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Updated: May 22, 2025
They may be scratchy, feeble, and uncertain, or firm and bold thick and thin straight, curved, parallel, or irregular cross-hatched once, twice, a dozen times, at any angle every artist has his own way of getting his effect. But some ways are better than others, and I think Keene's is the firmest, loosest, simplest, and best way that ever was, and the most difficult to imitate.
And then he began to rub it on a stone, and continued to rub while Rodriguez watched in silence, until the image of the lord the King was gone and the face of the coin was scratchy and shiny and flat.
He was doing sums in a greasy sort of butcher's book that seemed quite full already of funny scratchy figures. "That must be Squealer, the one who got his ears boxed," whispered Ann to Rudolf, "but what do you suppose is the matter with the other duck, the one in the heap? He will be smothered, I know he will!" Rudolf thought so, too, yet it didn't seem polite to mention it.
To you or me they would have seemed but jottings, but Berenice could have read you a blank-verse love-poem in the thick markings of her fountain-pen; and Ellen a De Profundis from the hieroglyphics and inscriptions copied by her scratchy stylo and under which she essayed to bury the memory of the tomato-hued Inverness.
There were a few sluggish clouds with sombre centres hanging about the valley to the southwest, and there was a drone and zip of flying creatures in swarms above the drying weeds and stubble. Coming to a large oak tree standing solitary in that wasting field, he threw himself face downward on the ground in its shadow, careless that the grass was scant, and that his bed was scratchy.
A flick with a scratchy pen completed the receipt, and Madame turned awkwardly in the embrace of her chair to hand it to Annette with her weekly smile. The ritual was accomplished. "Good morning, mademoiselle. Thank you; good luck." The mirthless smile discounted the words; the cold, avid eyes were busy and suspicious.
Though the voice was thin and scratchy, the words were clearly audible. It was an appeal for the Disan people not to listen to the magter. It explained that the magter had started a war that could have only one ending the destruction of Dis. Only if the magter were thrown down and their weapons discovered could there be any hope. "Are these words true?" Ulv asked. "Yes," Brion said.
But during the Middle Ages, the King of Terrors with his grinning skull and his rattling bones was man's steady companion. He woke his victims up with terrible tunes on his scratchy fiddle he sat down with them at dinner he smiled at them from behind trees and shrubs when they took a girl out for a walk.
He bought a dollar fountain-pen, which had large gold-like bands and a rather scratchy pen-point, and a box of fairly large sheets of paper. Pressing his literary impedimenta tenderly under his arm, he attended four moving-picture and vaudeville theaters. By eleven he had seen three more one-act plays and a dramatic playlet. He slipped by the parlor door at Mrs. Arty's. His room was quiet.
"Why, they're not poison," said Tavia, beginning to unfold the velvet leaves that look so soft and are really so very "scratchy." "Don't!" begged Dorothy. "It is just as bad as paint, and paint is positively vulgar. I am sure you were mistaken about Rosabel. No respectable girl would be so foolish."
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