Word: landed
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...Greater use of its "vast land reserves along Soldiers Field Rd.," on the other side of the river. New foot bridges across the Charles would provide accessibility to Houses on the other side...
Castro was in Oriente province, his stronghold during two years of fighting. He talked endlessly, mainly of land redistribution that will include uncultivated U.S.-owned sugar plantations. "The powerful foreign companies that stole it from the state will scream to high heaven," he said, "but it will not do them any good." His program would rest on two principles: "The land should belong to those who work it," and "Those who have no land must have some." Shouted Castro: "We must win our economic freedom and cease being ruled by U.S. ambassadors who have been running our country...
...President was surprised. He had only wanted to reward a blood relative, as he had done in naming his brother Alvaro as head of the government land office, his niece Soledad Ydígoras as chief of procurement for school supplies, and Julia's son Boris as assistant secretary to the President. But Ydígoras switched sides abruptly and grabbed Julia's resignation, announcing that he was heeding "opinions widely held by educational groups." Darkly, Julia declared that "Communists and Mexicans" were against her, announced that "I am no longer to be called Ydígoras...
...Decca Records in the U.S. alone. Last week Modugno, glowing in a powder-blue tuxedo, weepily twanged his latest effort, Piove (It's Raining), at the annual San Remo Song Festival, walked off with the festival prize-no cash, but an Oscar-sized honor in a crooner-crazed land. This week Piove, a mawkish tale about lovers parting at a train station, flowed across the U.S. on hot platters pressure-cooked by Decca, is almost sure to be another smash hit for Modugno. He freely admits that his stuff is pure corn-on-the-sob, but happily asks...
...masterpiece like Mihail Prishvin's His First Point, a wonderfully funny dog story, but most of the tales have the upbeat endings and moral preachments common to slick magazine fiction in the U.S. At their best, the stories are filled with the continuing Russian love of the vast land: there are hard gallops through Caucasian meadows, hunters' frosty dawns, quiet hours in the white nights and birch woods of the north. Without the skill of such masters as Turgenev and Chekhov, the Soviet writers are still modestly working in the same vein of common humanity and still echo...