browse words by letter
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z

storymore about story

story


  6  definitions  found 
 
  From  Webster's  Revised  Unabridged  Dictionary  (1913)  [web1913]: 
 
  Story  \Sto"ry\,  n.;  pl  {Stories}.  [OF.  estor['e],  estor['e]e, 
  built,  erected,  p.  p.  of  estorer  to  build,  restore,  to  store. 
  See  {Store},  v.  t.] 
  A  set  of  rooms  on  the  same  floor  or  level;  a  floor,  or  the 
  space  between  two  floors.  Also  a  horizontal  division  of  a 
  building's  exterior  considered  architecturally,  which  need 
  not  correspond  exactly  with  the  stories  within.  [Written  also 
  {storey}.] 
 
  Note:  A  story  comprehends  the  distance  from  one  floor  to 
  another;  as  a  story  of  nine  or  ten  feet  elevation.  The 
  spaces  between  floors  are  numbered  in  order  from  below 
  upward;  as  the  lower,  second  or  third  story;  a  house 
  of  one  story,  of  two  stories,  of  five  stories. 
 
  {Story  post}  (Arch.),  a  vertical  post  used  to  support  a  floor 
  or  superincumbent  wall. 
 
  From  Webster's  Revised  Unabridged  Dictionary  (1913)  [web1913]: 
 
  Story  \Sto"ry\,  v.  t.  [imp.  &  p.  p.  {Storied};  p.  pr  &  vb  n. 
  {Storying}.] 
  To  tell  in  historical  relation;  to  make  the  subject  of  a 
  story;  to  narrate  or  describe  in  story. 
 
  How  worthy  he  is  I  will  leave  to  appear  hereafter, 
  rather  than  story  him  in  his  own  hearing.  --Shak. 
 
  It  is  storied  of  the  brazen  colossus  in  Rhodes,  that  it 
  was  seventy  cubits  high.  --Bp.  Wilkins. 
 
  From  Webster's  Revised  Unabridged  Dictionary  (1913)  [web1913]: 
 
  Story  \Sto"ry\,  n.  [OE.  storie,  OF  estoire,  F.  histoire  fr  L. 
  historia.  See  {History}.] 
  1.  A  narration  or  recital  of  that  which  has  occurred;  a 
  description  of  past  events;  a  history;  a  statement;  a 
  record. 
 
  One  malcontent  who  did  indeed  get  a  name  in  story. 
  --Barrow. 
 
  Venice,  with  its  unique  city  and  its  Impressive 
  story.  --Ed.  Rev. 
 
  The  four  great  monarchies  make  the  subject  of 
  ancient  story.  --Sir  W. 
  Temple. 
 
  2.  The  relation  of  an  incident  or  minor  event;  a  short 
  narrative;  a  tale;  especially,  a  fictitious  narrative  less 
  elaborate  than  a  novel;  a  short  romance.  --Addison. 
 
  3.  A  euphemism  or  child's  word  for  ``a  lie;''  a  fib;  as  to 
  tell  a  story.  [Colloq.] 
 
  From  WordNet  r  1.6  [wn]: 
 
  story 
  n  1:  an  account  describing  incidents  or  events;  "after  dinner  he 
  told  the  children  stories  of  his  adventures"  [syn:  {narration}, 
  {narrative},  {tale},  {yarn},  {recital}] 
  2:  a  piece  of  fiction  that  narrates  a  chain  of  related  events; 
  "he  writes  stories  for  the  magazines" 
  3:  a  room  or  set  of  rooms  comprising  a  single  level  of  a 
  multi-level  building;  "what  level  is  the  office  on?"  [syn: 
  {floor},  {level},  {storey}] 
  4:  a  record  or  narrative  description  of  past  events:  "a  history 
  of  France";  "he  gave  an  inaccurate  account  of  the  plot  to 
  kill  the  president";  "the  story  of  exposure  to  lead"  [syn: 
  {history},  {account},  {chronicle}] 
  5:  a  short  account  of  the  news  "the  report  of  his  speech"; 
  "the  story  was  on  the  11  o'clock  news";  "the  account  of 
  his  speech  that  was  given  on  the  evening  news  made  the 
  governor  furious"  [syn:  {report},  {news  report},  {account}, 
  {write  up}] 
  6:  a  trivial  lie;  "he  told  a  fib  about  eating  his  spinach"; 
  "how  can  I  stop  my  child  from  telling  stories?"  [syn:  {fib}, 
  {tale},  {tarradiddle},  {taradiddle}] 
 
  From  U.S.  Gazetteer  (1990)  [gazetteer]: 
 
  Story,  AR 
  Zip  code(s):  71970 
  Story,  WY 
  Zip  code(s):  82842 
 
  From  THE  DEVIL'S  DICTIONARY  ((C)1911  Released  April  15  1993)  [devils]: 
 
  STORY,  n.  A  narrative,  commonly  untrue.  The  truth  of  the  stories 
  here  following  has  however,  not  been  successfully  impeached. 
 
  One  evening  Mr  Rudolph  Block,  of  New  York,  found  himself  seated 
  at  dinner  alongside  Mr  Percival  Pollard,  the  distinguished  critic. 
  "Mr.  Pollard,"  said  he  "my  book,  _The  Biography  of  a  Dead  Cow_, 
  is  published  anonymously,  but  you  can  hardly  be  ignorant  of  its 
  authorship.  Yet  in  reviewing  it  you  speak  of  it  as  the  work  of  the 
  Idiot  of  the  Century.  Do  you  think  that  fair  criticism?" 
  "I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  replied  the  critic,  amiably,  "but  it  did 
  not  occur  to  me  that  you  really  might  not  wish  the  public  to  know  who 
  wrote  it." 
 
  Mr  W.C.  Morrow,  who  used  to  live  in  San  Jose,  California,  was 
  addicted  to  writing  ghost  stories  which  made  the  reader  feel  as  if  a 
  stream  of  lizards,  fresh  from  the  ice,  were  streaking  it  up  his  back 
  and  hiding  in  his  hair.  San  Jose  was  at  that  time  believed  to  be 
  haunted  by  the  visible  spirit  of  a  noted  bandit  named  Vasquez,  who  had 
  been  hanged  there  The  town  was  not  very  well  lighted,  and  it  is 
  putting  it  mildly  to  say  that  San  Jose  was  reluctant  to  be  out  o' 
  nights.  One  particularly  dark  night  two  gentlemen  were  abroad  in  the 
  loneliest  spot  within  the  city  limits,  talking  loudly  to  keep  up  their 
  courage,  when  they  came  upon  Mr  J.J.  Owen,  a  well-known  journalist. 
  "Why,  Owen,"  said  one  "what  brings  you  here  on  such  a  night  as 
  this?  You  told  me  that  this  is  one  of  Vasquez'  favorite  haunts!  And 
  you  are  a  believer.  Aren't  you  afraid  to  be  out?" 
  "My  dear  fellow,"  the  journalist  replied  with  a  drear  autumnal 
  cadence  in  his  speech,  like  the  moan  of  a  leaf-laden  wind,  "I  am 
  afraid  to  be  in  I  have  one  of  Will  Morrow's  stories  in  my  pocket  and 
  I  don't  dare  to  go  where  there  is  light  enough  to  read  it." 
 
  Rear-Admiral  Schley  and  Representative  Charles  F.  Joy  were 
  standing  near  the  Peace  Monument,  in  Washington,  discussing  the 
  question,  Is  success  a  failure?  Mr  Joy  suddenly  broke  off  in  the 
  middle  of  an  eloquent  sentence,  exclaiming:  "Hello!  I've  heard  that 
  band  before  Santlemann's,  I  think." 
  "I  don't  hear  any  band,"  said  Schley. 
  "Come  to  think,  I  don't  either,"  said  Joy;  "but  I  see  General 
  Miles  coming  down  the  avenue,  and  that  pageant  always  affects  me  in 
  the  same  way  as  a  brass  band.  One  has  to  scrutinize  one's  impressions 
  pretty  closely,  or  one  will  mistake  their  origin." 
  While  the  Admiral  was  digesting  this  hasty  meal  of  philosophy 
  General  Miles  passed  in  review,  a  spectacle  of  impressive  dignity. 
  When  the  tail  of  the  seeming  procession  had  passed  and  the  two 
  observers  had  recovered  from  the  transient  blindness  caused  by  its 
  effulgence  -- 
  "He  seems  to  be  enjoying  himself,"  said  the  Admiral. 
  "There  is  nothing,"  assented  Joy,  thoughtfully,  "that  he  enjoys 
  one-half  so  well." 
 
  The  illustrious  statesman,  Champ  Clark,  once  lived  about  a  mile 
  from  the  village  of  Jebigue  in  Missouri.  One  day  he  rode  into  town 
  on  a  favorite  mule,  and  hitching  the  beast  on  the  sunny  side  of  a 
  street,  in  front  of  a  saloon,  he  went  inside  in  his  character  of 
  teetotaler,  to  apprise  the  barkeeper  that  wine  is  a  mocker.  It  was  a 
  dreadfully  hot  day  Pretty  soon  a  neighbor  came  in  and  seeing  Clark, 
  said: 
  "Champ,  it  is  not  right  to  leave  that  mule  out  there  in  the  sun. 
  He'll  roast,  sure!  --  he  was  smoking  as  I  passed  him." 
  "O,  he's  all  right,"  said  Clark,  lightly;  "he's  an  inveterate 
  smoker." 
  The  neighbor  took  a  lemonade,  but  shook  his  head  and  repeated  that 
  it  was  not  right 
  He  was  a  conspirator.  There  had  been  a  fire  the  night  before:  a 
  stable  just  around  the  corner  had  burned  and  a  number  of  horses  had 
  put  on  their  immortality,  among  them  a  young  colt,  which  was  roasted 
  to  a  rich  nut-brown.  Some  of  the  boys  had  turned  Mr  Clark's  mule 
  loose  and  substituted  the  mortal  part  of  the  colt.  Presently  another 
  man  entered  the  saloon. 
  "For  mercy's  sake!"  he  said  taking  it  with  sugar,  "do  remove  that 
  mule,  barkeeper:  it  smells." 
  "Yes,"  interposed  Clark,  "that  animal  has  the  best  nose  in 
  Missouri.  But  if  he  doesn't  mind,  you  shouldn't." 
  In  the  course  of  human  events  Mr  Clark  went  out  and  there 
  apparently,  lay  the  incinerated  and  shrunken  remains  of  his  charger. 
  The  boys  idd  not  have  any  fun  out  of  Mr  Clarke,  who  looked  at  the 
  body  and  with  the  non-committal  expression  to  which  he  owes  so  much 
  of  his  political  preferment,  went  away  But  walking  home  late  that 
  night  he  saw  his  mule  standing  silent  and  solemn  by  the  wayside  in  the 
  misty  moonlight.  Mentioning  the  name  of  Helen  Blazes  with  uncommon 
  emphasis,  Mr  Clark  took  the  back  track  as  hard  as  ever  he  could  hook 
  it  and  passed  the  night  in  town. 
 
  General  H.H.  Wotherspoon  president  of  the  Army  War  College,  has  a 
  pet  rib-nosed  baboon,  an  animal  of  uncommon  intelligence  but 
  imperfectly  beautiful.  Returning  to  his  apartment  one  evening,  the 
  General  was  surprised  and  pained  to  find  Adam  (for  so  the  creature  is 
  named  the  general  being  a  Darwinian)  sitting  up  for  him  and  wearing 
  his  master's  best  uniform  coat,  epaulettes  and  all 
  "You  confounded  remote  ancestor!"  thundered  the  great  strategist, 
  "what  do  you  mean  by  being  out  of  bed  after  naps?  --  and  with  my  coat 
  on!" 
  Adam  rose  and  with  a  reproachful  look  got  down  on  all  fours  in  the 
  manner  of  his  kind  and  scuffling  across  the  room  to  a  table,  returned 
  with  a  visiting-card:  General  Barry  had  called  and  judging  by  an 
  empty  champagne  bottle  and  several  cigar-stumps,  had  been  hospitably 
  entertained  while  waiting.  The  general  apologized  to  his  faithful 
  progenitor  and  retired.  The  next  day  he  met  General  Barry,  who  said: 
  "Spoon,  old  man,  when  leaving  you  last  evening  I  forgot  to  ask  you 
  about  those  excellent  cigars.  Where  did  you  get  them?" 
  General  Wotherspoon  did  not  deign  to  reply,  but  walked  away 
  "Pardon  me  please,"  said  Barry,  moving  after  him  "I  was  joking 
  of  course.  Why,  I  knew  it  was  not  you  before  I  had  been  in  the  room 
  fifteen  minutes." 
 
 




more about story