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...sound trucks bellowed over the plump pumpkins and the crookneck squash of country fairs, at street corners where the fallen leaves gathered in the gutters. Campaigners' voices rasped hoarsely in the crisp autumn air, and high-school bands thumped and oompahed down main streets to flag-draped platforms. The Great American Game of Politics was in full swing...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: THE CAMPAIGN: How It Looks | 10/23/1950 | See Source »

...advancing cavalrymen. Red mines blew the treads off U.S. tanks and convoys were held up under fire for hours at a time. Air and artillery support could not take all the burden off the troops on the ground. Rockets from F80 Shooting Stars set dry grass and bright autumn foliage ablaze, but failed to smash some Communist redoubts. In the first day of the attack the cavalry took many casualties, moved little more than a mile beyond the parallel. Said one officer: "It's been rough work, rougher than we expected. We had hoped to be 25 miles into...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: BATTLE OF KOREA: No Stop | 10/23/1950 | See Source »

...visitor: "I don't think I shall ever write anything more." Otherwise, said his doctors, their patient was doing well; he was allowed to leave his bed for 90 minutes a day to take wheelchair tours of his flower beds (see cut) and soak up the autumn...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: People: The Calloused Hand | 10/23/1950 | See Source »

...Santa Fe one fine autumn day, the wind tore away the canvas covering a 2-by-4-ft. bas-relief on the wall of an annex to New Mexico's Capitol. The bas-relief looked sullen, weary and very nude and it shocked a passing citizen. At once he told his Baptist minister, who in turn marched off to protest to 65-year-old Governor Thomas J. Mabry that the sculptured figure's reclining position was "extremely suggestive...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: NEW MEXICO: A Matter of Principle | 10/16/1950 | See Source »

...Vermont hills about Ripton, the red fires of autumn smoldered on the swamp maples and sumac, crept inward from branch tips, inched downward into the valley where the river brawls through the gorge. From a slab-wood cabin with its back set firmly against the valley's shoulder, cooking his own meals and dependent on no man, 76-year-old Poet Robert Frost last week faced the world. It is the vantage point he likes best...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Books: Pawky Poet | 10/9/1950 | See Source »

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