Word: spruceness
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Yellow Peak. Spruce but hatless, Hoagy had flown into Indianapolis from Los Angeles earlier in the week, dashed straight to the Murat Theater to oversee the rehearsals. Conductor Sevitzky* made room for him next to the podium, and after the photographers had finished crawling under the music racks to snap the new composer, the orchestra got down to work. Hoagy stood by intently, rolling his tongue in his cheeks as he always does when he is composing or listening to a song he has recorded...
Chicagoans had heard much about two of the three, multimillionaire Grain Merchant James Norris, owner of Detroit's Red Wing hockey team, and Charles Deere Wiman, president of the century-old John Deere Plow Co. and brother of Theatrical Producer Dwight Deere Wiman. Virtually unknown was spruce Henry Crown, 53, who took his place (with Norris) on the Rock Island's executive board last week, and began to help run the railroad...
Single-engined bush planes began heading north across the Brooks Range to the Yukon Flats the next morning. Peering out, passengers saw a frozen and desolate scene: a big black river wandering amid a lacework of sloughs, and empty leagues of snow and spruce. The planes landed on a sandbar, took off hurriedly after the muffled Argonauts had hauled their gear out into the sub-zero Arctic wind. More fares ($90 round trip, $50 one way for 165 miles) were waiting...
...artists named Maurer had shows in Manhattan. One was a 99-year-old curiosity, spruce and sprightly Louis Maurer, the last living Currier & Ives illustrator, whose traditional sporting prints and genre scenes had sold like hotcakes in the mid-19th Century. The other was slender, sad-eyed Alfred, his 62-year-old bachelor son, who painted hard-to-sell pictures of elongated, wistful shop girls and abstractions of heads and still lifes that were anything but traditional. Papa Maurer's show was a huge success to which son Alfy's was little more than a half-noticed footnote...
George Harold Edgell spends his working hours in Boston's Museum of Fine Arts, of which he is director. In his spare time, spruce, 62-year-old Edgell practices a rare and, he fears, a vanishing skill: hunting the wild bee.* Last week, in a pithy little book, The Bee Hunter (Harvard University Press; $2.50), he let the rest of the U.S. in on his secrets...