Word: cigars
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...staunch red skin who stares with uplifted arm across Mt. Auburn Street from his concrete pedestal in front of Arthur's English Smoke Shop is one of the last survivors of the tribe of wooden Indians that formerly guarded the entrance of cigar stores throughout the United States...
...days later, on their wedding anniversary, at a few minutes before 2 p. m., Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge, with Mr. and Mrs. Frederick H. Gillett, Mr. and Mrs. Frank W. Stearns, C. Bascom Slemp, marched into the President's box at the ball park. The President smoked a cigar. Babe Ruth came to shake hands. The President threw out a ball and the game was on. Mrs. Coolidge kept a box score and yelled lustily; the President, not so lusty at first, perked up as the game went to an exciting finish. He was the first man to rise...
...CRIMSON on the Harvard Catholic Forum seems to me unfortunate. The Episcopal Church, and particularly the most ardently Catholic portion of it, has reiterated times without number, its complete detachment in regard to the debate of the Fundamentalists and Modernists (both names are about as appropriate as the average cigar label) which divides most of the Dissenting Sects. Mr. Wim. Jennings Bryan's sad dilemma of "the Rock of Ages and the age of rocks" simply can not exist for the Catholic Churchman. There is no more real conflict between natural science and the Church, so long as each remains...
...Administrator *James Hamilton Lewis is "the U. S. political beau." Spats, pink waistcoats, purple handkerchiefs, whiskers of scarlet hue he wears with infinite variety. In his fighting days, he would go to the toughest wards of Chicago, dressed in his gayest, huge flower in his lapel, fat and fragrant cigar in his mouth. His audacity melted the hearts of the toughs- and toughs vote with their hearts...
...card game. After that Hugh shipped on the Bald Eagle with Captain Hargusson and went up and down the Mississippi. That is about all. Mark Twain, conjurer, used to tell about the Mississippi; and every page or two, he would come out from behind his screen and have a cigar with the reader?or a drink, maybe. Mr. Boyd does not use tobacco, in a literary way. His style is as impersonal as the river, and as grave. But, on that unlaughing surface, a boat is reflected, slipping down the river under a moon like a golden poker chip; people...