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wading

Encyclopedia

  • Most of Wading River lies within the Town of Riverhead, however there is a small portion in the Town of Brookhaven. The name of the hamlet comes from the original Native American name for the area, Pauquaconsuk, meaning "the place where we wade for thick, round-shelled clams". — “Wading River, New York - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia”, en.wikipedia.org
  • Waders, called shorebirds in North America (where "wader" is used to refer to long-legged wading birds such as storks and herons), are members of the order Charadriiformes, excluding the more marine web-footed seabird groups. Also, the pratincoles (Glareolidae) and the Crab Plover (Dromadidae). — “Wader - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia”, en.wikipedia.org
  • This category has the following 8 subcategories, out of 8 total. Pages in category "Wading birds" The following 46 pages are in this category, out of 46. — “Category:Wading birds - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia”, en.wikipedia.org

Quotations

  • "Well, that's a knock-out," he said, as he came to the cart-shed, and was wading in six inches of water. But everything seemed to him amusing. He laughed to think of six inches of water being in the cart-shed. — “The Rainbow” by D. H. Lawrence
  • Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. — “Ulysses” by James Joyce
  • This universal pair was stationed in the hall of the mansion, so that any servant who was summoned to the house might don the said boots after wading barefooted through the mud of the courtyard, and enter the parlour dry-shod–subsequently leaving the boots where he had found them, and departing in his former barefooted condition. — “Dead souls” by Nikolai Gogol
  • These I singing in spring collect for lovers, (For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and joy? And who but I should be the poet of comrades?) Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the gates, Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the wet, Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there, pick'd from the fields, have accumulated, (Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones and partly cover them, beyond these I pass,) Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I think where I go, Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence, Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me, Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck, They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle, Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them, Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me, Here, lilac, with a branch of pine, Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull'd off a live-oak in Florida as it hung trailing down, Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage, And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pondside, (O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me, and returns again never to separate from me, And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades, this calamus-root shall, Interchange it youths with each other! let none render it back!) And twigs of maple and a bunch of wild orange and chestnut, And stems of currants and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar, These I compass'd around by a thick cloud of spirits, Wandering, point to or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me, Indicating to each one what he shall have, giving something to each; But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve, I will give of it, but only to them that love as I myself am capable of loving. — “Leaves of grass” by Walt Whitman
  • But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood–that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. — “Crime and punishment” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
  • I went straight into the water without a minute's hesitation, wading up the creek, and presently finding myself kneedeep in a little stream. — “The Island of Dr Moreau” by HG Wells

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