Word: yorkers
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...Baxter in Lord Beaverbrook's Evening Standard, "when American taxi drivers do not engage a stranger in conversation. This time the canaries did not sing . . . When I asked a friend for an explanation, he answered that America is haunted by two spectres-war and peace . . . Incidentally, a New Yorker who has lived on the fringe of world affairs . . . suggested to me that Japan might be invited to take over Korea . . . 'Japanese armament shares have had a sharp rise,' he said suavely. I make no comment on his statement, but merely put it on the record...
...make money." Office wags joke that in one more generation, or perhaps two, the Star will need no help at all from outside families. The top "outsider" on the Star is Editor McKelway. He is also the only non-family stockholder. McKelway, brother of The New Yorker's St. Clair McKelway, was given one share so that he could sit on the paper's board...
This week, Lucky Billo engaged in his last big diplomatic chore, lent his official presence to the inauguration of Mexico's new President (see HEMISPHERE). Then, as he went off to relax on the sands at Acapulco, many a New Yorker guessed that he would settle down south of the border for good, to bask in the southern sun and enjoy the admiration of the understanding Latins, and perhaps reflect cozily, like a retired Houdini recalling the box trick, on his old adventures in practical politics...
...Manchester Guardian, Evening Standard and Telegraph. He was an editor in India, a correspondent in Moscow and Washington, and his articles on the 1952 presidential campaign were just about the best in the British press. Newsman Muggeridge has always been as close a reader of The New Yorker and TIME and LIFE as of Punch. In Punch's own way, Muggeridge may bring to the magazine timeliness together with the suavity of The New Yorker's notes and comment. Says Muggeridge: "Punch must comment on the world today . . . I'm as pleased as punch [with...
...Charlotte's Web, The New Yorker's E. B. White retires, as all city intellectuals should, to a roomy barn on a large farm. Here, on a cosy dung heap, he sets Wilbur, a runt that is never likely to make much of a pig-a sort of porcine Cinderella, in fact. But thanks to bottle feeding by a little girl, Wilbur waxes so stout that he is a cinch to become the farmer's Christmas dinner. Wilbur's hard plight-considered first too puny, then too appetizing to live-excites the pity of a spider...