Word: laying
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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From the hospital bed where he lay dying last month, Henry Wallace wrote a last letter to a 16-year-old grandson in Colorado. "I like your appreciation of the mountains," he said. "They are made for your nose and my nose, for your eyes and my eyes. There are so many new experiences in life. Life is a serious thing for some people, but it can also be joyous if lived with common sense...
...condemn it. Amid cries from African nations for military intervention, the Security Council called for a diplomatic boycott against "this illegal racist minority regime." In London, British Prime Minister Harold Wilson went before a tense House of Commons to brand the declaration as "unwarranted and unnecessary rebellion" and lay down sanctions against the Smith regime. "Heaven knows what crimes will be committed against the concept of the rule of law and of human freedom," said Wilson gravely...
...applaud my landing (there was later). Nor was there any scientific objective to be gained. No, there was a deeper reason for wanting to jump, a desire I could not explain. It was a love of the air and sky, the lure of adventure, the appreciation of beauty. It lay beyond the descriptive words of men-where immortality is touched through danger, where life meets death on equal plane; where man is more than man, and existence both supreme and valueless at the same instant...
...apartment, at least as I saw it that rainy Saturday afternoon, was not unusual. Hot tea boiled on the stove in the kitchen. Japanese sengai paintings hung on the walls, and jars of candy lay around everywhere. Miss P.L. Travers, the creator of Mary Poppins, lived here, in simple splendor of her position as Radcliffe's "writer in residence." But only a few clues to this fact caught...
There were two frisbies, gifts from some admirers, that lay on a table. One had a flower and Miss Travers' name painted on it. She had her typewriter out, along with a dictaphone. But there was little else. The strong-fibered, slightly aging woman who had greeted me at the door was obviously doing some writing--it was impossible to guess what--and she wasn't about to tell anyone...