IT SEEMS unfortunate that the entry of Newfoundland into Confederation should have been preceded by a wrangle in Parliament about the fine points of the procedure adopted by Canada. Newfoundland is heartily welcomed by Canadians of all parties and all regions.
Two MONTHS ago we remarked on this page that Canada should do more to bring trained brains, as well as strong backs, to this country from the DP camps of Europe. It was suggested, among other things, that “if professional associations like the Engineering Institute were to send interviewers to Europe, they could winnow out a group of highly qualified men whose chances of employment in Canada would be good.”
LIKE most businesses the one we speak of—with a slight tic of our left eye—as the magazine game has its own built-in occupational hazards. Until last week we thought we had encountered most of these. We have known the visceral twinge that could be an incipient ulcer snapping like a turtle but is probably a bad scallop we had for lunch.
Czech-Canadian Tom Bata fled his homeland to set up a new capital for his world-wide shoe empire in an Ontario town. To 100,000 Botamen, he’s a king
IN FRANKFORD, a small Eastern Ontario village of 850 people, lives the man who is shoe king of the world. He is a 34-year-old Czech-born Canadian named Thomas John Bata, and his shoe factories and stores girdle the globe. The story of Bata’s life has the ring of an oldtime E. Phillips Oppenheim thriller.
Ron Keith had a busy day ahead, so he left his car in the garage and used a helicopter. He made good time, but only a Rockefeller could do it twice
RONALD A. KEITH
WHEN a muffled roar and a beating of wings shattered the morning silence over Toronto’s east end I was just gulping my second cup of coffee. Outside, in Glen Stewart Crescent, kids were running through the shallow snow, their noses pointing up.
They’d never let their love get plump and prosaic. So they worked hard at keeping it young—too young
I HAD accepted the fact that Jean Patrick and Fred Monroe belonged together when I was too young to wonder about it. Like cup and saucer. Knife and fork. Ice cream and cake. We were all in our early teens then and no one else had paired off except those two.
Stalin’s stooges boss some of our key unions. It’s a tough, nasty fight to unseat them. But labor is doing it
ALL THROUGH the Canadian labor movement the cold war is being fought this year, and in both the big labor federations Communists are on the defensive. Union by union, local by local, Canadian labor is cleaning its own house. The Communist strangle hold on key sectors of the Canadian economy is being broken.
Letters in 10 foreign scripts for Toronto’s Bohemia don’t trip Sammy the Postman. He’s Dr. I. Q. to hundreds of new Canadians
WHEN Sammy the Postman took his vacation last fall the superintendent of letter carriers in Toronto’s main postoffice braced himself against the spate of correspondence which is always excited by this annual event. The letters come addressed in such direct terms as “Postmens’ Boss, Toronto.”
Toe-trampers and lonely hearts rush in to pay the piper when Arthur Murray’s maestros call the tune
THE YOUNG fellow in the brown off-the-rack suit stopped at 435 Yonge Street, and looked up at the second-floor window signs that said “Arthur Murray Studios of Dancing.” He glanced shyly at the hurrying pedestrians on Toronto’s main stem, then pushed open the street door and slowly climbed the single flight of stairs.
SOMETIMES in the affairs of men there are coincidences of such a striking character that one feels as if the gods on Olympus were playing some ironic poker game with human destinies as the chips. Within the space of a few days we have had the death of Jimmie Thomas, the Cockney engine driver who rose to Cabinet rank, then was found guilty of corruption, and the report of the judges of the Bribery Tribunal which sends another ex-railwayman, John Belcher, into the political limbo.
WHILE politicians are bickering over constitutional niceties, and the public is dropping off to sleep, an issue of deadly importance is developing: what’s going to happen to Canadian wheat? Backbone of our export trade, and the livelihood of the Prairies, is the wheat we sell to Great Britain —$280 millions worth this year.
In the sweaty melodrama that is wrestling, Whipper Billy Watson (nee Potts) plays shining hero for an estimated $50,000 a year
YOUNG Billy Potts bent over the keyboard of the family piano in his East Toronto home, glumly practicing. His older brother, George, whispered into his ear. “Listen, kid. This piano stuff is for sissies. Now, over at the gym this afternoon there’s going to be some real fun...”
Let an expert tell you what to look for behind that smoke screen of sales chatter and exhaust fumes
SOME of the 300,000 Canadians who are due to buy used cars in 1949 will get real bargains. No matter what anyone tells you, it can happen. If you’re going to buy a used car this year, it can happen to you. The trouble is that, unless you know at least some of the angles, the chances are it won’t.
Oceans of coffee, mountains of meat, towering stacks of pie—Crawley and McCracken dish them out daily as the continent’s biggest bush-camp caterers
C. FRED BODSWORTH
THE MINING engineer rounded up an 18-man survey party for a rush trip to a new ore site 50 miles north of Sudbury, Ont. Then he hustled into the Sudbury office of Crawley and McCracken Co. Ltd., caterers to bushland construction crews and mining-camp gangs, and asked if they could serve a meal in the camp that evening.
HERE where the sands curved, white and unending, mile upon mile on either side, there was only quiet and the golden sun. Before Herbert Marsh the blue green waf er stretched in soft desertion to the horizon. There was no sail in sight, no ship.
Ever since Garry Davis camped at UN’s door with a sleeping bag and an ideal he has been a knight or a nut to thousands
ONE day last February, Garry Davis, the astonishing, 27-year-old self-proclaimed Citizen of the World, found his way blocked by a Paris street barricade erected to catch a car thief. A tough-looking gendarme thrust his head through the window of Davis’ auto and gruffly demanded:
Starting with the stuff in your veins, science has cooked up a whole new batch of lifesavers. They stop bleeding, check measles and mumps, even form sponges you can leave in after an operation
GEORGE H. WALTZ JR.
THE blanket-swathed man on the ambulance litter was unconscious. He had been badly burned in a factory explosion. The ambulance doctor had given emergency treatment to the burns, but the injured man was sinking so fast there were grave doubts that he would live to reach hospital.
CANADA’S first Prime Minister, Sir John A. Macdonald, won many friends by being able to call so many “little” men with his party by name. He seemed to know just what line of work they were in, and enquired about their family by name. In each city he was coached on pertinent particulars about people he should know.
RIGHT at your sink and range you can probably find all the items in this photo quiz. Sure they look different in closeup enlargements, but energetic housewives—and helpful husbands shouldn’t be fooled for long. There are some dues below. See any of these?—potato grater, washrag, egg slicer, cookie cutters, broom, corkscrew, measuring spoons, mixer, egg beater, cake form, potato masher, sink sponge, ladle strainer, grater, bottle brush. Answers on page 52.
Time and a Half for Late Spawning—A British official says that goldfish in a power station pond “are working satisfactorily since nationalized.” They aren’t paid the union fish scale, either!—Toronto Star. Lose More Bathers That Way —“The way to keep a shark from biting you is to grab his fin and ride with him,” says an ichthyologist.
DURING his years as Premier of Ontario (1923-30) and Canadian High Commissioner to London (1930-35), the late G. Howard Ferguson had to listen to many a fulsome introduction from chairmen. On one occasion, after a flattering welcome, Fergy said the extravagantly kind remarks had reminded him of the day in 1923 when he was first elected Premier of Ontario.
LARGO,” a friend said to me a couple of weeks ago, “why don’t you write your war memoirs? Everybody’s doing it—Eisenhower’s aide, Eisenhower’s chauffeur — even Eisenhower. Also General Howling Mad Smith, Admiral Halsey and several thousand war correspondents. All the Americans are doing it, including Roosevelt’s entire War Cabinet and their office boys.
ONE OF the most-talked-about men in Washington these days is General of the Army Dwight D. Eisenhower since he obtained temporary Jeave from Columbia University to assist the President and Secretary of Defense James Forrestal settle conflicts among the Army, Navy, and Air Force.
What has come over Maclean’s lately? Your choice of subjects for discussion, culminating in “Is This Adultery?” is not in accordance with your past traditions. You have built up a circulation as a high-class family magazine in which such subjects should have no place.
MODERN man had better watch himself. When, a good many years ago now, he invented the streetcar, that was fine. When he followed this up with the invention of the internal-combustion engine and then developed the motorbus, that was splendid.