Word: damp
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...when Joseph found her there he would think the top part of the tree had fallen on her. There was a thunder storm that night, and Musket, who was an old dog and had just had a somewhat exhausting love affair, was annoyed at having to sniff about the damp slippery woods all night. In the morning Joseph found Metabel and promised that he would not cut down any more ash trees. He even kissed...
First, there were 30 pages of the manuscript of the Life. These had not been closed in the ebony trunk, but had, since the death of Boswell, reposed in a Scottish garret where the air was as damp as oatmeal. When Lord Talbot stooped to gather this sheaf of merry memories, the bundle had crumbled in his hand into a little flutter of yellowish flakes. Only 30 pages could be gathered again. These, a gay jumble of antique anecdotes, had been joined and backed with gauze so that they might last perhaps forever. The manuscript of An Account of Corsica...
...learn more about this plow and he told me more than TIME had. For your information there are tivo blades to it. The tractor that drags it is equipped with a generator from which the current passes from share to share under the soil, which must be damp to insure good transmision. The current thus electrocutes all insect life in its path and also it fixes nitrogen from the atmosphere into the soil thus fertilizing the field...
...that smelled a little of horses and saddles, pranced off the track. A stable man leading him rubbed the horse's nose, then looked down at his hand quickly. It was covered with blood. Dice, suddenly tired, stood stiffly while bright red drops made a pattern on the damp turf. Four hours later, blood still pouring out of his nose from a lung hemorrhage, Dice died...
...Newark, N. J., Mae C. Collins, 307 pounds, waddled into a butcher shop. On the walls hung red, juicy, uncooked animals. Under the glass counter reposed cool, damp, bulging joints of beef. On the counter, in the icebox, lay bloody fowl; flaccid livers; grisly, delicious knuckles; dainty, pink and white lamb chops. The gullet of Mae C. Collins gaped a little. Her small, pleasant, piggy eyes, twinkling behind rolls of fat as round and red as hamburgers, finally fixed on a ponderous porterhouse steak. Seizing it, she waddled out of the butcher shop...