Word: chesting
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...Portadown, Ulster, the Rev. W. P. Nicholson costumed himself to preach his Sunday sermon. He rolled his trousers up to his knees, exposing two fine stretches of fatted calf. He unbuttoned his shirt, baring a chest mottled with a biblical growth of curly hair. Then he mounted his pulpit. "I want to show the girls," he announced to his gasping, giggling, shrinking congregation, "how they look to others when . . . they wear short, sleeveless, low-necked frocks. I strongly . . . condemn such costumes. They bring tears to the eyes of the girls' elders...
...waterfall, roared in his ears; he heard a thudding step behind him; a thread brushed his chest- and someone was wrapping him in a blanket, thumping him on the back, telling him he had made it, had beaten Loucks by a yard after six miles. Third-100 yards behind-struggled Arthur Hillman of Maine, and behind him the gasping, wavering, dogged pack...
...poetry?" He has not added "one more." He explains with becoming lightness that he has tried to pick poems for their mental reaction on the reader; for example, if a person suffers from mental malnutrition, he might prescribe spiritual vitamines. The subtitle of his book is "A Pocket Medicine Chest of Verse." He furnishes 14 packets of medicine for specific mental ailments: "Stimulants for a Faint Heart (Poems of Courage)"; "Mental Cocktails and Spiritual Pick-Me-Ups (Poems of Laughter)"; "Massage for a Muscle-bound Spirit (Poems of Emancipation)"; "Poppy Juice for Insomnia (Soothers and Soporifics)"; "To Deflate...
...animalism firmly rendered, the dialect perfect, the antics convulsing. Porgy, a purple-black beggar with crippled legs and a pungent goat, croons to his scampering dice, prays with his neighbors in Catfish Row, contemplates the insignificance of man. In a shadowy triangle involving Crown, a cinnamon stevedore with a chest like a cotton-bale, and his big wench Bess, Porgy's soul undergoes the extremes of compassion and ruthless violence, much as the city now basks sleepily in hot sun, now is hammered with a furious hurricane, now basks again...
With the exception of "Documentary Adventures in Old New York," there is no prose which can properly be termed interesting; certainly none worthy of being laid away in the cedar chest of memory...