Word: jugs
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Under the Jug. For two nights and a day the hostages huddled under the naphtha jugs. Around them, convicts hopped up on dispensary narcotics and kitchen-made "pruno" alcohol brandished their meat axes and jittered wildly. Rawboned Sociologist Jones, 24, was twice sent out to tell Powell that any move would mean death to the hostages, and to report convict grievances (bucket toilets, young prisoners mixed with older men, a hated state parole commissioner). "It's tighter than hell," he said. "They're shook." Once he went back, as he had promised, to sit under the jugs...
...Wishie Weasel Head got mixed up with an old lady at Heart Butte," read the item in the weekly Browning, Mont. Glacier Reporter (circ. 1,200). "So the old woman pick up a jug of Gallo and whack him over the head and was soaked in wine. He was hospitalized for several days so don't bother an old lady...
...emeritus of the National Bureau of Standards. He is also a longtime baseball fan. His scientific mind was drawn to the great curve-ball controversy. How much does the ball curve-if at all? This week Dr. Briggs made his answers. The ball curves all right, and the biggest jug handle a pitcher can expect to throw is 17.5 in. Ideal curving speed: about 100 ft. per sec. Optimum amount of spin: some 1,800 r.p.m. But, Dr. Briggs adds, ''the speed of the pitched ball has little effect on the amount it curves. The important thing...
Wifey's Buddy. Poe was one of those drinkers to whom one jigger was the same as a jug. He enriched Thomas White, the "illiterate, vulgar although well-meaning" editor of the Messenger, but White was forced to record: "Poe has flew the track." Another time he wrote Poe, fearing "that you would again sip the juice," adding the wisdom of a spacious age: "No man is safe who drinks before breakfast." As if drink were not bad enough, Poe almost certainly was a drug addict; more than one of his fictional characters confessed to being "a bonden slave...
...England's green and pleasant land, few areas are more blighted than Yorkshire's grim and dour West Riding, with its blackened industrial valleys forested with smokestacks, jug-shaped cooling towers, sooty spires and reeking slag heaps. Yet last week, as the Leeds City Art Gallery staged a five-man, 58-piece sculpture show of Yorkshire's native sons, it became abundantly clear that this area of bleak moors is the cradle of Britain's sculpture renaissance...