TO SAY that the H-bomb is dangerous is the platitude of the century. We’d like to add that it isn’t just dangerous as a bomb. It is equally dangerous as an idea. No matter how creacherous it may be as a physical weapon, it could be at least as treacherous as a political weapon.
ANYBODY who goes to the movies and listens intently to the dialogue knows it’s the easiest thing in the world for two people to run into Something That’s Bigger Than They Are. So, no matter how much we’re shocked sometimes by the amours and accouchements of our favorite movie stars, we usually try to view them charitably.
EVER since John Largo first appeared in Maclean’s (it was a wry trifle called “Did You Marry a Morning Paper?” and it ran in the Jan. 1 issue of 1949), appreciative readers have been plucking at our coatsleeves and asking who he really is. After his story “Brave New Wacky World” ran in the Mid-Century Review, a year later, the enquiries became more insistent.
He is a greater killer than polio, yet our archaic laws let him get away with murder. Scientific tests could check highway horror
IT WAS one of the first motor fatalities I covered as a cub reporter. They had moved the small, twisted body to the sidewalk and covered it with a clothesbasket. One fat little leg hung over the curb, a grotesque right-angle bend halfway between knee and ankle.
John Fisher loves Whisky Creek, B.C., Ecum Secum, N.S., and all points between with an oratorical fervor that keeps him a CBC ace
IS JOHN FISHER a flirt? Does Canada’s most, articulate lover get infatuated too easily? Is the CBC’s passionate-voiced weekly commentator “and observer of Canadian ways” really as mad about Quebec from the parapets of the Chateau Frontenac as he is about Victoria when he’s holed up in the Empress?
Richard Chadwick dams raging rivers, throws skyscrapers into the heavens, salvages wrecks. But no, madam, his Foundation Co. doesn’t make corsets
R. E. CHADWICK, of Montreal, is a grey-haired man of 65 with quizzical eyebrows, a stubborn chin and a slight-to-medium build which scarcely suggests a Paul Bunyan’s capacity for renovating the landscape. Yet he has plunged stout bridge piers to bedrock through the racing waters of dozens of Canadian rivers from the Bear in Nova Scotia to the Harrison in B. C. He has tom a jagged clearing in the forest at Baie Comeau, Que., and planted there a complete industrial town—paper mill, churches, movies, shops and homes for 1,500 people.
SOME of these days the Governments of France, the United States and the British Commonwealth will have to make up their minds about Germany. Nor is there any reproach or impatience intended in these words. It is a statement of fact—hard fact —and nothing more.
CANADIAN scientists are unimpressed by the current dither about the hydrogen bomb. They say there’s nothing in the H-bomb story that couldn’t have been reported with equal accuracy a year ago. They are much more concerned with the other atomic story in the news these days, the Klaus Fuchs spy case in Britain.
Maxmilian Langsner told the Edmonton police he was a human radio when the thought waves flowed. And when he tuned in on Vernon Booher the farmer’s son was hanged for four murders
S. TUPPER BIGELOW
WHEN Dr. Adolf Maxmilian Langsner, the eminent criminologist from Vienna, arrived in Edmonton in July, 1928, to give his attention to the mysterious Booher murders the local Press was generous in its coverage. Photographs of the doctor taken as he disembarked from the Vancouver train showed a quaint, swarthy, little man, dressed in a loud checked tweed cap and voluminous plus-fours reaching almost to his ankles, his eyes protected by an oversize pair of dark sunglasses.
Affairs of the heart aren’t usually associated with young professors. Henry had no intention of stealing another man’s girl — or a million dollar mine. Not at first that is —
THE SOUND of the train whistle curved high in the piny air, then dropped shimmering like the heat along the rails and among the big rocks that flanked them. An Indian and his two small sons stirred where they sat in the shade of the station platform under the sign that read: HARDROCK.
Today’s bad coaching blights hundreds of young hockey careers before they get started, the famous coach believes. He gives his recipe for stardom
THE TOTAL ANATOMY of the hockey player —Canada’s unique addition to the human species—is more complicated than you might think. The physical anatomy, though disguised by padding, is obvious enough and a very agreeable sight. But the mental anatomy and, behind that again, the anatomy of the spirit—these are invisible, incalculable and decisive.
Need $5 till Friday? Or enough to buy your wife and baby back from the hospital? Almost everyone has to float a loan sometime — and it pays to know how in advance
ALMOST everybody, it seems, wants a loan these days—and curiously almost everybody wants to lend money. If you’ve got a steady job or some furniture, you can borrow money easily. There’s only one catch: you’ve got to pay back more than you get.
ACCORDING to a newspaper which I received wrapped around a dead fish the Russians claim to have invented airplanes, radio, electric lights, telephones, parachutes, rockets, flashlights, penicillin—and a few other items I couldn’t make out because some of the print had come off on the fish.
Green-eyed Sarah Churchill finds that being her famous father's daughter is both a help and a handicap in her checkered career behind the footlights
TOWARD the end of 1945, just when everybody thought she was cured, red-haired, green-eyed, 35-year-old Sarah, third child of Britain’s Winston Churchill, caught that old foot-light fever again. During four years in uniform, for between 12 and 20 hours a day, she had pored over aerial pictures in the secret headquarters of the RAF Photo-Intelligence Wing, and the only breaks she’d had from her slide rule, her microscope and her columns of figures were two flights, one to Teheran, one to Yalta, as one of her father’s aides at those historic conferences.
SINCE the night of May 30, 1942, when I bailed out of a flaming aircraft over Cologne, I have flown only once. That was two days after the war ended in Europe. I had just survived a head-on train collision and I wasn’t travel-minded. But I was heading back to England after three years in a prison camp.
ONE DAY in 1782 three American privateers stood boldly in toward the little harbor of Chester, N.S., bent on pillage. Captain Prescott, commander of the blockhouse garrison, fired his cannon, a ball struck one of the vessels, and they withdrew behind a point.
A YOUNG Ottawa girl has an autographed photograph of the Rt. Hon. W. L. Mackenzie King to prove that it sometimes pays not to know the answer to a question on a quiz program. She is Shirley Scharf, a bank employee. At a radio quiz show on the stage of an Ottawa cinema Shirley was asked to name the last five prime ministers of Canada.
Dark valley I have feared and fled: On this clay sets the wintry sun Above the forest's secret bed, Above the tarnished scales of leaf, Above the shale, the matted fern, The tracks that never end, and turn To mock again the foolish one Who goes where he is led.
IN A bid to win new circulation, the Vancouver Daily Province one day last month offered $10,000 in rewards to help solve 10 of B. C.’s unsolved murder cases and thereby began one of the most ludicrous chapters in the city’s newspaper history.
Order a Case—Taken from a patent-medicine testimonial: “Since taking your tablets regularly, I am another woman. Needless to say, my husband is delighted.”—Maritime Merchant, Halifax. Yes, Butt—A good girl is like a good cigar—you seldom see either one being picked up on the street.
RALPH ALLEN had better study his geography. In “Was Kurt Meyer Guilty?” (Feb. 1) he states “Meyer is serving his life sentence in Dorchester penitentiary in Nova Scotia.” It happens to be in New Brunswick, which may be a good thing with so many North Nova Scotia Highlanders about.
A YOUNG southern Ontario farmer found himself in a spot when he had to drive to town in his light truck one night recently and pick up his battered coupe at the garage after an overhaul. Catch was he had no one to drive the extra vehicle home except his wife and she was just a learner without a driving license.