Word: burrows
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...fortnight ago Cecil crawled through the barrier and snuggled into Penelope's burrow. Hope soared. But one day when the platypus keeper went to find Penelope, she was gone. She had apparently slithered under her wire-mesh roof. At week's end an unhappy posse at the Bronx Zoo was still scouting the 250-acre compound. They hoped that Penelope had not ended up in the Bronx River or the Jersey flats. Cecil just scratched his stomach and fed his ego. Where once there were two, he was now the only platypus in captivity-outside Tasmania and Australia...
...head, remarked: "It sounds like tick paralysis, so be sure to look for a tick." Attendants found an engorged tick embedded in Myrna's hair,, its head deep in her scalp. A doctor sprayed the area with ethyl chloride, which froze the tick so that it could not burrow deeper (as ticks do when disturbed), worked it out with a pair of tweezers, taking care not to break off the head. Within little more than an hour, Myrna was twitching her legs and whimpering. Next day she went home, fully recovered...
...anymore. But people still try. Louis M. Lyons writes that "Boston has probably had more reform organizations per square foot than any other great city." But few people seem to care. While sky highways are built over much of the North End, and a parking lot will some day burrow underneath the Common, the middle mostly gathers years. When the Museum of Natural History left its ancient quarters by Berkeley Street, the building wasn't destroyed as it should have been; Bonwit-Teller's came, with curtains, and the building looks even older yet. Lacking high buildings, long vistas...
...might spend one's life pleasantly and very profitably with the secondary writers of the English nineteenth century, the writers whom no one would think to call 'great,' the odd quirky spirits from George Burrow to Mark Rutherford, the travelers, the autobiographers, the essayists, the men who had a particular, perhaps eccentric, thing to say, and said it fully and well, with delight in what they were doing and no worry about greatness. And England is still able to produce and respond to these secondary figures. With us, however, the writer must be great or he is nothing; or believed...
...seemed that some 30,000 gulls nested on Kent Island, an island in the Bay of Fundy. There also was a bird called the Leach's Petrel, which nested in burrows. "Petrels have a smell," said Jim. "You get down on your knees and smell the entrance to a burrow ... well, it's distinctive. You reach your arm in and if you're lucky you'll find a bird or an egg or both.... We would listen for the call at night. The call is in two parts--well, I'd know it if I heard it again...