spikes

Bug is a spider, looking at those eyes an active hunter - not a web spinner.

That's quite a moustache!

Hi, I'm an admin for a group called SPIKE GROUP, and we'd love to have this added to the group!

Google search turns up a President of the Chicago Dental Society with that name, ca 1876. Also a Charles R. E. Koch, involved in dentistry, mentioned here: http://www.oku.org/oku/HistoricalReview.htm

with the bald head and moustache, he looks like the kind of grandpa i wished to have

looks like he's into nu-metal

We've been searching for the name of this girl for a number of years. We'd love someone with a "never say die" approach to take on trying to find out who she is. There's so much more online content available that in 2003 when we featured this photo in our first digitisation project.

Home » Dreaming » Imagination The Pineapple Girl by Francesca Rendle-Short.. Sometime in 1924 in London, a little girl, of no more than five years old, I fancy, sat down in a crate of Queensland pineapples and smiled. Her legs were tucked up under the largest and spikiest of all pineapple specimens, and she held a slice in her hand. The occasion was a Queensland fruit promotion at the Empire Exhibition at Wembley. King George V opened the exhibit, and vast numbers of visitors took part—millions, records say, through the turnstiles. One pineapple girl always leads to another; this original 1924 PictureAustralia girl leads me to all the other pineapple girls I have known and discovered. There’s Kath and Dulcie from Atthow’s pineapple farm at Lindum in Brisbane; the littlest of all Pineapple Girls hiding as ‘a charming study’ in the land of sunshine; ‘country beauty’ Bronwyn Moorehouse posing among the ripe pineapples on her father’s plantation in the Maroochy district on the Sunshine Coast; and Dutch-born Mrs E Buikstra, of Stavoren, Friesland, checking slices of pineapple for faults at the famous Northgate—with a smile. Pineapple Girl takes me back to my own childhood, too, to the smell of my own Queensland through my hair and up the nose, here, tucked into the frangipani corner in St Lucia, in a photograph my father took when I was four or five years old. I fancy pineapple excess on my tongue, the taste of warmth and fecundity: possibility. You can imagine this Pineapple Girl in an agricultural display too, can’t you? She’s got the right smile. A perfect fringe. She takes me back to the sickly stench of pineapple juice stuck in my sister’s hair long after shifts in the cannery, to tales of excoriated skin and the sting of cuts. To disbelief, that the punch my mother offered guests at Christian barbeques on Saturday evenings was the same pineapple juice swept off the cannery concrete floor and ladled into two-gallon tins to sell. So my sister says. Just look at the shape and line this Pineapple Girl makes with her body and skirt, her fancy pineapple crown, and something of a curl across the moon of her countenance. She suggests a way to live—making up story as she goes—ignites our imagination, offers a future. She emits light through the phosphorescence, plants a crowd of flowers in us all, and gives breath a chance. Source: www.qhatlas.com.au/content/pineapple-girl