Word: cigar
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Yellow lights glowed from all four floors of an abandoned cigar factory in Newark, N. J. one night last week. A sickle moon hung in the sky. From the upper windows came susurrous sounds, growing louder and louder, a whisper repeated a hundredfold, until finally the whole neighborhood rang and rang with the cries: "Isn't it wonderful! Peace! Peace! Peace! Ain't it wonderful! OOooh! Peace! Peace...
Puffer In West Paterson, N. J. a crowd gathered around a parked automobile to watch 23-month-old Charles Normand III and his father, a steam shovel operator, puff black cigars. Baby Normand's mother explained that he had started to smoke his father's cigars at 14 months, now has one of his own each night at cribtime. Whenever he sees a cigar or pipe, Baby Normand says: "'Moke, 'moke! me want." He does not inhale...
...lives with his wife at Lyonhurst, succeeds Mr. Albright. The Mather tradition goes on. Director Cammerer, tall, browned, 49 and a good mixer, has not seen his new domain in years. While supervising east ern parks, he has puttered expertly in his two-acre Lyonhurst garden, chewing an unlit cigar. In the Eastern service he has already erected a monument to himself. It was he who handled the acquisition - through State help, private grants, $5,000,000 from the Laura Spellman Rockefeller Foundation - of the lands for Great Smoky Mountains Park, in eastern Tennessee and western North Carolina. The park...
During the week Londoners picked as their favorite character in the U. S. Delegation tall, breezy Texas ranching tycoon Ralph W. Morrison. Not much concerned with Conference backstairs intrigue (see p. 15), Mr. Morrison sat through more Conference sessions than any other U. S. Delegate, puffed a fat cigar in pleasant ignorance that all the little signs reading "Prière de ne pas fiimcr" meant "Please do not smoke...
...years largely with sailing up & down the Atlantic Coast on his steam yacht Lyndonia, summering at his beloved Camden, Me., eating simple fare like baked beans and fish cakes. Once in a great while he would wander into the office of New York Evening Post, invariably stopping at the cigar stand in the lobby to buy a copy of his paper for 3?. As diffidently as an old man who wanted to ask the editor to print a letter about the flower beds in Central Park, he would venture through the editorial offices, exchanging nods with reporters whose names...