That was the word the sloppy copyist of yesteryear had wrongly transcribed.
Yesteryear he was mad for the open air, and the games, and the joy of life.
In that moment books and plays seemed like the snows of yesteryear.
Oh, well, all flesh is grass, and there is no grass of yesteryear.
Like the lovers of yesteryear, those of to-day were prisoners.
He writes better about ...