Word: piped
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...come of age: the 'Cliffe was about to celebrate its fiftieth anniversary. The Edgeworth Tobacco Company, realizing that this attitude was indicative of national womanhood, kept cheering up Harvard men by telling them that, no matter what else the women had taken away, they could take away his pipe. "She'll never smoke a pipe," the company crowed in countless CRIMSON ads; that item is "one pet diversion our little friends keep their fingers...
...quickly became a familiar figure on campus-a small, slight man with precise, courtly manners who was almost always smoking a pipe and wearing a Tyrolean hat. Students soon got used to meeting him out for a solitary walk as late as 2 a.m., or having him show up unannounced to watch an R.O.T.C. drill or a track meet. By last week, as he completed his four-month stay as writer-in-residence, famed Novelist William Faulkner seemed as much a fixture at the University of Virginia as the maples that line the campus...
...trim, grey ranch house in sleepy Manorville, N.Y., seven-year-old Benny Hooper and a playmate whooped and darted through the yard in the supercharged hour before bedtime. Turning his back on the children, Benjamin Kent Hooper, 32, was on his way to the house to get a pipe for the irrigation well he had been hand-digging for the vegetable patch. He heard a scurry, then a shriek: "Benny fell in the hole...
...other like a nest of cups; they were trip-hammered into the loft. wall that separated Benny from his rescuers. At 7:32 p.m., 23 hours and 48 minutes after Benny had plunged down the well, a wiry Negro construction worker named Sam Woodson wormed through the narrow pipe and touched Benny's hand. It was cold as death. Then, as Woodson scrabbled at the imprisoning sand, the boy groaned. Woodson pillowed Benny on his chest and was dragged back out of the pipe by his ankles. The incredulous cry, "He's alive!", swept through the crowd. Benny...
Everywhere there are signs of the prodigious energy of the most dynamic and disturbing artist of his time. Ferocious bronze owls glare from under the palms, a huge stone head of a woman lies in the basin of the fountain, plywood pipe-players are scattered about the lawn. Inside, the three main rooms are jammed. Canvases crowd the walls, spill out of crates. Weird ceramics stand in disheveled confusion on the floor. The rest of the space is taken up by a litter of objects that Picasso collects compulsively, objects that may set him off on a new theme...