Word: bows
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Long before William Tell displayed his skill with bow & arrow, Saxon wood carvers engaged in a sport called Vogelschiessen (shooting at wooden birds perched on poles). Last week, at Saxony Rest near Milwaukee, 400 of their U. S. descendants gathered for their annual jamboree and Vogelschiessen tournament...
Musty, tiny Bow Street Police Court in London opened one day last week with a case of two Irishmen caught fighting in the street. Later a prostitute was arraigned. As Chief Magistrate Sir Rollo Graham-Campbell was hearing evidence on this case, a tall, 42-year-old Danish Count, wearing a blue serge suit, carrying a brief case, strode in. Next entered a slender blonde young woman, formerly an American citizen, twice-married, once-divorced. The flashily dressed streetwalker bounced out of court. Shaggy-browed Sir Patrick Hastings, noted British barrister, rose, be to outline the case, that of Countess...
...department, assistant Sunday editor, Sunday editor, women's editor of Liberty when it was owned by the McCormick-Patterson interests. She and Publisher Patterson are old, old friends. Three of her four broth ers fought through the World War in the 149th Field Artillery of the 42nd (Rain bow) Division, in which her husband was a captain. By his first wife, Mrs. Alice Higinbotham Patterson, who divorced him five weeks ago, Bridegroom Patterson has four children: Elinor, Alicia, Josephine, James...
...should set foot in England. Her charge: The Count, whom she is trying to divorce in Denmark, had threatened her with bodily harm. The Count, in Paris, ordered his luggage packed, took train and boat to London. Scotland Yard officials politely whisked him to famed old Dickensian Bow Street Police Court, where his lawyer, Norman Birkett, who got the Duchess of Windsor her divorce from Mr. Simpson, asked to have the case postponed. Agreeing, the Chief Magistrate stipulated that: The Count must: 1) not try to see his wife; 2) refrain from toting a gun; 3) post $10,000 bail...
Presently he replaced the instrument. A bell rang aboard the Q. E. D. Mother Fokker's call had been the launching signal. A wicker-jacketed bottle of Zuyder Zee water burst against the yacht's bow, workmen knocked away the keel blocks, loosed the hawsers, and the Q. E. D. started down the ways. But before more than a few feet of her hull had entered the water, she came to a dead stop. Her stern was stuck in gooey Harlem mud, there to list forlornly until the next high tide floated her up, long past midnight...