Word: carcasses
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...last week. He had been investigating ruins and legends problematically indicative of Norse settlements in America a thousand years ago. Maine coastal towns turned out to welcome their state's special hero. The Field Museum of Chicago rejoiced at the prospect of receiving a 1,500-pound walrus carcass and other specimens...
...source is not known, is tender and sweet. Toasted grasshoppers have a nutty flavor. Earth worms, washed clean and gently stewed, have a tangy tartness. Eels even cooked retain their stench of the sea. Snakes. . . . An atavistic nausea sickened the boys. Black jungle folk might drool over the carcass of a boa constrictor. But Penn State students! None the less they were themselves to eat snake flesh to maintain a college tradition. Goggly-eyed, some watched their cook strip the skin from five rattlesnakes, gut them, parboil the sleek joints. The 20 freshmen ate, wearing the green grin of bravado...
Died. Pongo, ship's bitch of the S. S. City of Oran; buried with full marine honors (the British Union Jack wrapped about her carcass) off Australia. In seven years at sea she had travelled "a million miles," visited nearly every country, known Limehouse ratruns, Manhattan piers, street fights in her native (presumably) Calcutta. She worked her passages carrying squigees and swab sticks, guarding the gangway, doing amusing tricks...
Prophylaxis. Undercooked pork should never be eaten, even though passed by Government inspection. Federal officers inspect a piece of every slaughtered hog with a microscope, but sometimes the parasites have not invaded the carcass so far as the piece seen. Pork should be cooked for from two and a half to three and a half hours at about 137° F., a period and temperature which will surely kill the trichinae. Smoking or salting pork will kill the worms near the surface, but deeper down they can continue to live...
...home anywhere, in a curious, amused, detached sort of way. They tell of Irish charm. One sees it in varying quantities. James Stephens has more of it in the crook of his little finger than any other Shamrock wearer I have ever met has in his whole carcass. Small, wiry, with an effort almost of crookedness in the bend of his walk, with a face crinkled and traced by the ways of much laughter, he is constantly making his little jokes. Something of the mystic, something of the comedian and a little of the clown, he looks at life with...