Word: deeps
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...millstones of the presidency had changed Harry Truman in many ways; they had sharpened his temper, given him poise, an almost cocky assurance, and a deep faith in his own destiny. But last week, as he observed the fourth anniversary of his first day in office, it was obvious that nothing had altered the President's Missouri flavor, his small-town neighborliness, or his appetite for homely jollity...
...laws are being repealed. Nine states got rid of anti-margarine legislation during the last two years; the Senate has a bill before it now to kill the Federal oleo tax. It has been a hard and unusual fight. A recent House measure wanted to give oleo an attractive deep Sunkist orange hue. An eminent lobbyist has stated that yellow is "butter's own color," and that if margarine makers wanted a color they could damn well dye their stuff green. The oleo-makers retaliated to this with a barrage of bright yellow advertisements. One southerner fought heroically for butter...
Again & again, the word would come from somewhere: "Only a couple of hours more now." Again & again, there were fresh delays: Tempers were short; arguments flared over what might have been done. At last diggers, deep in the shaft, began to tunnel laterally toward Kathy's iron prison. Whitey was only a few shovelfuls away from the well pipe, when he was hauled to the surface, his face angry and set. There was water in his boots. Slowly at first, then faster, water poured into the tunnel. Digging stopped...
...Others relieved him. The lateral tunnel began to cave in. The low talk of the workmen was carried over the loudspeaker. "It's caving to beat the band," said the voice below. Timbers went down for shoring. The men worked on, regardless of danger, or bone-deep fatigue. Little O. A. Kelly leaned back wearily when he was pulled to the surface, and swore: "I'm going in there and I'm coming out with that little girl in my arms...
...Deep in the Mojave Desert, across the San Gabriel Mountains and 70 miles inland from Los Angeles, lies a strange, unnatural lake. It is eleven miles long and four miles wide, with clearly defined shores and what look like beaches. But, except for a short time after a rare desert rain, the lake has no water. Its smooth and precisely level surface is cement-hard dark-red mud. Its one surface craft is a weathered wooden dummy battleship, built long ago as a bomber target. Above it, in the bright desert sky, thunder the real craft of Muroc Dry Lake...