Word: doctorate
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...circulates through the body, imaginative surgeons tried to transfuse sheep's blood into human patients weakened by too generous bloodletting. Since they had never heard of such things as protein compatibility, it is small wonder that most patients died. In 1678 the French Parliament banned transfusions. Nowadays, no doctor would dream of transfusing animal blood to man. But last week, the medical world was again agog over a report that Italian physicians had used a sheep's blood to help clear the system of a woman dying of mercury poisoning...
...does all this survive? Most British schools have a new generation every six years; play-yard lingo ought to be highly perishable. Yet the Opies found little girls skipping to "Little fatty doctor, how's your wife?/ Very well, thank you, she's all right," a chant that goes back at least 130 years. Measured in school time, it has had more than 20 generations of wear. Children find it as fresh as ever...
Misplaced Modifier. In Louisville, while trying energetically to pronounce a difficult word in a Russian-language class, University of Louisville Coed Brooke Johnston dislocated her jaw, had her mouth shut by a doctor, could not open it again for a fortnight, had no recourse but to drop the course...
Springfield-born Vachel Lindsay never really escaped the influence of his parents; his country-doctor father paid his keep until he was 34, and his mother, a tireless church worker (Disciples of Christ) and temperance lecturer, bound him so closely that he remained a tormented celibate into his mid-40's. Vachel tried first to be a doctor and later an artist, but at Hiram College he made good conversation and bad grades. He wandered to New York, wrote verse, painted, and sent passionate letters of contrition when his hard-pressed parents suggested that...
Handkerchiefs Ready. A typical sob-coaxer is entitled Doctor Marigold. No doctor. Marigold is actually an itinerant peddler hawking his household wares from the footboard of his cart. His termagant wife cruelly beats their little daughter. During one of his spiels to the assembled yokelry, the wan and feverish tot dies in his arms. Turning on his wife, Marigold cries "Oh woman, woman, you'll never catch my little Sophy by her hair again, for she has flown away from you!" A paragraph later, Mrs. Marigold commits suicide (the river route). Handkerchiefs must be kept at the ready...