Word: lambing
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...because he welcomes it, being glad to sink into his surroundings and show that he belongs there. He is in good company, and once the usual questions have been exchanged about the vacation just over, the ground is cleared. The year begins quietly. It comes in like a lamb...
...baby was born. Nurse Meyer sang out "Male!" The student aid wrote on a piece of adhesive plaster, "Male, No. 70"; slapped the plaster on the baby's back. In the shake of a dead lamb's tail the baby was on its way to the nursery; in a longer jiffy the mother was trundled towards her hospital bed; and interne and nurses washed their hands, turned around for the next case. Ten minutes later Mrs. Sam Smith's own doctor came, looked at hospital records, genially congratulated Sam Smith on the birth...
Usually he avoids company. Except for large, liquid brown eyes, he is unattractive in appearance, small, dark, easily embarrassed, almost shrinking in person. When he avoided college he probably spared himself many miseries. Though he weighs only 125 pounds, his appetite is large . . . steak and lamb chops for breakfast. He sleeps long and soundly. Despite his father's prominence, he is so carefully unobtrusive that he might have reached his present age without attracting more than statistical notice, were it not for his precipitous enthusiasms and precocious successes...
...happiness and education to rich and poor. This is my 50th birthday and I have a favor to ask. I want to hear again from your own lips those immortal phrases which you spoke to me half a century ago." So another voice replied: Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go. The second voice was that of Thomas Alva Edison. The first was really that of one Thomas Chalmers onetime of the Metropolitan Opera Company, but Mr. Edison and his friends pretended that it actually...
...Collins, 307 pounds, waddled into a butcher shop. On the walls hung red, juicy, uncooked animals. Under the glass counter reposed cool, damp, bulging joints of beef. On the counter, in the icebox, lay bloody fowl; flaccid livers; grisly, delicious knuckles; dainty, pink and white lamb chops. The gullet of Mae C. Collins gaped a little. Her small, pleasant, piggy eyes, twinkling behind rolls of fat as round and red as hamburgers, finally fixed on a ponderous porterhouse steak. Seizing it, she waddled out of the butcher shop...