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Updated: June 16, 2025
There were debates, classes, and much intellectual exercise that struck sparks from heads that were once punk. John Tyndall was one of the teachers and also a worker in this mill. Let the fact stand out that Owen discovered Tyndall a great, divinely human nautilus and sent him sailing down the tides of Time.
And if you'd ask me I'd said that the prospect of his not contributin' any more of them musical things to the Broadway stage wasn't good cause for decreein' a lodge of sorrow. Them last two efforts of his certainly was punk enough to excuse him from tryin' again.
Unconsciously he was comparing this sickening meretriciousness with the delightful reserve and dignity of another environment, and he felt the quick shame of a schoolboy detected in his first illicit adventure. Red grunted telepathically: "Gawd, Ken, this yeah's a punk layout. Let's go out wheah it's clean."
She pointed to numerous pieces of punk, such as serve the small boy on the Fourth of July, that were consuming slowly before the ugly joss. "No, ma'am not but they needs it all right enough," said Corson, "but that's the haythen way of sayin' your prayers." This information was so astonishing that Corson was allowed to finish his explanation without further remarks from Mrs. Bowser.
"You should worry about me," he said; "I just have to limp a little, that's all. I'm a swell looking Silver Fox, hey?" And then he gave me a push and rumpled my hair all up and said, "You won't be ashamed of me on account of my honorable wounds, will you? I was a punk scout to go and do that." Gee, I didn't know what to think, because it wasn't anything to be laughing at, that's sure. "Do what?"
Woolly felt of his swollen jaw tenderly and turned in pretended amazement: "Why, was yuh thinkin' he was a woman?" Punk ceased operations on his cigarette and stared meditatively into the fire. "Wonder haow he's goin' to ack-kwire that brand? Trade those hides fer it, mebbe." But Red McVey for once was silent.
Horace Greeley once contended in a "Tribune" editorial that Sam Staples, the bum bailiff who locked Thoreau behind the bars, was an important factor in the New England renaissance, and as such should be immortalized by a statue made of punk, set up on Boston Common for the delectation of bean-eaters. I fear me Horace was a joker.
Creeping very cautiously till he could see over the bow, he discovered the serpent, which was nearly six feet long, working slowly down a dead log towards the water. Springing to his feet on the bow, he struck down with his weapon, directing the fork at the neck of the reptile. The outside of the log was nothing but punk, or the operation would have been a failure.
It would last for hours, and my cell-mate called it a "punk." And when it burned short, all that was necessary was to make a new punk, put the end of it against the old, blow on them, and so transfer the glowing coal. Why, we could have given Prometheus pointers on the conserving of fire. At twelve o'clock dinner was served.
Into the barrel a cracker was thrust, the wick was ignited at a piece of smouldering 'punk which could be carried in the pocket in a tin matchbox and it only needed the exercise of a little imagination to satisfy oneself that the resulting explosion spread death and desolation in the ranks of the enemy.
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