Word: 43rd
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...host again last week. The guests were 986 delegates to the Twentieth World's Conference of the Y. M. C. A., held in North America for the first time since the founding of the Y. M. C. A. in 1844, and some 700 more delegates to the 43rd International Convention of North American Young Men's Christian Associations, held in conjunction with the World Conference...
...undergraduates, an approximation of Wisconsin's Haresfoot Club. Mask & Wig is a wealthy organization, having given a unit of dormitories to its University, and not every performer in the show gets elected to the club. Last week in Manhattan the organization concluded a five-week tour, presenting its 43rd production, East Lynne Gone West, or Virtue Triumphant, Even Unto Death. Squeezing the last few drops of humor from the well-worn procedure of burlesquing the melodramas of the '60s, East Lynne Gone West was for the most part a very solemn affair. The young Mask & Wiggers seemed incapable...
...Pots; Leon Krolls portrait of a baby; Lizabeth Paxton's Deshabille; Ernest Lawson's Colorado Ranch. Of the show as a whole, New York Times Critic Edward Alden Jewell commented: "It often seems as if these artists had been snowed under in the blizzard of 1888-whose 43rd anniversary has just been marked-and emerging at last from the drifts were to be seen taking up life again just where they left it. Most of the sculpture is too discouraging for words...
Rosa Helen Ricchebuono, French-Canadian sister of a nun and two Catholic priests, lived obscurely with her hard-working husband Bernard in a cheap flat on Manhattan's dark, noisy Third Avenue, near 43rd Street. When Bernard would go out evenings to solicit insurance, big, broad-faced Rosa would wave a loving farewell to him from the window. One stifling summer night last year Bernard had gone out and Rosa, after a bath, was puttering about her kitchen in a loose gown. Through the open door strode a great, bullish...
...away the gun and a black silk left-hand glove (anti-finger print), disappeared in the swarm of Chicago's midtown traffic. A warm corpse lying in a bloody welter is not an unusual sight for Chicago. This was Chicago's eleventh murder in ten days, its 43rd thug-killing of the year. But the newsgatherers, camera men and police who soon congregated in the pedestrian tunnel were profoundly impressed, agitated, angry. For this corpse had not been a gangster, or a policeman, or a mere citizen. He was a Newspaper Reporter - Alfred ("Jake") Lingle, the loud...