Word: grasse
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Confidently, Mr. Truman saw meat ahead. Grass-fed cattle (chased from high plateaus by cold weather) would soon begin to appear in the markets. Hog feeders, viewing a record corn crop (673,000,000 bushels in Iowa), saw the opportunity to make a profit from feeding to heavier weights, so hogs might be late. But they would be along. "The dire predictions of a meat famine are without basis," said the President: "An increase in prices or the abandonment of price control on meat now would . . . add to rather than solve our difficulties...
Well, said Acme Newspictures, it seems there was a grass-eating, 50 m.p.h. Gazelle Boy-and here's his picture to prove it. At the moment, he's standing still; but at full speed he'd just be a blur. Sure there was a Gazelle Boy, said the U.P.-and here's an eye-witness story by his captor, one Prince Fawaz el Shaalan. A lot of U.S. newspapers and magazines* printed the picture with goggle-eyed captions telling how a jeepload of hunters had cut him out of a herd of gazelles in the Syrian...
Returning to Harvard again after the war, Conant kept up his researches in explosives, and in chlorophyll (the "what makes grass green" factor). As a teacher, he developed a good sense of showmanship to go with his ability to talk in chalk. In the course of one lecture, he whipped an egg out of his pocket, dropped it into a substance which he said would solidify the albumen, whipped it out again and heaved it at the wall over his students' heads. They were relieved to find that the professor was right: the egg bounced...
...Technicolor, with its three colors, had a complete palette. Artistically Technicolor was far superior. But in the sudden public demand for color-(bad movies in color were outgrossing fair black & white ones), Loss figured that audiences would probably not care, as long as the sky was blue and the grass green...
...byways of suburban London. . Like Henry V at Agincourt, the watchers could cry: "We few, we happy few"-for not only is conchophily a rare passion, but membership in the British Snail-Watching Society is rigorously limited to those devotees who take snails with high seriousness. "Lying in the grass, just watching, is not sufficient," says Heaton. The complete conchophilist must know snails in their nocturnal ramblings-as they scale the Himalayas of a graveled garden walk, patiently penetrate the jungles of a zinnia border, or chew the bloom off prize winning Gloire de Dijon roses...