The History Today (2026)

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25/05/2026

The world remembers the moment mankind landed on the Moon. But behind that historic broadcast stood one man who spent weeks preparing himself to explain humanity’s greatest leap, only to find himself completely speechless when it finally happened.

Before Apollo 11 Moon Landing ever launched, Walter Cronkite immersed himself inside NASA’s Houston facility. He didn’t visit for publicity photos or media attention. He sat beside engineers, studied orbital mechanics, memorized fuel calculations, learned descent procedures, and made sure he fully understood every possible scenario. Cronkite believed something deeply important: you cannot explain history to the world if you do not truly understand it yourself.

And on July 20, 1969, the entire world would depend on him to do exactly that.

CBS committed everything to the mission. Forty-six uninterrupted hours of live coverage. More than a thousand staff deployed around the globe. Massive studio walls covered with mission diagrams, flight paths, and technical charts. Nearly half of all televisions in America were tuned into CBS as millions waited to see whether mankind could actually land on another world.

Cronkite handled the broadcast less like a television anchor and more like a mission controller.

As the Lunar Module Eagle descended toward the Moon’s surface, onboard computer alarms suddenly began flashing dangerous 1202 warnings. The computer was overloaded. Engineers scrambled to confirm whether the landing could continue. Viewers around the world were terrified and confused, but Cronkite calmly explained exactly what was happening in real time.

Then things became even worse.

Neil Armstrong realized the landing site ahead was filled with massive boulders and unsafe terrain. Taking manual control, he guided Eagle across the lunar surface searching desperately for a safer location while fuel rapidly disappeared second by second.

Cronkite tracked everything live:
Altitude.
Velocity.
Fuel remaining.

What most people watching never realized was how terrifyingly close the mission came to disaster. Armstrong finally touched down with barely seventeen to twenty seconds of fuel left. One wrong maneuver. One delayed decision. One larger boulder field. History could have ended very differently.

Then, at 4:17 p.m. Eastern Time, a voice arrived from 238,000 miles away:

“Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”

And suddenly Walter Cronkite, the man who had spent weeks preparing for every word he might need to say, completely lost them.

“Man on the Moon!”
“Oh boy…”

He removed his glasses, rubbed his hands together nervously, and smiled in disbelief like a child hearing the impossible become real. Beside him, astronaut Wally Schirra quietly wiped tears from his eyes.

For several seconds, neither man spoke.

Mission chatter echoed softly in the background. Static filled the air. Silence took over the broadcast.

And somehow, that silence became one of the most powerful moments in television history.

Cronkite would later guide America through another terrifying chapter of space exploration during Apollo 13, when an oxygen tank explosion turned a Moon mission into a desperate survival operation. Once again, he became the calm, trusted voice helping millions understand events too overwhelming to process alone.

That is why Walter Cronkite became known as “the most trusted man in America.” Not because of dramatic performances or polished delivery, but because he respected history enough to prepare for it properly.

And when humanity finally stepped onto another world for the first time in history, the man who understood the moment better than almost anyone else realized something extraordinary:

No words were ever going to be big enough.

~The History Today

24/05/2026

April 29, 2026. The Today show.
Meryl Streep was sitting with Anne Hathaway, Emily Blunt, and Stanley Tucci, talking about the sequel to one of the most beloved comedies of the past twenty years, when she said the thing that stopped everyone cold.
"I read the script. The script was great. They called me up and they made an offer, and I said, 'No, not going to do it.'"
She paused the way someone pauses when they are arriving at the part of the story they actually want to tell.
"I knew it was going to be a hit, and I wanted to see if I doubled my ask. And they went right away and said, 'Sure.'"
Another pause.
"I thought, I'm 56 years old. It took me this long to understand that I could do that."
Twenty years had passed since The Devil Wears Prada opened in theaters and became one of the most quoted films of its decade. Twenty years of That's all and Florals for spring? Groundbreaking and the cerulean sweater speech replaying on screens across the world. Twenty years of Miranda Priestly existing so completely in the cultural imagination that people forgot she had been a performance rather than a person. And the woman at the center of all of it had only just now told the world that she almost hadn't done it at all.
The story, when it came out in full, was better than anyone had expected.
The studio had offered Streep approximately $2.5 million for the role. A significant sum, but one that reflected what the industry had quietly decided about a woman in her mid-fifties for a film that Hollywood had internally categorized as a commercial comedy about the fashion industry. Not a prestige drama. Not an Oscar vehicle. A movie based on a bestselling novel, with the particular condescension the industry reserves for things it considers disposable entertainment.
Streep read the script and saw something else.
She saw that the entire architecture of the film rested on Miranda Priestly. Without a performance at the center that was genuinely, completely believable, the film had nothing. The plot was simple. A demanding boss and an overwhelmed assistant. Two worlds colliding. Everything depended on making the boss so compelling that audiences could not look away for two hours, and so cold that every small crack in that surface carried enormous weight.
She also, by her own account, saw that it was going to be a hit.
So she said no to the first offer. She told them she would double her ask. They said yes so quickly that the speed of the agreement was itself information. They needed her. They had known they needed her the entire time. The initial offer had been a position, not a verdict.
She also told the Today audience something else, with the kind of offhand candor that lands differently than prepared remarks.
She had been ready to retire.
The role pulled her back from that threshold. Not because she needed the work but because the material was good enough and the leverage was hers to use and the lesson, when it finally arrived at 56, felt worth testing.
The studio paid. She went to work.
Every instinct in conventional screen acting would have played Miranda Priestly loud. The tyrannical boss who screams, throws tantrums, and reduces employees to tears with theatrical cruelty. That version had been imagined before the cameras ever rolled.
Streep did the exact opposite.
She made Miranda quiet. Not a whisper of weakness but a whisper of absolute certainty. Her voice never rose. It dropped. Every word landed with the precision of something that does not need emphasis because it is already the most important thing in any room it enters. When Miranda says That's all to dismiss someone the phrase barely reaches audible. When she dismantles a piece of work her voice does not rise. It gets colder.
She has said, during the press tour for the sequel, that she built the character not primarily on Anna Wintour, as most people assumed, but on the directors she had spent her career watching. Specifically Mike Nichols and Clint Eastwood. People with total authority in a room who never raised their voices because everyone was already paying complete attention. People who spoke softly and let the silence around their words do the work.
That choice made Miranda Priestly unforgettable in a way that a louder performance never could have achieved.
The Devil Wears Prada opened in June 2006 and earned $326 million worldwide on a $35 million budget. Lines from the film entered everyday language immediately and never left. Streep won a Golden Globe and earned her fourteenth Oscar nomination, adding to a record that now stands at 21 total nominations, more than any performer in the history of the Academy Awards.
A woman the industry had been quietly looking past had proven, on a commercial comedy playing in multiplexes, that she could be the undeniable center of a massive hit. Not because the industry finally recognized her value but because she demanded that recognition before she gave them a single frame.
She did not wait for the box office numbers. She did not wait for the reviews. She did not perform remarkable work and hope the results would speak for themselves in the next contract negotiation.
She made them pay as if she had already delivered the hit.
Then she delivered the hit anyway.
Twenty years later, The Devil Wears Prada 2 opened on May 1, 2026, with the entire original cast returned. What Streep is earning for the sequel is a different number entirely from the 2006 negotiation, because twenty years of being proven right has a way of changing the arithmetic.
But the lesson she finally learned at 56, the one she said it took her that long to understand, is the one worth sitting with.
They needed her. She knew it. So she made them admit it.
Most people wait for the world to confirm their worth before asking to be treated accordingly. They take the first offer, do remarkable work, and hope the results speak for themselves next time.
Meryl Streep reversed that sequence entirely.
At 56, when Hollywood expected compliance, she said double it.
Then she whispered her way into cinema history.

~The History Today

24/05/2026

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Around 1983.
Timnit Gebru was born into a household that understood what education could do. Her father held a PhD in electrical engineering. Her mother was an economist. Both of her parents were from Eritrea. When Timnit was five years old, her father died.
Her mother raised her and her siblings alone, carefully and with complete conviction about one thing. Education was the one possession nobody could take from you. Books were stacked on every surface. Learning was the household religion.
Then in 1998, when Timnit was fifteen years old, the Eritrean-Ethiopian War erupted and changed everything. Because of her family's Eritrean roots, they became targets. Some of her family members were deported to Eritrea and forced into military service. Timnit fled Ethiopia, leaving behind everything she had known, and eventually arrived in the United States to apply for political asylum.
She was denied initially.
She kept fighting.
She was eventually granted asylum and settled in Massachusetts, where she enrolled in high school. She arrived barely speaking fluent English. School administrators, seeing a refugee teenager whose first language was not English, attempted to place her in lower-level classes.
She fought her way into the advanced ones. Then she became one of the strongest students in the building.
An experience during those years in Massachusetts would later shape the entire direction of her career. A friend of hers was assaulted. When she contacted the police, the police arrested her friend instead of helping them. Timnit watched a system that was supposed to protect people harm an innocent person instead, and she could not stop thinking about why that happened and how it could be prevented.
In 2001, she enrolled at Stanford University. She earned a bachelor's degree in electrical engineering. Then a master's. Then a PhD from Stanford's Artificial Intelligence Laboratory, completing her doctorate in 2017, with her research focused on computer vision, machine learning, and a methodology she developed for using Google Street View images to predict demographic data and voting patterns in American neighborhoods.
She did a postdoctoral fellowship at Microsoft Research in New York, working in the FATE group, studying algorithmic bias and the ethical implications of data-driven systems. She co-founded Black in AI, an advocacy organization pushing for more Black researchers and practitioners in artificial intelligence. She was building something, piece by piece, with the particular focus of someone who understands that systems can cause harm at scale and that understanding exactly how requires careful, methodical work.
Then in 2018 came the paper that changed her field.
Working with MIT researcher Joy Buolamwini, Timnit Gebru published Gender Shades, a study that tested facial recognition systems being sold by major technology companies to police departments and governments around the world.
The results were not an opinion. They were measurements.
For light-skinned men, the error rate was less than one percent.
For dark-skinned women, it reached 34.7 percent.
The same technology being used to identify criminal suspects, verify identities, and surveil communities was failing dramatically for the people with the least power to challenge it when it got things wrong. The study won an AI for Good award in 2019 and became a landmark document in the field of AI ethics, forcing the technology industry to confront algorithmic bias not as a future concern but as a documented, measurable harm happening right now, at scale, in systems already deployed.
That same year, Google hired her as a research scientist and she became technical co-lead of their Ethical AI team, one of the most respected and diverse AI research groups at any major technology company.
She was doing exactly what they hired her to do.
In 2020, Gebru and several colleagues wrote a paper titled "On the Dangers of Stochastic Parrots: Can Language Models Be Too Big?" It raised three serious concerns. Large language models learn from billions of words scraped from the internet. That text carries racism, sexism, and prejudice baked into everyday language across decades. The AI absorbs those patterns and repeats them at massive scale, into hiring systems and chatbots and loan decisions, before anyone fully understands what is happening. Training a single large model can produce carbon emissions equivalent to the lifetime output of five cars. And the datasets are so enormous that no team can fully audit them. No one can guarantee who they quietly harm.
The paper did not demand that AI stop. It asked the industry to slow down. To think carefully. To ask who gets hurt when we rush.
Google did not want to slow down.
They asked her to retract the paper. Or remove her name. She asked for transparency, for specific feedback, for the honest conversation the company publicly claimed to value. She requested that Google disclose more information about its approach to reviewing diversity shortcomings.
On December 2, 2020, Google ended her employment. The company initially framed it as a resignation she had never made.
More than 2,700 Google employees signed a public protest letter. Over 4,300 researchers and academics around the world joined them. Nine members of the United States Congress sent a letter directly to Google's CEO demanding an explanation.
Timnit Gebru did not wait for one.
Exactly one year after her firing, on December 2, 2021, she launched DAIR, the Distributed Artificial Intelligence Research Institute, funded by the MacArthur Foundation, the Ford Foundation, the Kapor Center, the Open Society Foundation, and the Rockefeller Foundation to the tune of $3.7 million. Researchers across Africa, Europe, North America, and Australia, accountable to no shareholder and no quarterly earnings report, doing precisely the work Google had hired her to do, freely and without institutional interference.
One of DAIR's first projects used AI to analyze satellite images of South African towns to study the long-term effects of apartheid on communities. The work was exactly what she had always said AI could be used for, understanding and addressing the harm that systems cause rather than accelerating the harm they are capable of.
Fortune named her one of the world's 50 Greatest Leaders. Nature listed her among the scientists who shaped the year. Time named her one of the 100 Most Influential People in the World.
Her firing also helped ignite the formation of the first union by tech workers at Google, a labor organizing effort that drew a direct line from her case to the broader question of whether the people building these systems have any power to shape how they are used.
Think about that arc.
Her father died when she was five. She fled a war at fifteen. School administrators tried to place her in remedial classes. She earned a PhD from Stanford. She proved with measurements that facial recognition technology failed dark-skinned women at thirty-four times the rate it failed light-skinned men. She joined the most powerful technology company on earth to make AI safer. She told the truth about what she found.
They fired her.
She built something they could not control.
Right now, AI is making decisions that shape real lives. Who gets a job interview. Who gets approved for a loan. Who gets flagged by a security system. Those systems are trained on historical data full of historical bias. They amplify it. They automate it. They scale it to millions of decisions before anyone fully understands what is happening.
Someone has to slow down long enough to ask who is being hurt.
Timnit Gebru keeps asking.
Whether Silicon Valley wants to hear it or not.
She came to America with nothing but the belief that education could carry a person through almost anything.
Turns out she was right.

~The History Today

24/05/2026

April 7, 1872. New Bedford, Massachusetts.
Marie Diana Equi was born to working-class immigrant parents, her father an Italian mason, her mother Irish, in a textile manufacturing city that had no shortage of people who knew what hard labor cost and how little it paid. She dropped out of high school. She was not the kind of person who waited for permission from institutions that had not yet decided to include her.
In 1893, twenty-one years old and accompanied by her partner Bessie Holcomb, she stepped off a train in Oregon. They worked land together. Two women living openly as partners at a time when the world had no polite word for what they were and no shortage of hostile ones.
Then Marie decided she wanted to be a doctor.
In the 1890s, women represented approximately six percent of medical students in the United States, and those who existed did so under conditions designed to remind them they were barely tolerated. Marie did not find these conditions persuasive. She and Bessie left Oregon for San Francisco in 1897. In 1899 she enrolled at the College of Physicians and Surgeons, graduated in 1901, completed further training, and in 1903 received her degree from the University of Oregon Medical School.
She opened a practice in Portland.
She treated working-class women and children. She treated immigrants and factory workers and the people other doctors turned away at the door. She treated them frequently for free and built her sliding scale on a principle so simple it barely needed explaining. Those who had money paid. Those who did not paid nothing.
She also provided abortions.
It was illegal. It meant criminal charges, the loss of her license, potential imprisonment, and social destruction so complete that most physicians of any political persuasion would not have risked it even in private. Marie did it in plain sight, quietly, consistently, for decades. Word moved through Portland's working-class neighborhoods with the particular speed of information that people desperately need. Dr. Equi will help you. No judgment. No questions.
She was also standing on picket lines.
For ten years after establishing her practice she was a model Progressive Era activist, fighting for an eight-hour workday, women's suffrage, prison reform, and better wages. In 1906, when the San Francisco earthquake reduced the city to rubble and fire, she led a prominent relief mission from Portland and worked in the disaster zone providing medical care.
Then in 1913 something shifted.
During a cannery workers' strike in Portland, police moved in to break the picket line with violence. A policeman clubbed Marie. She had been standing there as a physician and an observer, and they clubbed her anyway. She looked at the evidence of what gradual reform had accomplished and reached a conclusion that the evidence supported.
It was not enough.
She aligned herself with the Industrial Workers of the World, the Wobblies, the radical labor organization that believed workers needed industrial power rather than polite petitions. She stood on soapboxes. She gave speeches. She treated injured strikers on the lines while employers sent men to beat them. She was arrested with birth control pioneer Margaret Sanger in 1916 for distributing pamphlets providing women with information about contraception, a prosecutable offense under laws that made even discussing reproductive health a criminal matter.
She kept going.
In 1916, at a War Preparedness parade in downtown Portland, she unfurled a banner reading "Prepare to die, workingmen, JP Morgan and Co. want preparedness for profit." Others in the march attacked her. A fight broke out. She was arrested.
When the United States entered World War I in 1917 and the Espionage Act made dissent a federal crime, Marie stood at rallies and said what she believed. Working people were dying for profits they would never see. The war was not being fought for them.
On June 30, 1918, federal agents arrested her.
The government had been watching her for years. No fewer than eight agents from the Department of Justice's Bureau of Investigation and the U.S. Army's Military Intelligence Division had maintained surveillance of her home near Mount Tabor and her downtown medical clinic. An informant had been placed in her inner circle. They had wiretapped her conversations. They had monitored her friends.
During her trial the prosecution focused on her lesbianism, her temper, and her speeches. Marie defended herself without apology, insisting her criticism was directed at profiteering capitalists who had sent young men to die in Europe for the benefit of people who would never stand in a trench.
On December 31, 1918, she was convicted under the Sedition Act and sentenced to three years in federal prison plus a five-hundred-dollar fine. President Woodrow Wilson reduced her sentence to a year and a day before she entered the prison. She transferred to San Quentin on October 17, 1920.
She was forty-eight years old.
As she left for prison she reportedly said: "I'm going to prison smiling. But I am not through. I shall keep on fighting until I die."
San Quentin had almost no provisions for women. Marie was housed in a tiny section, isolated from the communities she had spent two decades serving and from the daughter she had adopted with her former partner Harriet Speckart. She was a model prisoner. She served ten months and was released in 1921 for good behavior.
She came home to Portland.
And immediately resumed everything.
She practiced medicine. She supported the 1934 West Coast Longshoremen's Strike, one of the most significant labor actions in American history. During a hospital stay in 1950, striking longshoremen sent her red roses. On December 24, 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt pardoned her along with others convicted of wartime sedition under the Espionage Act, restoring her full civil rights.
Conservative groups spent years attempting to strip her of her medical license. None of it worked.
She practiced medicine into her seventies. She never hid her relationships with women. She never apologized for the abortions she had performed. She never softened her politics to make powerful people more comfortable.
Oregon labor activist Julia Ruuttila remembered her with the plainest possible tribute.
"A real friend of the have-nots of this world."
Marie Equi died on July 13, 1952, in Portland, Oregon. She was eighty years old. Her daughter Mary had cared for her through her final years of declining health. She was buried in Portland.
Her mainstream obituaries were a few lines long. Polite. Vague. The radicalism, the sexuality, the criminal record all quietly omitted. The people she had served remembered differently. The historians who have since recovered her story recognize her now as a foundational figure in labor history, reproductive rights, and LGBTQ history in the American West.
But here is what is worth holding onto about Marie Equi.
She was never celebrated during her lifetime. She was surveilled, harassed, prosecuted, and imprisoned. She was erased after her death and stayed erased for decades. She knew, clearly and without illusion, what recognition was and was not coming.
She kept going anyway.
Some people fight for justice because they believe history will eventually treat them kindly.
Marie fought because she thought it was right.
And she kept fighting long after it became clear that kindness from history was not part of the arrangement.
That is a different kind of courage entirely.
And it is worth saying her name now.

~The History Today

24/05/2026

December 1909. A state teachers' conference in South Carolina.
A government official from the United States Department of Agriculture was at the front of the room, explaining to an audience of educators how the Boys' Corn Clubs of America were transforming rural life across the South. Young farm boys were being given seed, instruction in modern agricultural techniques, and a small plot of land to demonstrate what they had learned. They were producing harvests two and three times larger than their fathers. The crops were changing. The families were changing. By any measure, the program was a remarkable success.
A twenty-seven-year-old schoolteacher at the back of the room raised her hand.
But what are we doing for the farm girls?
That question is recorded in the meeting notes from that conference. And it may be the most consequential sentence ever spoken at a teachers' meeting in the history of American agriculture.
Her name was Marie Samuella Cromer. She had been born on November 9, 1882, in rural Abbeville County, South Carolina, the daughter of William Cromer and Ella Cox. Her father called her Beaut and instilled in her a confidence and ambition that went considerably beyond what most people thought appropriate for a girl of her era. She attended college in North Carolina after graduating from Abbeville High School and in 1907 moved to Aiken County to teach at the Talatha School, a one-teacher institution where she was simultaneously the teacher, the principal, and the entire faculty.
She had grown up in the country. She understood it from the inside.
"I was born in the country," she said later. "And I know something of its lonesomeness and sleepy-spiritedness."
She had watched her female students, girls aged nine to twenty, drop out of school every spring because their families needed their labor. They had no shoes in summer. They were expected to marry young, bear children, and work within a system in which everything a woman owned legally became her husband's property upon marriage. Their brothers would one day inherit whatever land the family had. They would not.
When the government official finished describing what was being done for the boys, Marie Cromer came home from that conference and built something.
On her own initiative, working without institutional backing or salary, she organized the Aiken County Girls' Tomato Club, the first organization of its kind in the United States. Each girl who enrolled would receive a packet of tomato seeds, a one-tenth-acre plot on her family's farm, instruction in modern cultivation and canning techniques, and something more radical than any of those things: instruction in keeping a financial ledger, and the right to keep every single cent she earned.
She described the purpose herself with a precision that has not aged a day.
The girls would "not learn simply how to grow better and more perfect tomatoes, but how to grow better and more perfect women."
In the spring of 1910, forty-seven girls enrolled.
They planted. They watered. They weeded. They harvested. They canned. They sold.
And they kept the money.
The prize that first season was a scholarship to Winthrop College. Marie did not have the funds to offer it herself, so she wrote to Thomas Hitchcock, a wealthy New Yorker and prominent figure in Aiken's winter colony. He funded the scholarship.
By late summer of 1910, a girl named Katie Gunter had canned 512 jars of tomatoes from her tenth of an acre and cleared a forty-dollar profit. The scholarship was hers. The $40 she earned in a single season from a tenth of an acre was worth more in today's economy than most people in rural South Carolina could expect from weeks of field labor.
Within a few years, the best-performing girls were clearing seventy and eighty dollars from that same tenth of an acre, more than many of their fathers earned sharecropping cotton for an entire year.
On August 16, 1910, the United States Department of Agriculture appointed Marie Cromer a special agent, one of the first women ever given that designation in federal agricultural service. Seaman Knapp, the USDA official who had built the Boys' Corn Club program, summoned her to Washington where she helped lay the groundwork for national programs to help farm families preserve food safely and profitably.
The clubs spread across the South with extraordinary speed. Virginia began a program the same year. Then Alabama. Georgia. Mississippi. Tennessee. By 1913, over twenty thousand girls were enrolled across the southern states. The General Education Board of New York City awarded the clubs $25,000 for equipment. The USDA took over the distribution of instructional literature.
A girl wrote about the experience in 1915, capturing something that no policy document could convey.
"The work was long and sometimes tiresome. But I now have a bank account of sixty dollars."
In 1915. In rural South Carolina. A teenage girl. A bank account. In her own name.
The Nineteenth Amendment, giving American women the right to vote, would not arrive for another five years.
In 1914, the federal Smith-Lever Act consolidated the tomato clubs, the corn clubs, and related programs into a national cooperative extension service funded through land-grant colleges. The combined program was given a new name in 1924.
You know it as 4-H.
Marie Cromer married Cecil Seigler, the superintendent of Aiken County schools, in April 1912. She moved gradually into the background of the movement she had created, raising children and supporting her husband's career. The movement continued without her at the center of it, growing into something she could not have imagined from the front of a one-room schoolhouse in Aiken County.
She established the first home economics curriculum in Aiken County. Through her canning instruction work alone she taught over 3,000 women to grow and preserve food safely and profitably. Her own health declined under the strain of her early years of intensive work, and she was hospitalized for extended periods.
In 1953, President Dwight D. Eisenhower formally recognized Marie Cromer Seigler at the National 4-H Camp in Washington, D.C., as one of the founders of the organization.
She died on June 14, 1964, at her home in Eureka, South Carolina. She was eighty-one years old. There is a historical marker on Highway 191.
Today, approximately six million American children are enrolled in 4-H. It is the largest youth development organization in the United States, operating in every county in every state, reaching young people across agriculture, science, health, and civic engagement.
All of it traces a straight line back to a one-room schoolhouse in Aiken County, to a twenty-seven-year-old teacher who understood something about rural girls that the federal government had not yet thought to ask, and to a conference room in December 1909 where a hand went up at the back of the room and a question was recorded in the meeting notes that nobody who heard it ever quite forgot.
But what are we doing for the farm girls?
Marie Cromer never gave a speech.
She raised her hand.
She asked one question.
And the country spent the next hundred and fifteen years answering it.

~The History Today

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