Word: heather
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...other books there was a lurking fear that this one might not quite be up to their standard. Could this writer, the breath of whose nostrils is Ireland, and who in his other works writes, figuratively speaking, with emerald ink--could he so far forget his mountains and heather moors as to be able to transport himself back to the Palestine and Rome of some 2,000 years ago and enter into the spirit of Saul of Tarsus? It seemed barely possible...
...Famed playground for Manhattan's proudest, where charming matrons pose for Sunday supplements in shimmering white creations, white hats, white parasols, where the soughing heather of the Shinnecock Hills creeps cautiously down to the Atlantic billows...
Solemn British journalists who reported the meeting between Mr. Simpson and Mr. Sweetser wrote about everything but golf. They wrote about the clear day and the blue heather and the crowd of 6,000 lords, ladies, and gentlemen. When they found it necessary to mention the game that was being played that day, they said that Sweetser was a champion and that Simpson was a good golfer. There was really nothing more to be said. If Mr. S. F. Simpson of Glasgow joined your foursome next Sunday, you would admire his game. You would remember him as an exceptionally quiet...
Professional Golf Championship (unofficial). George Gadd, by trying to win a little too furiously, was allowing Arthur Compston, Manchesterian 6 ft. 3 in. giant, to just keep his thwacking rights. Came a thoughtful lady and set a sprig of heather in the giant's buttonhole. Compston, responsive to charms and tokens, forthwith played better golf; Gadd seemed suddenly to go to pot. The giant thwacked his ball into a cup containing ?1,040, the News of the World prize...
...defeats there pricked, for a moment, the thrill of the possibility of victory; his boat was first at the gun; the royal cutter slipped farther and farther behind. But, having learned to savor the futility of hope, doubtless he was not surprised when Lord Waring's White Heather slipped past his lee on the crest of a feathering wave and beat him across the line. Grimly he twisted his barnacle, fixed upon his features his professionally smile, repeated mechanically: "I will try again...