¶ ON THE day this was written, the evening papers carried across their front pages such headings as “Stocks Erratic in Wild Trading." “Buyers Clamor to Get Shares as Mart Boils,” “Pandemonium Sways Mart as Stocks Hit New Highs.” People suffering from a high fever often have lapses of memory.
THEY MIGHT never have met had not Tonio Tavarsi, a junior customs inspector, been moved without notice from Palermo to Modane, and that only a week after he married Francesca Gaspari, she of the black eyes and raven locks. This sounds far-fetched, but so it stands.
HE SAT in splendor on a chair of ebony inlaid with ivory and gold. Behind him a Nubian, white eyeballs rolling in the polished black of his face, held up a widespread fan of ostrich plumes in hands that trembled. At his side stood Shepser. Keeper of the Treasury, and Intef, the scribe.
THERE WAS once a man who had a wooden leg. He was very sensitive about it. He tried to pretend that it was good flesh and blood. Of course, he failed. His considerate friends courteously ignored his affliction, so the comedy waddled and stumped its erratic way through life.
SIR WILLIAM MULOCK is a very venerable old man who lives in Toronto, and is the only citizen of that city whom all four of its newspapers treat with respect. He has a bigger and better white beard than Sir Joseph Flavelle, and is almost as wise as this makes him appear to be.
ONE OF THE most interesting and hardest trips that I have ever made was to Bertis in Kazakstan, in Central Asia. This will be the site of the largest copper smelter in Europe or Asia. It is seven days oy train from Moscow plus two weeks by camel; 450 kilometers from the nearest railroad.
MRS. MORTIMER sat down beside her sewing cabinet in the old-fashioned sunny bay window of her room, and began methodically to sort over the clean clothes that were in need of mending. Hickson, the housekeeper, had set the basket beside her at exactly two-thirty, just as she had been doing every Tuesday afternoon for the last twenty years.
THERE ARE many curious annals in motion picture history. In Hollywood, the maddest town in the world, are life records almost too bizarre for belief, for the city seems to breed the fantastic, and its citizens take delight in repeating, with proper dramatic emphasis, the data at hand.
THE TIME is a hot summer’s day in July of 1896. The place is Niagara Falls, just a stone's throw from the Whirlpool Rapids. The Suspension Bridge and the embankments of the Niagara Gorge are lined with thrill-seeking men and women. Fifteen thousand pairs of eyes are trained on that one focal point—the figure of a youth slowly making his way across the awful chasm on a thin strand of wire.
SHE WAS AFRAID for him. Geoffrey was one of the world’s rebels. He would not conform. Marian liked him no less for that But now he was growing sullen and bitter. And he was becoming too argumentative. She knew that there was already too much noise in the world.
A SUBOFFICIAL of the Motor League called on me a few months ago. He is a nice chap. I like him. Most motorists are nice chaps. I like them all. This man invited me to fill out a ballot. Did I want the speed limit of thirty-five miles an hour increased? Or wiped out altogether? Or—as a casual afterthought— did I want it retained?
NOR RAIN, nor snow, nor the gloom of night . . .” Add impenetrable smoke haze, take away the beacon lights, directional radio control and meteorological data with which the much vaunted foreign airmail pilot is blessed, and you have a few of the difficulties that Canada’s Northern airmen face daily in their herculean task of suppressing fire over the vast forested areas of Manitoba.
Across 1. This mighty beast is more than half insect. 4. Pertaining to the spirit. A sigh and a kick. 9. Caesar’s baggage. 11. A whetstone. 12. We keep our best for Sundays. 13. No pillow complete without one. 17. You can’t do this without a fixed abode.
In an article “Forgotten Money,” published in Maclean's, June 1, I made a misstatement of fact which I hasten to correct. It is: “If an account is untouched for five consecutive years the banks are freed of liability to pay interest on the money.”
I love old lamps, their yellow glow Across the kitchen clean. It seemed to stand for us. somehow, The best that home could mean. I love old lamps that shed their light, Like golden aureoles Across the lonely prairie night To homesick neighbor souls.
A SANDWICH may be a dainty two-bite affair or it may go to the other extreme and be a square meal. There is the substantial meat-filled kind we like to find in a picnic basket or box lunch, the toasted variety with a savory filling, the hot sandwich served with a well-seasoned sauce or gravy.
HISTORIANS tell us that this summer— June 18 to be exact—the institution of life insurance celebrated its 350th birthday. On that date, in 1583, in the Royal Exchange in London, a gentleman named William Gibbons dipped his quill pen in ink and inscribed his signature on the first life insurance policy recorded in history.
Question—For some time I have been holding several hundred shares of Noble Five stock bought at various prices. Recently I was informed it would be wise to sell these shares for what they would bring. To sell now would involve taking a heavy loss, and I should prefer to hold for a year or so longer if by so doing I would stand a chance of getting my money back, particularly as the stock has recently been moving upward.
A farmer raised a turnip Of size and soundness blent, But it only fetched a fraction Of a fraction of a cent. They parted, then, for ever? Oh no, upon my sam, The farmer bought it back again When he paid a buck for jam.
A softly flowing river and the night, Sweet you ensconsed in pillows at my feet, The moon your halo with its pale light A scene to speed the heart to wild beat. Then gently dips my paddle in the stream, So glides our heav’nly barge ’neath drooping boughs, Ah, this indeed some Lotus island dream If no disturbing thought my mind arouse.
A crowd upon a seashore assimilating rays, No other sport surpasses this on boiling summer days, And when the sun is sunken the blisters meet the breeze, Amazing how we all forget to take it by degrees. It would be altruistic to work with Mr. Sun, To stick a fork in citizens and tell them when they’re done, Then when their eyes are opened, the yearly vow won’t start— “I burnt me to a crisp again but next year I’ll be smart!”
Interrupted—In Germany an income-tax defaulter was arrested in a restaurant. We understand that he pleaded that he was just about to fill up his form.—Vancouver Province. No Boom in Sight—There can't be another boom right away. It will take twenty years to produce a new crop of trustful idiots.
Private and Personal—Hotel Manager: “Here are some photographs which give very good views of the hotel if you’d like to take them away with you. sir.” Departing Guest: “No, thank you. I have my own views of the hotel which I am going to take away with me for the benefit of my friends.