THERE WAS a time when in each January I issue we wished everybody A HAPPY AND PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR. Last year and the year before we wished everybody just A HAPPY NEW YEAR, feeling that it might be wise to leave no room for a comeback should PROSPERITY get stuck round the wrong corner.
YOU WILL NOT really do this mad thing?” said Professor Schroeder beseechingly. The man across the table raised his eyebrows. “Mad?” he repeated mockingly. “An instructive, sight-seeing expedition on that char-à-banc yonder? You will be warning me next, Herr Professor, against the perilous hazards of lawn croquet.”
MR. JAMES ARMSTRONG RICHARDSON lives in Winnipeg, is head of a grain company called James Richardson and Sons, and was publicly regarded as the Midas of the West until he went off the gold standard. In the ten years between 1919 and 1929 he accumulated probably more money than any other man in Canada has made during a similar period, and then proceeded to demonstrate he could travel in reverse with equal celerity.
WIND RESISTANCE exacts a gasoline tax from Canadian motorists which averages annually between twenty and twenty-five dollars per capita. Half the power developed by the engine of a conventional car—half the gasoline it consumes—is used in overcoming wind resistance at forty miles per hour.
ALPHONSE DIDIER kept the gun shop in the little Quebec town of Moreauville. It was a narrow, two-story building facing the river and sandwiched between Broussard’s restaurant and the bank. Alphonse, in addition to selling sporting equipment, was a gunsmith, a craftsman, an artist.
POSTING at Blue Bonnets, gentlemen ! Get your bets in before they’re off and you won’t be shut out. “Off and running at Woodbine track . . . “At the quarter pole. Blue Nose a length, Jack’s the Boy a head, and Eric the Red is running third. “At the half.
How Britain Trains Picked Men to Reform Her Criminals
ALICE HARRIET PARSONS
L ESS THAN fifty years ago, Great Britain had one of the worst prison systems; today, it has probably one of the best in the world. Out of her experience of half a century—and Canada might well borrow from that experience—Great Britain has boiled the problem of penal reform down to the one word: personnel.
IT WAS A GREY, dismal afternoon when I set out for the offices of Anti-Gas Ltd. * It was the second day of the new year. The sky was heavy with rain unshed, and the wind had a whine in it, as though the last funeral rites of 1932 were still being fulfilled, round the corner.
AT THE Jolly Ploughboy, where, in the snug and heart-warming sanctuary of the bar his elbow had long since worn a shining hollow, Alf Stamm was hailed as “Captain” and treated by the villagers and even the gamekeepers with the awe and deference due his proud station.
THE STORY:—Professor Pye is a distinguished and wealthy physicist, but bitter, scornful and misanthropic. He lites in Surrey, England, working in a laboratory that in its isolation and sternness has every appearance of a fortress. One afternoon Professor Pye’s only servant is startled by an explosion.
“The Russians give all they make above a bare living to the government and call it communism. In Canada we do the same thing and call it taxes.” This after-dinner speech quip may exaggerate, but there’s many a true word spoken in jest. Taxation in Canada today is so great a burden that in order to foot the bill citizens must deny themselves commodities and services they would otherwise buy; must in many cases drain their savings.
AFTER Hollywood bought “The Invisible Man” (Universal) from Mr. H. G. Wells, it took them three years to figure out how to photograph it. And having seen the picture, you and I might spend the rest of our lives on the problem without being able to figure out how they did it.
WELL, WHAT about it? We know all the sad stories— disillusioned youth, lingering engagements, wailing families, shattered hopes weeping Annies and sorrowful Sams . . . millions of tried and true workers must be absorbed again by industry before youth gets a chance . . . the Era of Opportunity is gone . . . years will be needed for readjustment ... we waste away day by day.
He used to startle Yukon miners with bis white flannels—He’s B. C.’s most elegant premier and he landslid the Tories out
CHARLES L. SHAW
A FARMER has been sitting at the premier’s desk in Victoria for so many years of the last two decades that British Columbia may find it somewhat difficult to grow accustomed to Thomas Dufferin Pattullo. Pattullo’s immediate predecessor was Simon Fraser Tolmie, a big.
WHEN VANCOUVER consisted of but four shacks, he lived in the fourth. That was more than seventy years ago. Today he still lives in Vancouver, and Vancouver is a city of skyscrapers. Which just goes to show what four shacks can grow into. His name is John Henry Scales, and last summer he was seventy-eight years old.
FOR PURE cussedness there is nothing quite like a worn-out range with an oven that burns the bottom crust and produces a top of anaemic paleness. Or one that blackens all the biscuits in one corner or throws as much heat into the kitchen as it holds behind the door, or—but you know all about it if you’ve ever struggled with one.
My face was reconditioned, I knew my hair was sleek. My ensemble was le dernier cri— I certainly felt chic! “It’s wonderful what clothes can do!” I murmured with a smile, “I’m looking ten years younger than I have for quite a while!” I ran and caught a leaping tram—
For them we exercise and diet, Refrain from chocolates on the quiet, Suffer massage in sundry places, Anoint with clay our patient faces, Pluck out our eyebrows, rouge our lips, Have manicures, reduce our hips, Endure, to get us curly hair,
Up-to-Date Advice—We hear that Horace Greeley’s ghost was heard lately in New York muttering “Go north, young man, go north.”—Regina Star. Solemn Indeed!—It is stated in an evening paper that politicians live longer than other men. It is a solemn thought.
Too Good To Be True — He had been married only a week when he discovered that his wife, who had assumed control of household and larder, was inclined to be stingy. He had been working in his garden one afternoon when his wife came to the back door and, to his astonishment, called out in strident tones: “Terrence, come in to tea, toast and eggs.”