Word: pail
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...cream sauce. Since Harvard's staple is ice cream, caramel, butterscotch, chocolate and other goos would be a welcome addition. They have appeared too rarely, so far. Board rates have risen about ten per cent this this year; hopefully some of the increment will go towards a full dinner pail. A good condiment can enhance the best food and disguise the worst...
...Partly Full Dinner Pail. Old Campaigner Nikita Khrushchev addressed 14,000 constituents of his Moscow steel-mill district in Moscow's Luzhniki Sports Palace. "The Soviet people are a people of champions, a trail-blazing people," he proclaimed. "The trust of such a people is a great and lofty honor that must be repaid. I promise to make every effort to live up to the trust." Pointing with pride to Russia's peace-loving protestations, he viewed with alarm "the stubborn unwillingness of certain Western circles" to agree to a summit meeting at once. Khrushchev praised the "immense...
...pail, Silky is what stablemen call a "good doer." He eats like a horse. But the feed never turns to fat; it only stokes Silky's fires. He burns it up according to the dictates of his own four-footed psyche; his jockey is only along for the ride. He breaks from the gate like a common sprinter, races 70 yds., then lags as if his safety valve had popped. Wags in the press box contend that he is a ham who hates to leave the grandstand. And it is a heart-stopping fact to bettors that he begins...
Grapes & Garbage. At length he arrived in the valley, welcomed by a brother who brought a suitcase full of grapes. Then came the job hunting: he carried a lunch pail, as if to assure any sharp-eyed foreman that he was ready for work (even though the pail was empty); once, without being hired, he pitched in on a construction crew, hoping that the supervisor would reward his zeal with pay, and got no pay. When he had only 75? left to his name, he latched on to a job as roustabout in the oilfields...
WRITERS GONE RUSTIC: "Five o'clock finds him up to his elbows in cows. 'The Boy and I finished the milking, and there, in sight of the cows, we sat down with a pail of the rich, warm brew and refreshed ourselves' . . . Then he adds, 'My, how The Boy is shooting up. He is already an inch taller than The Girl.' I don't know what gets into writers when they move to the country. They can't remember the names of their children...