IN HIS reactions, the editor of this national publication often resembles an anxious mother. Take festivities, for example. At her darling’s birthday party, any normal mother wants the child to have a good time. Yet she knows that a seventh bottle of pop combined with a fifth plate of ice-cream is likely to result in a digestive disturbance.
THE FRONT COVER of this issue of Maclean's commemorates the sixty-ninth anniversary of the proclaiming of Canada as a Dominion of united prow inces. Across the top of that same cover is a herald-line calling attention to an article on the French-Canadian nationalist movement in Quebec.
In which the man under auntie's bed meets his match in the girl who loved the man next door
JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS
MARTY DROVE as though Aunt Alice were a consignment of frail glass. She slowed down for every bump and corner, she came to a full stop when told to, she let any kind of car pass. She had gone up yesterday in about three hours, but she was taking all day for the return trip.
Is there a separatist movement in Quebec? Here is a FrenchCanadian's report on “a state of mind too long bottled up"
VICTOR C. SOUCISSE
RECENTLY the editor of Maclean's said to me: What truth is there in all the stories that have been coming out of Quebec recently about a revival of French-Canadian nationalism?" That is not an easy question to answer, but as a FrenchCanadian I believe it should be answered frankly and fully, because I am convinced that events now marching in the province of Quebec will profoundly affect the wellbeing of all Canada during the years that lie immediately ahead.
A strange crime is revealed when Kent Power uncovers a strange motive
SAYING IT again,” Brooks Conway exclaimed with the stubbornness of alcohol, "Life’s a raspberry.” The seven other guests at the dinner table accepted the statement with that studied casualness which, among the well-bred, conceals embarrassment.
STERILIZATION And the Problem of the Mentally Unfit
HONORABLE H. A. BRUCE
ONE OF YOUR speakers made some remarks in the course of an address which are well worth relating. May I quote them to you. “Our experience in Hamilton.” she said—and I am quoting the lady member of the Board of Control in that city—“has been that there is a certain class of people who may definitely be said to make slums.
Away north of Alberta, Canada's latest gold stampede centres on Great Slave Lake
PICTURE a sweeping curve of coastline about a broad bay, virtually unprotected from the full sweep of a gale across an inland sea more than 10.000 square miles in extent, a body of water greater than Erie or Ontario and considerably tougher to navigate than either.
A swiftly moving romance of the North that measures its men—and its women— not by what they do but by what they are
H. S. M. KEMP
WHEN Claire Stewart received the appointment as nurse at the Indian Department School at Pipestone Lake, she began to collect data as to who was who at the Northern settlement. She knew, of course, that Pipestone Lake was on Churchill River, 300 miles north, that it boasted a Hudson’s Hay and a Revillon post; but regarding her neighbors-to-be, she was pretty much in the dark.
MAY I plead indulgence for devoting this article to the storm roused in Canada by my recent letter to the London Daily Telegraph. Even from this distance I can feel the spray from the waves of indignation that surged in fury from my native country.
ONE OF THE hardest worked words in the golfing gal’s vocabulary these bright sunny days is “punch.” Indeed, so much is this the case, according to their critics, that right now the girls are just a little punch-drunk, the sudden headiness having been brought on by an effort to pour too much punch into their golf swings.
Queer! Here she, a wife, was worried because there was no urge toward the man who was not her husband
ELEANOR DE LAMATER
YOURS always.” For five days Ellen lived with those words. It was as if her thought, which had turned back for a while into restlessness and longing, had come to life. It was also as if that quiet moment on the porch, when Hobby House had seemed to claim her, was sharply denied.
THINGS TO COME” is a huge, wonderful, fantastic spectacle film which shows civilization wiped out within the lifetime of the present generation, then restored, wrapped in Cellophane, for those of our descendants who think it worth while to survive.
Under Two Flags.—Foreign Legion romance, involving love, adventure, sacrifice and quantities of blood and sand. With Claudette Colbert, Ronald Colman. Good entertainment for the family. Petticoat Fever.—Romance of a love-starved Arctic radio operator and a beautiful girl who drops from the sky.
MORE THAN half of North America is too cold for crops, and more than thirty-five per cent too dry. Mean annual temperatures of forty degrees Fahr. limit agriculture, and 30 degrees ends useful forest growth. The coast where North America and Asia turn to the Arctic Ocean knows but two seasons—winter and August.
Up in the Air—“This country is up on financial stilts; we must at least get one foot on the ground. In my humble judgment we must refinance the debt of Canada, federal, provincial, municipal and private.”—A. MacG. Young in Dominion Parliament.
A nurse—like a doctor is always adding to her knowledge. Here is a nurse who now prescribes Kruschen Salts for neuritis. She prescribes it confidently, because it was the only remedy which brought her relief when she herself was afflicted with the complaint.
IF YOU live on a farm where there’s plenty of cream, where there’s ice in the ice house or electricity in the kitchen, where there’s fruit in the garden or orchard, the dessert problem just isn’t a problem any longer. If you don’t live on a farm, still you can buy cream and fruit—and a mechanical refrigerator—and solve the summer dessert problem as easily as your rural neighbor.
Good Idea In the cause of safety on the highways a chain of filling stations in the United States has put up the sign “No Intoxicated Driver Will Be Served at This Station.” Vancouver Star. Useless Feet—“The automobile will in time make our legs useless.”
Diplomacy—A guest of a small Southern hotel was awakened early one morning by a knock on his door. “What is it?’’ he called drowsily without getting up. “A telegram, boss,” responded a negro’s voice. “Well, can’t you shove it under the door without waking me up so early?”
A TORONTO bank man who, in the days of the Klondike gold rush struck up a friendship with Robert W. Service, recently returned from a month’s visit with the poet whose Yukon ballads have earned him enough to enable him to live comfortably on a beautiful estate at Côte-du-Nord, in France.