Word: haired
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Dates: during 1950-1950
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...wall; the Air Force's handsome, greying General Hoyt Vandenberg, lounging long-legged in his leather chajr; the Army's peppery, prow-chinned General Joe Collins, who likes to do a lot of the talking. At Bradley's left sat a pink-faced man with thin hair who wears his four-star admiral's uniform with the careful air of a Sunday-best suit...
...surprisingly strong showing. Top man of this group is General Nicholas Plastiras, 67, a hero of the Greco-Turkish war of 1922, in which he was known to the Greeks as "The Black Horseman" and to the Turks as "Black Pepper" (what's left of his raven hair is now white). Plastiras led an antiRoyalist coup in 1922; he intended to execute Prince Andrew, father of Britain's Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, but a British destroyer dashed up and rescued Andrew from Plastiras. Later, Plastiras was deposed and exiled...
...usual breezy job, apologized to her readers for one omission: she had felt she must leave the courtroom when the autopsy testimony got too grisly. Reporter Robb was also the source of some innocent merriment in Manchester; townspeople tittered at the big-city blue tint of her grey hair. But Manchesterites were not amused when Correspondent Nicolas Chatelain of Paris' Le Figaro patronizingly observed that Manchester's French Canadians speak a quaint "17th Century" French. One of the local pastors denounced Chatelain as just "a former dishwasher," and a French-Canadian society lodged a formal protest with...
...best. True, there was not always money for new sets, and casting problems were sometimes insoluble. "When an artist's health fails two hours before curtain or he collapses in mid-aria," says easygoing Edward Johnson, "you have problems. Those are the things that give a man white hair." But some of the Met's ailments-clumsy staging, sloppy ensembles, a tendency to be unimaginative about new sets-might have been cured by a more demanding and more disciplinary hand...
...drilled them down, and then one day I took them to the seashore and lost them. Bless my soul, how I cried! My little handkerchief was soaked. And when I came home to tea that night, blubbering and late, my dear old Granny-God bless 'er, her hair was white as snow and her soul whiter still-she says to me: 'Little Archie, cheer up!' she says. 'For God is good and one day you'll find your little wooden soldiers again.' And oh, good God, she was right; I have. YOU WOODEN STIFFS...