NO scenario has matched it—that tense, absorbing epilogue, staged in Canada’s Parliament! The argumentative artilley of a master was in play. There was no rhetorical conjury, no drapery of language, no emotion. It was a series of swift-spoken, clear-cut sentences, each standing out in naked boldness.
I LEFT him standing in the door of his studio in Little Pierre Street, Montreal, waving his head, so to speak, and talking away to me and to himself, about ‘escaping.’ An hour before, I had dropped into his studio to tell him where I was going and where to send the next picture.
IN this country we seldom have any real discussion of war. War is unpopular, and the general tendency, when the subject comes up is to devote ourselves exclusively to one aspect of it. and to spend our whole time in assertions that War is a dreadful thing, that it is a relic of past conditions of society, that it should be abolished, and so on.
I have sojourned in various Lands, Foregathered with many wierd Men; Cooped up in Cities, or scorched on the sands, In forest, or free on the fen; I’ve found every time that the wild is the best, That Jungle is better than Town, That you live out your Life with far less of a zest With the White than you do with the Brown.
How Honorable Frank Oliver Sought to Learn a Little More About His Constituency
TO prove that the far north, which for years has been so grossly libelled by the sensational novelists, is perfectly livable and devoid of the blugginess, endless snowy wastes, trackless fields of blinding snow, deathless terror, etc., etc., the Hon. Frank Oliver, Minister of the Interior, last summer, made a two months’ trip into it.
JULIA, the nurse said to the few visitors who inqured, was “struggling back to life.” Julia herself, had she tried to formulate it, would hardly have called it that. It was no struggle; it was rather a growth. She had swung close to a certain nadir.
There came a little queery boy, Ah, such a very deary boy, A cuddle close and neary boy; Into my heart one day. He seemed a very eery boy, A strangely strange and leery boy; That heart was filled with feary joy Lest he should go away. Sometimes he’s such a cheery boy, A laughing loud and deary boy; ’Tis then life smiles without alloy And Love’s the time o’ day.
THE Maritime Provinces have failed in their effort to have their representation grievance removed by an amendment to the British North America Act. Their failure may be only temporary. But, whether it be only temporary or whether it be permanent, at least it is clear that the task of winning the consent of the other provinces to the remedy proposed is going to be no light one.
‘Sometimes, with some people Goodness is what it isn’t And Vice is what it is. If Goodness were always a positive quality. Just as Vice is positive, There would be fewer virtuous and more “unredeemed,” —Said a man. But then he was a ‘sinner.’
I CAN see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes to drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions of figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number. First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring.
Loose me, April, set me free, Soul and step, to comrade thee! Bid yon maple’s quivering fire Touch the ash of old desire Into leaping flame again, Coursing through each stinging vein! Loose me, April! I would speed Blithely where thy footsteps lead:
IF a Red Indian could be spirited to Toronto from his native wilderness without coming in contact with civilization, and set down so that he could obtain a clear and unimpeded view of an approaching five-ton motor truck, he would probably depart at high speed for the Happy Hunting Grounds to spread the report that the devil was abroad in the form of an enchanted cabin which shrieked as it ran along the white man’s trails.
Oh, if I were the velvet rose Upon the red rose vine, I’d climb to touch his window And make his casement fine. And if I were the little bird That twitters on the tree, All day I’d sing my love for him Till he should hearken me. But since I am a maiden I go with downcast eyes, And he will never hear the songs That he has turned to sighs.
I HAVE written what follows at the request of the young people principally concerned in the story. All the names have been changed, of course, and five years have passed; and since no one found it out at the time, there is small chance at this late day of the events being brought home to the real actors; and if they should be, it is no great matter now.
At last; the doctor drops my nerveless hand, And turns to face the group about the bed. Simple the words and very low the voice, I can just catch the whispered phrase, “He’s dead.” A woman shrieks; is hurried from the room— I scarcely knew her and am moved to grin— Save that the lips and eyes do not respond In this vague vastness I am floating in.
SOMEBODY, from the other car, pushed open the door, and for a moment there came to him a whiff of spring. “Without are the wind and the wallflowers, The leaves, and the nests, and the rain, And in all of them God is making His beautiful purpose plain, But I wait in a horror of strangeness, A tool on his workshop floor.........”
THE business men of the United States and Canada have been deeply concerned for a number of years—and this concern has been growing rather than lessening—over two problems: first: The relations between capital and labor; second: The relations between business and government.
WHENEVER there is a great war, or an exciting event such as the siege of the anarchists in London, there are always enterprising photographers who will venture into most ticklish positions to obtain pictures of the event. Subsequently these pictures are reproduced in the various papers throughout the world.
CECILE BATTINE is a war-like gentleman, whose soul vibrates to the tread of armies. But he has little use for navies, and precious little use for the present government of England. In fact, he ascribes short-sightedness, ignorance and stupidity to the Administration.
HOW often, says Wendell Phillips Dodge, in the Technical World Magazine, have we stood by, wideeyed and open-mouthed, at the sight of a big locomotive being turned around on a turn-table platform near the round-house in a railroad yard, feeling a sense of intimacy at being behind the scenes, as it were, in the theatre of the four-tracked drama?
THERE is an uneasy feeling spreading over the whole country and the United States. It concerns an unmentionable disease, a disease that is worse than the Bubonic Plague because the plague does not claim the unborn generations. This disease flourishes because men and women are too “modest” to discuss means of checking it.
IN their efforts to penetrate the mystery in which the identity of the real ruler of China is now involved, the great dailies of Europe find themselves obliged to pay more heed to the personality of the baffling Empress Dowager, says Current Literature.
The world is forever increasing its armaments and yet it appears that there has not been a real test—that is to say a real engagement in war—of the most modern fleets with the exception of the battle of Tsu-Shima, in the Russo-Japanese War. We accept this statement on the part of London Magazine, as a preface to an intensely interesting article which it publishes, and which we reproduce in condensed form, from the pen of Captain Vladimir Semenoff, of the Russian fleet.
ANY one who says he has the weight of the world on his shoulders would better stop and think a moment what that means. Few schoolboys who have studied Newton’s laws of gravitation have been very much thrilled by them. In fact, they have found it difficult to remember the laws the day after, to say nothing of the day of, examination.
IN an editorial article in Current Literature one finds a very comprehensive summing up of the various views which have been expressed on the Reciprocity transactions between this country and the United States. The article quotes the American papers, pro and contra; it quotes the Canadian papers in the same way; but in addition it affords a review of the various opinions which are held by the leading English papers.
“THE AWAKENING OF THE AMERICAN BUSINESS MAN: THE NEW SCIENCE OF MANAGEMENT.”
Rarely has a chance remark caused such wide and sudden interest, says Will Irwin in the Century, as one dropped last December by Louis D. Brandeis. He was arguing the case of the shippers against the railroads before the Interstate Commerce Commission. “By the application of scientific management,” he said, “the railroads of this country might save a million dollars a day.” That sentence—it happencil to be a quotation from Harrington Emerson’s work on scientific efficiency— buzzed over the country, bringing to a large part of the public the first informathat that a new principle had entered into industry.
GLEN CAMPBELL, the big, lanky westerner, who called a fellow member of Parliament “a liar” on the floor of the House of Commons last Friday, did the very thing that you would expect him to do under the circumstances. He spoke his mind, and Glen Campbell’s mind is not given to mumbling.
WHEN you go to buy this odd little yellow-bound book — at least my copy is bound in yellow—called MARIE-CLAIRE, the bookseller will tell you that all Europe has been “raving” about it. If you borrow it from a friend he will undoubtedly tell you the same thing, and when you look on the paper wrapper of the volume you will see that for once the publisher’s statements and the statements of disinterested readers, are in harmony.
That Nova Scotia, down by the sea, can boast of two R. L. Bordens was amply demonstrated during the federal campaign of 1908. A few days before the election of that year there reached Digby on a belated train from the interior of the province a commercial man bearing the same name as the leader of His Majesty’s opposition at Ottawa.