Word: sprouted
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1950-1959
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...Skeeter, a likable 14-year-old who lives with his illiterate uncle in a shack on the edge of a Mississippi swamp. Life is simple to the point of vacuity-a little huntin', a little fishin', some wood cuttin' when the groceries run low. "Swamp sprout" that he is, Skeeter dreams mostly of a "li'l old" shotgun. Uncle Jesse has his dream too: he's going to get him a set of "Roebuckers" (false teeth) so he can "eat me a bait of hicker' nuts" and "enough roasting ears to kill a goat...
...goes on forever. In this, his 28th cinemusical, the patriarch (54) of hard-shoe goes on right handsomely with the help of a new partner who can fill the shoes-and the nylons-of the best of Astaire's former dancing partners. Cyd Charisse is a sinuously lovely sprout who has elegantly survived the trampling of regiments of chorus boys in a half-dozen movie ballets. Now, with Astaire at the hip, she finally has a full-fledged dancing-and-speaking part, not that she has to speak to get the audience's attention...
Every four years, the nation develops a fetish for meetings. Smoke belches forth from numerous rooms, buttons sprout like the artificial green carnations of March 17, and purveyors of the Teleprompter wax fat. This year, meeting-goers spat out their melange of denunciations in greater quantity, greater volume, and into a greater number of ears than ever before...
...land-rich Australia, where tennis courts sprout in people's backyards, the game, along with cricket, is a national pastime. Youngsters are well coached as soon as they are old enough to toddle; the tennis season is ten months long. Only the once-famed California tennis factory, which produced such stars as Don Budge, Bobby Riggs, Ted Schroeder and Jack Kramer, can match the Aussie output. But the California factory has obviously slipped a cog. The U.S.'s weak answer last week to the Aussie production line: naming Seixas player-captain of the Davis Cup team, with Richardson...
Every four years, the nation develops a fetish for meetings. Smoke belches forth from numerous rooms, buttons sprout like the artificial green carnations of March 17, and purveyors of the Teleprompter wax fat. This year, meeting-goers spat out their melange of denunciations in greater quantity, greater volume, and into a greater number of ears than ever before...