Word: frostes
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...Breath. From the Gulf and from Canada, warm and icy air rushed together to form the whirling center of a new storm. Over Abilene, Tex. the clouds turned copper with dust, while a steely blue frost wandered across the Little Big Horn. As the languid, wet air swirled above the cold, it began to generate wind, sleet, thunder and lightning. One bolt killed a woman in Wever, Iowa in the midst of a driving blizzard. At Whittemore, 230 miles away, a bridal couple was unhappily snowbound in a house with 50 wedding guests...
Crisis at the Crillon. In Britain, the Thames was frozen over at Windsor, and primroses just budding in Wales withered in the frost. Alarming reports came from Kent, where snowed-in pubs were running out of beer. But the cold wave brought far more serious hardships and economic dangers to Britain. Trains and trucks stood idle, schools and factories had to shut down as the coal shortage shut off heat and electric power. Office workers strained their eyes by candlelight. Water mains and pipes broke everywhere (since Britons stubbornly cling to the illusion that their winters are never very cold...
Thus Virginia Woolf, in Orlando, described Britain's legendary Great Frost in the reign of King James I. Last week, no birds froze in flight, no peasant girls were pulverized. But Britain and the Continent were gripped by their worst cold wave in decades. Before it finally eased off somewhat this week, it had seriously added to Europe's manifold miseries. Icy blasts from a high pressure area over Scandinavia struck through crumbling walls and patched clothes. Ice creaked in Venice's lagoons, and gondolas carried snowy canopies. Sicilian roads were blocked by snow. In Stockholm...
...also be big business. So this winter, the first big postwar season, Canada's hundreds of winter resorts are spending thousands of dollars to promote winter sports. For those who wanted them, there is still snowshoeing, sleigh and dog-team rides and tobogganing. But the real frost king is the ski business...
Some of the poetry shows the kind of quality "Radditudes" should feature from cover to cover. "R. Frost," by Nancy A. Hood achieves clarity and avoids slushiness, a rare combination in youthful poetry. (The "R" presumably stands for "Robert.") Two poems by Nickie Raphaelson are short, neat, and talented, and some sort of prize was won by Marylon Buckley for three cinquains, but they have that vague quality of profound meaningless that could only be appreciated by an aesthete in a sleepy mood...