Word: hatchets
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...soft, wet soil of Arrowe Park, Birkenhead, where Scout tents had been bogged for a fortnight, Baron† Baden-Powell buried what he soon described as a golden hatchet. Next he handed round golden arrows, one to each national Scout leader. Finally beloved "B. P." cried in his rich, booming bass voice...
...prove a cad, the other would enjoy the cabin as a quasi-nuptial chamber. All this is true of The First Law. Since it was written by Dmitry Schlegov, a Soviet Russian, the British fiance is the cad. He is removed by the Bolshevik in a tussle over a hatchet. The problem is then posed as to whether the girl could live happily with her Russian in his own striving milieu, minus Claridge's and cabriolets. The stolid Slav does not think so, plods off alone. These platitudinous doings are described as "the first play to come...
...viewed in the light of the apparently minor incidents on which they are invariably based. Beneath all this past exchange of blows, Harvard plays Princeton on the Yale golf course today. A natural corollary might be a meeting of Harvard and Princeton undergraduates on Yale soil to bury the hatchet. The suggestion is not new. It was proferred by the Yale Student Council at the time of the break. It might still succeed on one condition: that it be an undergraduate meeting. Let the alumni stay home and cut paper dolls. Yale Daily News
...Scout hatchet, drinking cups, sleeve less sweaters, knickerbockers, an oiled sheet (for a tent), a fox terrier (for luck). No man molested them - neither bandit, desperado, nor escaped Siberian convict. They lived on the land, eating black bread and water, berries, mushrooms, honey, milk. After five years in Russia (they were working on "educational-economics" at famed Kuzbas Colony, some 2,000 mi. east of Moscow when young Spring came to their feet) they returned to Manhattan bearing only a gift towel. They care absolutely nothing for property. Said Dr. Elsie Reed Mitchell: "Once when we slept in a natural...
There is a Mrs. Maude Wilson living in Kansas City, Mo., 228 miles away. Mrs. Maude Wilson has an 18-year-old daughter who drank, last week, some gin in a speakeasy. When Mrs. Maude Wilson heard about this, she behaved not unlike the late Carrie Nation. Seizing a hatchet, she rushed to the speakeasy, swung high, swung low, shattered a mirror, windows, gin glasses. Barflies cheered her; bartenders ran out into the alley. Police came, but they did not arrest her. Cried she: "I warned them [bartenders] not to sell liquor to my daughter...