Word: coal-black
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Moss grown on a human skull, the thigh bone of a hanged man, the ashes of a coal-black cat's head, animal excrement, black tips of crab's claws, burned hart's horn, toads, newts, serpents-these were medi- eval medicaments whose use has not yet entirely disappeared. Last week the American Medical Association reported a Frenchman's use of viper heads as a diuretic. Professor G. Billard of the Uni-versity of Clermont was consulted in a young girl's case of scarlet fever. Her kidneys would not function. Professor Billard had recently...
...Many a U. S. citizen, white and colored, has heard Paul Bustill Robeson, in the flesh or on a phonograph record, sing "Ol' Man River," "Water Boy" and many another movingly mournful song of his race. Those who have seen him know he is young (32), tall, powerful, coal-black, has a modest, engaging stage presence. Singer Robeson is married. His wife, much smaller, much less dark than he, sings for an audience too, but only sings her husband's praises. Paul Robeson, Negro is partly biography, partly propaganda for the "new," educated Negro, partly a paean...
...statuary. Possibly no statues in the whole murky city are better known or more consistently photographed than the two living statues that guard Britain's War Office-the living mounted sentries of the Horse Guards. Splendid, remote and eternal, they stand in their little sentry boxes: two coal-black horses, currycombed to satin smoothness; two six-foot troopers in jackboots, silver breastplates, plumed helmets. Not even when irreverent trippers tempt the chargers with raw carrots, or drop peanut shells into the troopers' boot tops, do they move...
...Twenty years ago, in a poor saloon on the outskirts of Baku, near the factory quarters, one could meet a badly dressed young man with crooked nose, low forehead and coal-black hair. He was a Georgian, the publisher of the workmen's paper. He called himself Koba, Nischeradse, Tschischikov, Ivanovitsch, and, lastly, Stalin. His real name was Josef Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili...
...Teddy, coal-black boiler room cat at the Metropolitan Opera, last week momentarily disrupted a performance of Turandot. As the curtain rose for the third act, Signor Lauri-Volpi, my stage lover, was disclosed supposedly asleep on the steps of my palace. Teddy advanced toward him across the stage. Box-holders jerked their opera glasses into position. Others opened wide their eyes. There was tittering, laughter and one great solemn guffaw. Teddy prowled on. Lauri-Volpi rose to sing. The audience roared. I, offstage, about to go on, had hard work to keep the severe demeanor of the cold Chinese...