ONLY BY an eleventh-hour return to sanity did the architects of the Royal Tour abstain from perpetrating one of the saddest fiascos in Canada’s recent history. Although common sense did rear its unfamiliar head in the later stages, the program on balance still had many of the elements of a cruel and pointless hoax.
I DO NOT know who was the first man to say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions but it was a profound truth, even if it has lost its edge with overmuch repetition. Here in Britain we look at the march of events and listen to pious exhortations from abroad until we feel like shouting, “In the name of sanity give us a little less idealism and a little more realism.”
QUITE apart, from the issues involved the British election was a fascinating display of electioneering tactics. At least one young Canadian politician, W. H. Kidd, national secretary of the Progressive Conservative Party, chose to spend his vacation here observing the campaign.
May I take this opportunity to compliment you upon the uniformly excellent issue of Maclean’s for October 1. The articles and the illustrations were highly interesting, attractive and instructive. You also merit praise for publishing those lovely color photographs and portraits of H.R.H. Princess Elizabeth and Philip, Duke of Edinburgh.
ALL THROUGH the election campaign, while the political leaders thundered up and down Britain, placid civil servants in the Treasury were at work producing two massive documents for the new chancellor of the exchequer, whatever his political color.
TED REEVE PICKS MACLEAN’S 6TH ALL-CANADIAN FOOTBALL TEAM
CANADIAN football customers and executives (or executors) spent more money and expended more enthusiasm on the autumn pastime in 1951 than ever before. And they had to watch more games than ever, with their teams at half strength. The American imports were the highest priced to date, so were the tickets.
HE HAD ONCE overheard a stenographer refer to him as “that shy young engineer.” Knowing they thought him shy only made him twice as shy and three times as miserable. So Linton Wilk raced through the outer office of the Buckthorne Construction Company as though his brief case held a time bomb set for thirty seconds ago.
EACH Christmas, Jean Care, a kindergarten teacher at Forest Hill Village’s South School, is embarrassed by the large number of gifts she receives. Like a freshly fallen avalanche, they are piled mountain-high on her desk and the floor space surrounding it.
THE CORRESPONDENT of the Chicago Times, getting his first wink of sleep in forty-eight hours under a table in a shack at Moose River, N.S., was routed out by a phone call from his office. It was the first call into the isolated mining area since the rescue of two of three men who had been trapped in a mine a hundred and forty-one feet underground for ten days.
IT IS NOT inconceivable that some young man or woman now reading this article will live to be a hundred and sixty. It is not inconceivable that scores of young people now reading this article will live beyond a hundred. If this should come to pass it will probably be due in large part to the work of a forty-four-year-old Montreal doctor whose glandular discoveries have brought medical research to a revolutionary turning point.
THE BRONCO-BUSTIN’, song-writin’, guitar-strummin’ World’s Friendliest Cowboy is a fifty-year-old sad-eyed Maritimer named Wilf Carter. Operating from a five-bathroom, sixty-thousand-dollar home in New Jersey, he is credited with making more records than any man alive, including a sometime cowhand named Crosby.
A YEAR AGO I left my home in a little place called Bognor Regis in Sussex, England, and came to Canada as the wife of an Indian whom I’d met while he was stationed in England with the Glengarry Highlanders. Since then I’ve lived with Indians as my family, friends and neighbors at Hiawatha, the reserve of the Rice Lake Indians, fifteen miles south of Peterborough, Ont.
PETER WHALLEY is perhaps the only artist in this issue (see page 42) who is a former merchant mariner now playing the flute for relaxation. He did his seagoing in a succession of foreign tramps as a wireless man during the war. He plays recorder, a kind of flute, with an informal little combo in Morin Heights, about forty miles north of Montreal, where he lives with his wife, small daughter and a spoiled spaniel.
Hark, the season's coining in When angelic traits begin. Kindness to one's father mingles With the sound of sleigh-bell jingles— Helpfulness is shown the mother. Tolerance, the little brother. The motto till the twenty-fifth Is, “Kindness to All kin and kith!”
Oh, give me not Winter for sake of a rose left blossoming under the whispering snows, and give me not Winter for sake of a fruit left on the bough, or for sake of a root that bursts in the ground when the cold wind blows. Oh, give me Winter for Winter’s sake, for the lowered sky and the frozen lake, for the driven sleet and the lengthened night and give me Winter for the white driftwind dance of the snowflake.
AN AMERICAN IN PARIS: A topnotch Hollywood musical, bubbling over with good Gershwin tunes. Most of its hilarity, too, is quite infectious. A charming mademoiselle named Leslie Caron joins forces with dancer-choreographer Gene Kelly in an admirable but not arty ballet, with Oscar Levant as a sourly amusing hecWer in the wings.
I have outgrown the knee pants and the shoes I used to wear. The coat is now too small that Mother bought me that momentous fall when I was last a boy. I cannot use the nightshirt—for I am too tall. I have outgrown, likewise, the hushabys and cradiesong, the stocking and the stick; the fables of Kris Kringle and St. Nick fool me no more.
THERE’S a gay dog, a fourlegged one, in Vancouver who goes out. on the town whenever he feels life lacks bounce around the house. Frequently his owner has to bail him out of the pound after one of these binges. But the woman who owns him was totally unprepared for his belated return the other Sunday morning about seven o’clock.