to the Lion House hill at the Zoo to hurl Easter eggs around, lounge in the sun, litter the grass, trample on other citizens, and harass the police and the National Parks maintenance men. Hundreds more attend egg rollings at churches, schools and private...
Like a million other South Africans, the Stoltz family was up at cockcrow one morning last week, all ready to cast its votes in the first general election since 1948. Grandpa Stoltz, 75, stumped out to the car that would take his household to the polls at Nigel, a dusty gold-mining town 25 miles southeast of Johannesburg; as he reached the car there was a roar, and his house blew to smithereens. Grandma Elizabeth Stoltz and a 32-year-old gold miner named Lukas van der Merwe lay dead in the wreckage; the Stoltzes' son Pieter...