Word: alee
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...must to all men, death came last week to 74-year-old, white-maned Aleš Hrdlička (pronounced Alesh Hur-dlich-ka), second great physical anthropologist to die within a year. Like Franz Boas (TIME, Jan. 4), the Smithsonian Institution's scholar was no dull academician, although even on trips to the ends of the earth he wore "gates ajar" collars. Hrdlička did much to disprove Nazi race dogma. For many summers he hunted in Alaska and the Aleutians for proof that aborigines came to America over those steppingstones. He denied that high brows indicate...
...right. Look at the state of Harvard today. Babies in the Yard can be born, or even clotheslines, after all, e'est laguerre. But ask a Freshman what "Reiu hardt" means, and he'll probably tell you (and after does) that it's a brand of ale. Ask him to sing "Harvardiana," or even "Fair Harvard," and he mumbles about "a physics lab" and his eyes dart around, for all the world like a cornered ferret's, as he tries to sneak past you. Does anyone know who John the Orangeman was, or Max Keezer? My God, there are people...
Focus and locus of most of Author Mitchell's studies is the environs of McSorley's Old Ale House, which for 88 years has resisted change just off Cooper Square, where Manhattan's skidroad-the Bowery-ends. McSorley's has also provided a haven for Manhattan's literary transients-writers, newshawks, painters, poets (grateful Poet e. e. cummings once immortalized mcsorley's: "Inside snug and evil. ... the Bar tinkling luscious jigs dint of ripe silver with warmlyish wetflat splurging smells waltz the glush of squirting taps. . . ." The venerable saloon still has soup bowls instead...
...feeding time, no matter how brisk business was, Bill McSorley would leave the bar and bang the bottom of a tin pan. "The fat cats would come loping up, like leopards, from all corners of the saloon." If Bill wanted to close up while customers were still drinking their ale, he would drum on the bar with both fists, shout: "Now, see here, gents! I'm under no obligoddamnation to stand here all night while you baby them drinks...
Women are still firmly excluded from McSorley's. Once a Greenwich Village feminist, disguised as a man, ordered an ale from Proprietor Bill McSorley. She downed first the ale, then her hair. Then she scrammed. Said the amazed McSorley between a moan and a bellow: "She was a woman! She was a goddamn woman...