THE QUESTION of titles frequently begets confusion. A recent book of reminiscences relates the story of the ambitious woman who was to entertain a duchess for the first time. She gave careful instructions to her maid: “Now, Mary,” she said, “remember whenever you address the Duchess you must say, ‘Your Grace’."
THE EXPRESSION on Ben Macgrath's face as he came out of the upper level of the power house that morning is one I have never forgotten. I was leaning over the pipe rail that guards the lip of the dam, inspecting the flotsam that had collected at the intake grills during the night, when he came running out of the door on top of the dam.
THIS IS the story of hundreds, thousands, millions of feet—including yours and mine. Have you, by the way, ever been told the formula for a story? Here it is: First, get a hero. Second, get him into trouble. Then get him out of it. So our hero is a pair of feet—most any pair.
SHALL KNIGHTHOOD flower again? That, and not whether we should have a central bank or what should be done about taxes, promises to be the issue of this parliamentary session. And for good reasons. One is that it is easier to discuss titles than to discuss currency and credits.
Grover’s invention was a good one—but not in the way he anticipated
LOUIS ARTHUR CUNNINGHAM
AT THE AGE of seven, Grover Wilkins took the kitchen clock apart and put it together again— almost. There were a few wheels left over. His mother said then he would be a mechanical genius, but his father said he’d be merely a mechanic, remembering what had happened to his car while in the repair shop the week before.
THE IDEA that myths belong only to the savage and the peasant is itself a myth. Lamps draw to themselves moths and bats and other weird creatures of the darkness. Perhaps, then, it is quite natural that even intellectual enlightenment gathers about itself a number of strange fictions.
A HUSHED TWILIGHT pervades the little temple. There are the lanterns—scores of them—unlighted as yet, hanging like pale bubbles. There is a mass of shadowy color at the extreme end of the hall, with here and there a glimmer coming from it. The little priest—deferential, soft-footed and soft-voiced —shows us to cushioned chairs.
Life brings fresh problems when a man becomes a grandfather
AT FIRST Judge Marshall tried to receive his butler's news lightly. He had just returned from church, and now placed on the marble-topped hall table a glistening high hat, a gold-headed cane, and fleckless grey gloves with black stitching. In the cool dim house, with white roses in the sunlight and the servants' fried chicken sizzling in the kitchen, disaster seemed distant as mountain thunder.
EVER SO LONG ago, in the middle east end of Montreal. there was an oversized vacant lot fronting on Notre Dame Street, with a high-roofed barn at one end and the wide St. Lawrence River flowing swiftly before a stone wall at the other. Distributed here and there in between were several scrubby patches of trodden grass and a dozen or so wineglass elms, while beneath the trees were scattered benches with long tables before them.
DO you ever give up hope?” I asked. “No.” “Never?” "N-n-no.” After which we both paused and gasped. Not a brilliant dialogue, you may agree, but the room in which it took place was so hot that it was miraculous that men could talk in it at all. The room belonged to Mr. Arthur Henderson, the president of the Disarmament Conference, with whom I had made an immediate appointment, after the grim little episode which closed the last chapter.
TERRY CLANCY strode into the bedroom of his brother, Pete, in Mrs. O’Toole’s boarding house at Glenalan. He sat down on the side of the bed and stared disdainfully at Pete, who stood before a mirror, carefully adjusting the knot in his vividlystriped necktie.
THERE IS a fine view of Rockingham as you swing around a bend in the Saint John road a mile or so from the town. It is settled there, rather incongruous and ill at ease, on a bit of high land, with low country stretching away on either side, forlorn and desolate.
BRITISH COLUMBIA’S new government inherited an unfunded $17,000,000 debt and a family spectre of Bankruptcy. It has provided for the establishment of an advisory economic council, with a professor of economics as chairman, to “study questions of industrial endeavor in the province, how industry can improve its methods and what new industries might profitably be established.”
HAVE THE Maritime provinces suffered from the fiscal and economic policies of the federation? The framers of Confederation figured on a tariff for purely revenue purposes. But the Dominion Government was given control over trade and commerce, and the national policy aimed deliberately to protect Canadian manufacturers by raising the price of their goods in our markets.
SAMUEL GOLDWYN went to a great deal of trouble with "Roman Scandals" (United Artists), hiring Robert Sherwood and George S. Kaufman to write the story and supplementing them with a crew of punsters, gagsters and wisecracking specialists.
THE ONE REQUIREMENT outstanding at the present time—which has been outstanding for some years —is the formation of a national league for young men which would stand up and demand that youth receive its rightful place in the business world.
YES, WE admit it. We are too choosey. We could probably go to work tomorrow—many of us—in stores, offices and restaurants. We could be clerks, salesladies, stenographers, bookkeepers, cashiers, waitresses. We could crowd those already so employed.
SO OFTEN DOES the young university graduate hear of the "golden" opportunities open to him that he is bewildered. Never, he is told, was there a time richer in opportunity. "Young men and young women," says Prime Minister R. B. Bennett, "yours is a glorious opportunity!"
THREE YEARS AGO, if any of my neighbors had offered me their castoff clothing I’d have been offended. Today they do it, and I accept gratefully. Three years ago, if anyone had suggested that I might earn an odd dollar by delivering newspapers or circulars I’d have thought it a joke.
FROM THE PAST administrative record of Charles P. Fullerton as chairman of the Railway Commission, it is possible to forecast with every confidence the main lines on which national railway policy will proceed during the next five years, “writes Owen Seymour in The Financial Post, commenting on Mr. Fullerton’s appointment as head of the Canadian National Railways.
“Cry Havoc!” is mischievous propaganda and should not be published. It appeals to unthinking parents and men without courage enough to defend their own homes. Lloyd George and others found this doctrine a drawing card for votes, and the result was that hundreds of thousand of lives were sacrificed through our lack of ammunition at the commencement of the Great War.
THE VERY WORST time to plan the family dinner is right after a good lunch. You're apt to think a "nice light salad" and a bit of froth for dessert would be about right. Fine, sometimes, but for goodness sake don't choose a blustery day in winter to set this sort of meal before your hard-working family.
Readers of Maclean’s who have received Horoscope Readings from Miss Marguerite Carter will find an installment of sections below; further sections will appear in the next and following issues of Maclean’s. These readings are Miss Marguerite Carter’s applications of the rules of Astrology as laid down in well known ancient and modern textbooks. Miss Carter claims no personal ability to forecast the future or solve your present problems and these readings are not intended for such purpose.
Tit for Tat—Taxi-driver: “Lumme, guv’nor, I’ve forgot to put the meter on, an’ don’t know what ter charge yer!” Fare: “Splendid! I’ve forgotten to put my purse in my pocket, and couldn’t pay you anyway!”—St. John’s (Nfld.) Telegram. Two Champions—A man entered a hotel, placed his overcoat on a rack and pinned a card to it on which was written: “This overcoat belongs to a champion prize-fighter.