Word: milkings
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Beanball. In Chicago, Milkman William Arneson spotted a thief running away from his delivery truck with a crate of eggs and 13 pounds of butter, knocked him out by hurling a half-gallon bottle of milk, proudly identified himself to police as pitcher for the Bowman Dairy Baseball Team...
Frenchmen like Pinay because he boldly attacked the problem that troubled them most: high retail prices. In his four weeks in office, butter prices had fallen from 880 to 760 francs per kilo; milk and cheese were down 15%. Pinay had worked no miracles (meat prices are still rising). As a right-wing businessman, he had merely consulted the men he knows best: France's business leaders. He persuaded department-store owners to back a price reduction campaign. He called it "Save the Franc." Some cynical shoppers thought the price cuts were more apparent than real; still, they were...
...musk ox, first of all, is not an ox. Its true name: ovibos (literally, sheep-ox). Also, it has no musk sacs. It gives tasty milk, produces one of the softest wools known to man, and yields meat (though only if killed) which tastes like a combination of mutton and beef. Teal plans to lead an expedition to Ellesmere Island in the Canadian archipelago next autumn (when this year's crop of musk-ox calves will have reached the size of police dogs), snatch eight of the small fry from their mothers, and bring them back to his Vermont...
...even when (and if) the eight musk oxen grow to maturity in Vermont, a few problems will remain to be settled. Nobody milks musk oxen, since the beast regards any man, with or without a bucket in his hand, as a mortal enemy. So far, milk has been obtained from them by the simple process of shooting the cow before milking -a practice probably too expensive in the long run for thrifty New England. Nobody clips them, either, but fortunately the animal sheds some of his hair in the spring, and anyone patient enough to follow him around and pick...
...face of it, Hardy was poorly endowed for poetry. He has none of Tennyson's elegance, little of Browning's knack for the whiplash phrase. His music creaks, his language limps. One critic compared his rhythms to the rattling of a milk cart, and Author Blunden, with more justice, writes that Hardy the poet "is ever on the road . . . tackling the stony hill rises...