ONE OF the finest things about democracy is that it tries to protect the rights of minorities. We sometimes wonder whether it tries as hard as it might to protect the rights of majorities. Jimmy Gardiner’s recent handout to the Canadian wheat farmers was an almost perfect example of government by minority.
EVERYONE who lives, in a vast metropolis like London, Paris or New York periodically asks himself the simple question—Why? Compare, if you like, London, Ont., and London, Eng. Ontario’s London has a university, a river Thames, a Piccadilly, a Regent Street and yet the countryside is within a few minutes of these points.
PROGRESSIVE Conservatives are not the only ones to have trouble keeping Quebec and federal spokesmen in harmony. Even the omnipotent Liberals have had a little difficulty lately. With them it was Ottawa, not Quebec—in fact, none other than Prime Minister St.
In the most diabolical crime of our time a twisted little back-street show-off murdered twenty-three people to get rid of an unwanted wife. Quebec’s best-known novelist knew Albert Guay as a man who wanted the moon but got a hangman’s noose. Here he tells for the first time the sombre, shocking story of his next-door neiqhbor
ON THE afternoon of Sept. 9, 1949, a Canadian Pacific Airlines DC-3 left Quebec City with twenty-three people aboard, heading for Baie Comeau, a lumber town 220 miles to the northeast. Above Sault-au-Cochon, forty-one miles out of Quebec City, the plane exploded like an electric light bulb.
With a choice of the best food money can buy, at prices to make your mouth water, Canada’s MPs and their friends usually order meat and potatoes in Ottawa’s Parliamentary Restaurant. You as a taxpayer pick up part of every check hut you can’t eat there unless you’re invited
IN A TINY glass box of an office, hidden beyond the service doors of the Parliamentary Restaurant on the sixth floor of the Ottawa Parliament Buildings, there is a broken heart. It belongs to Chef Louis Martin. He puts on a brave front to the world, but sometimes when the orders for meat and potatoes, meat and potatoes, rise to gargantuan proportions he reaches into the bottom drawer of his small cluttered desk and leafs slowly through some ragged yellowing notebooks.
It’s been called a lot of things in the past fifty years — hut never dull. People seldom go short of fun in the little city with the funny name where a cow was once the guest of honor at a banquet and the mayor is a pillow-fighting champion
GEORGE HILLYARD ROBERTSON
FOUR years ago three students on summer holidays from the University of Kentucky decided to take a trip. They pored over a map of North America until they came across a spot marked Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. Intrigued by the colorful name they pooled their resources, amounting to ninety dollars, piled into a 1924 Model T and, without further thought or enquiry, motored 1,800 miles northwest to investigate.
A dockside telegraph operator looked out at Halifax harbor and what he saw sent him rushing for his key where he lapped a dramatic message: “Ammunition ship is on fire and is heading for Pier Eight. Good-by.” Then, with more than 1,600 others, he died in the greatest explosion the world had ever seen
ON A CLEAR December morning thirty-three years ago two tramp steamers trudging along the bleak water of Canada’s east coast sighted one another and exchanged the perfunctory whistle blasts of the sea roads. Ordinarily such signals are routine traffic procedure, and are intended to eliminate danger of collision in passing.
For 20 years Aneurin Bevan’s bitter brilliant words have lashed political bigwigs in Britain from Lloyd George to Winston Churchill; he hasn’t spared his own leaders in the Labor Party either. Avowed enemy of the rich, idolized by the labor rank and file, he’s fifth in line for the job of prime minister and many Britons are scared stiff he’ll get it
If your pooch is a bundle of nerves or a muscle-bound bully it’s an even-money chance that you are too. A woman whose business is training dogs says the reason they don’t always behave well is that they behave like the people who own them
EVERY now and then someone asks me: “Which breed of dog do you like best?” It’s a tough question to answer; there are heroes, big dealers and bums in every breedAt one time or another I’ve met them all. There’s hardly been a time in my life when I haven’t had a pet of some kind.
NOT long ago a close family friend died. Our three-year-old son, sensing our bereavement and noticing that the once-frequent visitor no longer came to our home, began a barrage of questions: Will Ruthie’s mommy never come back? Where is she gone? When you die, do they put you in the ground to rot like an apple? We were stuck for suitable answers.
BY LISTENING at keyholes from time to time, when I have something better to do, I have heard two rumors or reports about myself: (1) I was a mediocre newspaper reporter, afraid to get my foot in the door, too restless to listen to anybody, and unable to estimate property losses in a fire within $200,000 of the actual amount; (2) I know nothing about a farm, although I own one, and I can’t tell a chicken hawk from a china auction.
BIRD OF PARADISE: A plushy tropical melodrama about a young Frenchman who marries a Polynesian chief’s daughter. Opposing them are a baleful medicine man, an angry volcano, and destiny — in blazing Technicolor. So so escapist entertainment.
THE best way we know to tell you how a great many people feel about James Thurber is to tell a story about Drew Middleton, a former AP sports writer who now works in Europe as one of the top men on the foreign staff of the New York Times. Middleton has two heroes — Bonus Wagner (after all he was a sports reporter) and James Thurber.
HERE is the little-known story of one of the few assassination attempts in Canadian history. It happened in 1925 when Rt. Hon. Ernest Lapointe was federal Minister of Justice and my husband, now Justice Chevrier of the Ontario Supreme Court, was one of two federal MPs for Ottawa.
“Babies must not be rocked. Rocking irritates rather than soothes the baby.” —Daily Press “Rock-a-bye, Baby ” no longer will do; Old-fashioned methods give place to the new. Grandma may sniff, yet make protest in vain; Nix on that rock-a-bye — Never again! Hush your mouth, nursey! Let the kid sleep.
Hushaby, baby — I bet you a dollar I’ll soon charm away that tempestuous holler. Hushaby now—it’s no time to be keeping Me grimly awake when I’d rather be sleeping. Yes, Daddy is blinking and yawning, but maybe I’m setting a splendid example for baby Oh, you're as alert as a chickadee, but I Could very well do with a session of shut-eye.
THE other day I ran across a magazine advertisement which read in part, “How Do You Know You Can’t Write?” and it started me thinking. After all, how did I know I couldn’t write? Who was I to take the word of my family, my friends, and several dozen assorted magazine editors? Maybe I could write.
When I read Good-by Barney, by McKenzie Porter (March 1), I felt I would like to have that horse. So I got to wondering that if I wrote that I would give him a good home—mightn’t it be possible? Maybe McKenzie Porter would mention it to Borden’s for me? It seems a shame to see such an intelligent horse killed, for meat.
The Bitter End—To torture a wife, let her go on with your anecdote if she interrupts. It’s two to one she will have forgotten the punch line.—Calgary Herald. The Fourth Estate?—An American brewing firm has given a school of journalism $100,000.
AT AN Army recruiting centre in Saskatoon a brusque young desk sergeant was interviewing a line-up of applicants for enlistment. His questions shot like bullets at the young man at the head of the line. “Name?”—“Martin, sir. James George.”