Word: mudding
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...Hooligans rushed out to beat God's ex-wrestler with clubs and try to pull him off his horse. He did not retaliate. "Anything for Jesus," he called out hoarsely, and rode on, bleeding and battered, supported in his saddle by white-faced fellow soldiers. Although pelted with mud, the bandsmen continued to blow bravely on their instruments. General William Booth stood up in the carriage, beard flying and beak nose pointing to heaven, to direct his soldiers of the gospel and lead them, bedraggled and bloody, into Sheffield's Albert Hall for a revival meeting...
...York, and many of the 80 surrounding towns which suck like clustering leeches on its water lines, were getting perilously close to that unimaginable point at which water would no longer run from millions of kitchen faucets. Its dams stood high and dry above great barren expanses of frozen mud; only 33.4% of the city's 253 billion gallons of stored water was left and the supply was being relentlessly lowered at a rate of some 800 million gallons every...
...involved as a game of pick-up-sticks. What the U.S. entrants lacked in know-how they almost made up for in energy and imagination. Joseph Hirsch's Journey-an old man and a boy on a burro-looked as if it had been painted with mud from under the back stoop, and its only hint of Christmas was the sharp red of a couple of poinsettias in the boy's hand. But the red, contrasted with the dirty gloom of the rest of the picture, was enough; it made Journey one of the most moving canvases...
Many less fortunate newcomers, officially labeled by the refugee administration as "that group of persons which is not to be harbored in the Western zones," live in "wild camps" which are little more than mud holes-simply because there is no more room for them in the regular camps. Among the refugees, Communist agitators are busy extolling the glories of East Germany which they have left behind. Cried one rabble-rouser in a speech at Wiirzburg recently: "We have only one road-back home, barefooted and in our underclothes...
...several hundred oil scouts, brokers, geologists and gawking neighbors around the tin-hatted crew working the rig on a 128-ft. oil derrick. As Joe and they watched, there was a cough and a sputter; then a stream of oil shot out 30 ft. and poured into the mud sump pit. Joe York rubbed his hands in the oil, smelled it and smiled. "I guess I won't have to go back to milking those Jersey cows," he said. The oil scouts took but one look and one sniff, jumped in their cars and raced for telephones...