THE idea behind social security used to be fairly simple—tax the haves so that the have-nots shall not go hungry, homeless or without medical care. Although its techniques have never been perfect, this kind of social security represented man’s ideals at their best.
TO JUDGE from our recent mail, the biggest egg this magazine has laid in years and years was an article about the famous entertainers, the Happy Gang. The essence of this article was that the Happy Gang succeeded, day after day, in putting together one of the liveliest and most pleasant shows in radio, but when the mike closed down the cheerful camaraderie among the performers was sometimes diluted by the little frictions and antagonisms that sometimes beset the best of us.
I WANT to compliment you and Fred Bodsworth for that terrific article, “Why Our Laws Can’t Nail Drunk Drivers" (March 15). We’re in a R. R. mail delivery and I got the mail before breakfast. I gave the magazine a quick once-over before the meal and, after looking at the first article, I confess I put it away till I’d had three cups of coffee.
BECAUSE horse players are by nature fidgety people, given to doodling and eccentric behavior, Franklin Arbuckle attracted less attention last King's Plate day than the man who was studiously filling in all the Os on his race card or the anxious bettor who was munching pencils from a well-filled vest pocket.
Fame and solvency were in his grasp as the gate sprang for Canada’s greatest horse race. The colt’s name was Leonforte
SO YOU want to win the King’s Plate? (Pardon me if I don’t laugh too loudly—I’m afraid of bursting my stitches.) Don’t try it, please! Take up some nice, inexpensive hobby such as collecting Ming vases or Persian tapestries. Permit me to speak to you from the abysmal depths of my experience.
IN THE spring of 1792 a leaky schooner, under command of a sick Spaniard named Don Jose Maria Narvaez and sailed by a crew of 30 starving Mexican peons, was wallowing up the gulf between Vancouver Island and the mainland. Narvaez, like Drake, Cook, Bering and many others, was looking for the Northwest Passage.
He was young in years but wise in the ways of women, so he played it safe, smart and light. That was his philosophy for love. After a lot of fun he ended up with his heart untouched, in one piece, and wrapped in shiny Cellophane
THAT DAY began like any other day except that when Hanson brought in the mail she was wearing a new blouse with a plunging neckline. It wasn’t the thing for an office and I didn’t like it. Hanson had a nice profile and good legs. She said she had taken the job as my secretary at Rodgers and Kennedy in Toronto because she thought she might get a chance to write advertising copy.
For Maclean’s of June 1, 1948, Eva-Lis wrote “We Can’t Go Back,” telling of the arrival of 431 DP’s. Now she’s checked on one family to see if their hopeful dreams are coming true
THE Zarambas have a car now. And a second-story flat in western Toronto. Their two children—Barbara and Mark—fit in fine at the Dewson Street Public School. They’re dreaming of a home of their own, maybe with a small garden, in their land of promise.
I REGRET that in this letter I must draw a picture of the Old Country which is anything but pleasant to gaze upon. In fact, so serious is the subject that both Houses of Parliament, as well as the third parliament of the Press, are hotly debating it.
REMEMBER the Mainguy report last fall on the Royal Canadian Navy? Because it had some sharp criticism of the “Nelson tradition” a good many people thought it was anti-British. Apparently the British did not think so. After some Royal Navy people read it they recommended to the Admiralty that it be printed for circulation among all ranks of the British Navy.
Selling sex on the Sabbath boomed the News Of The World to the world’s largest circulation. Even the King reads this newspaper which also crusades for Empire
NEXT Sunday morning the News Of The World—the most widely read and highly respected scandal sheet on earth—will be delivered to three out of four British homes, including Buckingham Palace. Days or weeks later copies of the same issue will arrive by the thousand in Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, India, Pakistan and British colonies all over the globe.
This frontier murderer, who specializes in eating his victims alive, is slaughtering moose, deer and cattle. But he lives in fear of Dan Dennison, who’d rather kill wolves than eat
RICHMOND P. HOBSON
OUT of the ice-caked regions that border the Bering Sea a savage horde of shaggy-haired black and grey killers, with bearlike heads and long hooked fangs, is moving relentlessly south seeking the warm flesh of Canada’s great game herds. The advance guard of the northern wolf, the largest and most ferocious canine breed in existence, is seeping down out of the Yukon and Northwest Territories into central British Columbia and Alberta.
She was partridge-plump with shining hair and a red mouth made for love. No wonder the sad undertaker tried to take Marie from Joe. Then came the affair of the coffin that brought laughter and love and life to the village
PHYLLIS LEE PETERSON
SO YOU have come to Ste. Angele des Chênes for the fishing, m’sieu. You will find it good here, very good. I myself know of a lake beyond the next range where the trout fight each other for the hook. Ah, m’sieu. It is a good thing for you that you stopped at the Pension Labelle when the season is slack and I have the time.
Dear Maclean’s. — Here’s the story about that Canadian who parlayed his first book into a nonstop radio serial and a smash hit on Broadway. It should be authentic — he wrote it himself. I mailed it myself though.
How about, looking into a piece for us on Robert Fontaine, the Canadian whose “The Happy Time” is a Rodgers & Hammerstein hit on Broadway? I have a hunch it will make a good article for Maclean’s. Fontaine is a free-lance writer like yourself, about 41, who deluges our own office with manuscripts, some of which we publish.
To the average man impotence is not inevitable, even in old age. Nor, if it does come, are the causes always physical or beyond correction
SENSATIONAL reports of “cures” for male impotence—rejuvenations, drugs, gland transplants, special diets, hormone injections— erupt in the world’s newspapers almost as often as war-scare stories. There is always a happy band of fakers making a pile of easy cash offering virility by mail to men who feel their sexual powers are fading.
Let’s hope the clans don’t rise, but it wasn’t the Scots who put the banshee in a bag. Leather-lunged citizens have squeezed the sheepskin for 6,000 years
ON OR ABOUT May 15, 4000 B.C., a Chaldean named Cholly found himself with a sheep’s stomach on his hands. This was not really unusual for Cholly was a butcher. He had a small but well-equipped ziggurat down near the gasworks in Ur. Cholly’s usual practice was to blow up sheep’s stomach and give it to his kids for a football.
WHY would a widow give false testimony about her husband’s death and do herself out of $6,000? The husband was a shy and sensitive farmer near Wainwright, Alta., who did not marry until he was 45 and then found a wife through the “friendship column” of a Saskatchewan newspaper.
In this vast hotel rotunda Pill-boxed bellboys stroll about with Mystic cries that make one wunda Whatitisthey regivingoutwith. Guard that diction, lads, and mind Keep those special intonations. In a ycur or two we’ll find you With a railroad — calling stations.
GERMANY’S famous flying Gace in World War I, Manfred von Richthofen, got planes to his credit by remaining out of battle while his famous Flying Circus engaged the Allied enemy in a dogfight. When a crippled plane limped out of the fight it was Richthofen’s practice to swoop down and add another victim to his score.
MAYBE Captain Corcoran and Little Buttercup overstated it a bit when they sang, “Things are Seldom What They Seem”; but when it comes to names, you can’t always tell. John Florence Sullivan, for instance, has won considerable renown as comedian Fred Allen, and a Rose (Billy) by any other name might be (and in fact is) William S. Rosenberg.
A STUNNING upset marked the running of the annual National Open Motormen's Handicap at Montreal last week. Six-time Canadian champion, Victor McSnorg, of Toronto, went down to defeat at the hands of a young tyro, Axel Stromberg, of Winnipeg.
ON THE pleasant University of New Brunswick campus, ”up the hill” from Fredericton, they still remember fondly the absent-mindedness of the late Dr. W. C. Keirstead, for 35 years a professor of philosophy. One rainy day Keirstead gave a lift to a co-ed struggling through the mud to her home in the city two miles away.
MAGIC, to most children, is one of life's nicer things. It adds a sparkle to living. Under its auspices come Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the character who exchanges nickels for extracted teeth, and several other pleasant creatures, and children are in favor of it.
When your pet dog dies, Arthur Willis provides coffin, grave, even headstone
THE BITTER cold January day this obituary appeared in the classified columns of the Toronto Daily Star, the Cogswell family, John, his wife Margaret and their daughter Josephine, drove to the city’s outskirts to attend Mickey’s funeral at the Toronto Dog and Pet Cemetery.
THERE is no public sale of hard liquor by the glass in B. C.—the only places it can be got are clubs where each imbiber is supposed to be a member. Advocates of cocktail bars have so far run into the stonewall opposition of Gordon Wismer, Attorney-General in the Liberal-Conservative coalition Government, and a Liberal in politics.
Rake’s Regress—A man decided to reform. The first week he cut out smoking. The second week he cut out drinking. The third week he cut out women. The fourth week he cut out paper dolls.—Galt Reporter. Let’s Go Broke Even—Some people have no money left at the end of the month, but often have considerable month left at the end of the money.—Ottawa Citizen.
SPRING is here and the radio license inspector is abroad in the land again. Fellow has a bothersome job, too. Some house-wives, like one in Hamilton, insist that “my husband looks after all those things,” so back he had to go in the evening. Got quite a hearty welcome, too. “Come right in, sir. No sir—I don’t have a license.