EVA - LIS WUORIO, whose journalistic junkets have taken her to such junctions as London, Amsterdam, Helsinki and Rocanville, Sask., in the past year, went to Victoria this summer to see Rosamond Marshall (“The Woman Who Wrote ‘Kitty’ ”— pages 8 and 9).
The Untold Story of — * The enemy agents we turned against Hitler * The ocean capture of two big shot Germans * The revelation of Duce’s desert battle order * The cracking of baffling invisible writing
Col. W. W. MURRAY
ON A dark night in the fall of 1943 a Nazi U-boat broke the lonely surface of the Bay of Chaleur off Quebec’s Gaspé coast. A small boat slipped away from the dim outline of the hull and pulled silently toward the shore line. A stocky man with steel-grey eyes and high Prussian cheekbones, dressed in the uniform of the German Marines, stepped from the boat which returned to the U-boat, leaving him alone among the rocks and shingle.
IN THE Vancouver Island backwoods settlement of Cobble Hill lives Rosamond Marshall who has written some of the sexiest novels on the market today. Cobble Hill, near Duncan, is so far off the beaten track that it is ignored by the retired brigadiers who populate the island’s gentler watering places.
THE FAMILY stood about, all smiling broadly. Louis took the air rifle carefully into both hands, and held it gently before him with the slim shining barrel pointed upward and away from him. His cheeks flushed warmly. He allowed his eyes to carry down the spotless nickel-plating of the barrel, then over the works, the neat and trickylooking peep sight, and the slick repeater-action lever, marking and devouring each perfect detail.
The seeds of murder were sown long ago in Clarence Brousseau’s brain; they flowered into baleful brilliance one night in June
ONA sultry Saturday night last June Clarence Brousseau, besieged by 100 police in his frame house at 687 Lome Street, Sudbury, slew three men, wounded four others, then turned his hunting rifle on himself. Just five hours before, the grizzled, craggy, taciturn, 47-year-old pipefitter had been a rational, apparently harmless member of a union delegation discussing some minor business in a lawyer’s office.
ANADIAN RUGBY, a good game to play and a wonderful game to watch, is being ruined by Americanization. Now, don’t get me wrong. I like to see American boys come up here and play Canadian rugby. I’ve made some good friends among my football foes. I blame the officials who are beating our Canadian game out of shape with a rule book.
You think dogs are dumb? Brother, how smart are you? Capable canines talk, multiply, obey orders and live without working
THERE’S AN old joke about a man who used to play chess with his dog every day in a tavern. Passers-by often made appreciative comments about the remarkable intelligence of the dog. Finally the dog’s owner could stand it no longer. “I don’t think he’s so gosh darned smart,” he shouted.
Canada’s first woman M.P. wouldn’t like to be a man but she thinks she should be treated as if she were
ONCE when I was addressing a political meeting a man in the audience shouted: “Don’t you wish you were a man?” I managed to annihilate him with: “Yes, don’t you?” But it was a good point. Maclean’s has asked me the same question. My answer is: No.
Stewart MacPherson was a washout in Winnipeg but in Britain he’s the rajah of radio. He talked a stake of $7 into $80,000 a year
LONDON— One of every four Britons (that’s 16 millions) has got the Stewart MacPherson habit. Who is Stewart MacPherson? Oh, he’s the guy who was such a flop in his home town of Winnipeg that a friend of his father’s staked him to a cattleboat trip to London in 1936.
There, on the glabrous shores of a waterless sea, the fearsome inhuman armies of Man’s imagination made their last stand against the men who were no longer human
THEIR EYES were fire and the breath flamed from out the witches’ mouths as they bent to probe the cauldron with greasy stick and bony finger. “When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” “When the hurly burly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.”
When the workers bougler this plant they sang in the reet. Three years later, there’s a success story to shout about
THREE and a half years ago the eyes of industrial Canada were focused on the little Ontario town of Gananoque where what sceptics called “a noble but foolhardy experiment” had begun. By pooling their life savings and their credit the 210 employees of the Parmenter and Bulloch Company, largest manufacturers of rivets in Canada, had bought the business.
A bitter battle of ambush and raid still racks Indo-China as Vietnam rebels fight France for the independce of their state
BANGKOK, SIAM—Under a mosquito net, the Saigon night was stifling. The only sounds were the sibilant whirring of the fan overhead and the distant shrilling of the cicadas. It was midnight—an hour before curfew—and the streets of the city of a million and a half were deserted.
UNTIL yesterday I was a normal man, I thought. I was able to decide what pair of socks I wanted to put on in the morning. If I saw a girl I knew I smiled and said “hello.” Life was rather dull, but straightforward. Everything is changed now. I can’t make a peanut-butter sandwich without discovering motives that would flatter Ivan the Terrible.
HAVE YOU got one of those gold coins issued in British Columbia in 1862? It’s worth looking to find out—they’re worth around $20,000 today. Only 11 of them are known to have survived. It happened this way. British Columbia was a separate colony back there in 1862, and government officials decided it was time they had a coinage of their own.
It is our Policy to notify all subscribers well in advance of the expiration of their subscriptions. The ever-increasing demand for Maclean's means that most issues are practically sold out before the printing is completed; and that copies are seldom available for mailing to subscribers who are even one issue in arrears.
Getting the bird is okay with a birdwatcher. He’ll wait all night for a mourning warbler
THE NEXT time you see a man in very dark glasses and earplugs he will be me—doing my best not to become a birdwatcher. The glasses and the plugs keep me from seeing or hearing any birds. I am particularly vulnerable because I know just enough about birdwatching to realize that the slightest letup will mean a life sentence at it.
IN LONE VALLEYS behind high mountains, in hidden coves and far up the inlets that scar the British Columbia coastline, the queer characters of the frontier look with scorn on the civilization they have fled. The ways of society are not for them.
I’M WORRIED. I plucked a rather elderly newspaper out of a Toronto garbage can the other day, just to catch up on the news. (Say what you like about Toronto, they’ve got nice garbage cans.) An item on the front page hit me between the eyes w'ith the impact of a wet flounder.
Oh, woman today is not clinging or teary or Shy or uncertain. She’s pointedly shown That she’s equal to man when she’s not his superior, Fearlessly facing the world on her own. She can slay a gorilla by swinging a rifle-butt, Capture the spotlight from Frankie and Bing, Look on a round-the-world flight as a trifle, hut Brother, she can’t let a telephone ring.
Old “New” Canadian As an old reader I rather resent Maclean’s assigning Eva-Lis Wuorio —such an obviously new Canadian— to write an article on our Royal Family (“The Family in the Palace,” Aug. 1). If she had been in Canada 10 years ago and witnessed the tumultuous welcome all over Canada from the highest to the humblest of their subjects coming miles to welcome their King and Queen . . . she would not have had to quote the words of an Englishwoman in Canada or write those somewhat sardonic paragraphs about the Windsor family and the British people.
FOR BITING COLD St. John’s winters don’t hold a candle to Winnipeg, Saskatoon, or even Montreal. (Winnipeg’s January mean is three below, Montreal’s 14 above, St. John’s 23½.) Temperatures run about the Toronto level. But there’s lots of snow, almost as much as Montreal, three times as much as Winnipeg.
Uneven Contest— About the only moral exercise many a person gets is shadow-boxing with his conscience. — Port Arthur News-Chronicle. One Hazard Less An anthropologist says that in 100 years there will lie no blondes left. No doubt. In fact it is hard to leave one now.
FATE, overreaching itself to the point of busting a gusset, recently presided at the delivery of triplets in a Western Ontario city to a mother who is vice-president of the local planned parenthood clinic. Veteran living near Red Deer, Alta., who has a wife, two sons, age six and five, and a small holding, recently added to his estate a Shetland pony and cart.