WITH this issue Maclean’s announces and invites submissions to a new short-story contest for Canadians who write or would like to write. As a concrete reaffirmation of our faith that Canada’s exciting strides in other fields are being matched by equally exciting strides in the field of creative writing, the winning entries will receive the highest rates of payment ever offered by a Canadian publisher:
I CANNOT remember how many times I have visited America but the emotional process is always the same. For the first few days I almost feel like wearing a Union Jack instead of a waistcoat and telling people how much better everything is done in England.
IN OTTAWA, where nothing is more fun than the splitting of a constitutional hair, you can still get up an argument any day over the accession of Queen Elizabeth II. The Question: “Did the Government of Canada register a milestone in the development of the Commonwealth, or did it merely make an ass of itself?”
The Toronto Star got to be one of the loudest, craziest and most successful papers in the world by unleashing an army of reporters on stories and stunts carefully calculated to please—as well as infuriate—some of the people all of the time
ON NOVEMBER 16 of last year a horse trainer named Norman Fisher returned to his home in suburban Alderwood, just outside Toronto, to witness a spectacle that made his gorge rise. As a result he seized his twenty-year-old daughter, slapped her across the face, threw her against the radio and, when she fell down, kicked her.
CORRUPT CANADIAN GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS AND UNSCRUPULOUS TRAVEL AGENTS HAVE EXTORTED THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS TO SMUGGLE ITALIAN IMMIGRANTS INTO CANADA. THIS MACLEAN'S REPORT ON AN INTERNATIONAL RACKET SHOWS ITS TOOLS INCLUDED BRIBERY, BLACKMAIL AND A BEAUTIFUL BLOND SEDUCTRESS
ONE DAY LAST summer an Italian immigrant named Girolama Liuzzo arrived at Dorval airport, outside Montreal. He looked no more suspicious than any of the other forty thousand Italians who have come to Canada since the war. His name was on the approved immigration list and his travel documents were in order.
Jake and the Kid helped pull the strings to get the royal train to take on water at Crocus. But it was Moses Lefthand and Miss Henchbaw who worked out the finer points of protocol
W. O. MITCHELL
WHEN Miss Henchbaw got up and stood there with her hands folded across her stomach, she had her mouth sort of turned up at the corners, like when she’s got something to tell us and it’s good. I was looking clear across the room at Lazarus Lefthand.
To the tolling of a bell the Hutterites of Alberta work and worship, turning the other cheek to those who scoff at their beliefs, their beards and their four-hundred-year-old fashions. They stay happy without cars or cosmetics, and stay out of asylums too
A GROUP OF SCIENTISTS recently made the astonishing discovery that while every tenth person in Canada suffers from mental illness or nervous disability, the Hutterites in their communal colonies are almost entirely free of it. In southern Alberta, where more than half the world’s eight thousand Hutterites live, I visited a colony that was like a medieval retreat from the twentieth century.
Robertson Davies, playwright, novelist, editor and wit, enjoys firing salvoes like "A lady in Canada is a dowdy unappetizing mammal,” and “Mainspring of a Canadian’s patriotism is not love, but duty.” Yet many people consider him a cornerstone of Canadian culture
PETERBOROUGH is a medium-sized, colorless, conservative Ontario city compelled, through the whimsy of fate, to contain one of the most astonishing personalities in the country, a writer named Robertson Davies who can only be described as a pure-blooded intellectual.
A brave’s legendary answer to the dying sighs of an Indian maiden named the lake-linked Saskatchewan valley that refreshes the prairies. But now the ghosts are hidden by shoulder-high crops, hustling ranches, a score of youth camps and summer cottages with names like Linger-Longer
MARJORIE WILKINS CAMPBELL
TODAY the deep mile-wide two-hundred-mile-long valley which furrows the flat Saskatchewan prairies from the South Saskatchewan River to the Assiniboine in Manitoba takes its name from the lazy stream meandering its lush bottom and linking its eight lakes.
TEN THOUSAND tourists a year go to a small brick bungalow at 212 King Street West, Cobourg, Ont., to visit the birthplace of a movie star who had the shortest of Hollywood careers — four years — has been dead seventeen years, and lived in the house only a short time as an infant eighty years ago.
Lay down that whodunit and find out how a real life detective gets his man. In tracking the murderer of Alfred Layng, Trigger Payne used the mixture as before: A minimum of magic, a maximum of work and a lot of breaks, some good, some bad
AT FOUR O’CLOCK on Saturday afternoon, July 30, 1949, a seedy young man walked casually through the week-end shoppers crowding Loblaw’s groceteria on Parliament St., in east central Toronto, climbed a flight of stairs at the back, entered the manager’s office, pulled a pistol from his pocket and said: “Open the safe and give me what’s in it!”
Should you take your host a bottle of Scotch or a black lace nightie? What do you say when you set fire to the bed? And just what is a week end, anyway?
HERE’S ONE to answer: Suppose you are the week-end guest of some people you are very anxious to impress favorably. The first morning at breakfast, when you try to cut your scrambled eggs on toast, your knife skids, a sausage does a beautiful end-over-end into the jam pot, and in trying to field the sausage you knock over the coffee Silex onto a priceless oak dining table and a visiting in-law who has some sentimental value.
BEND OF THE RIVER: There are, of course, customers who loftily ignore all westerns, and that's their privilege under the ticket buyer's Bill of Rights. But for Those less confined in their selections this Technicolor job is heartily endorsed as one of the best in Hollywood’s recent spate of big outdoor dramas.
Movie stardom seems to run in some families hut often the individuals concerned will take different names to avoid confusion on billboards and the accusation of trying to “cash in” on a relative’s renown. In these ten pictures are five sets of Hollywood relatives.
The air is filled with swirling snow And winter's disinclined to go; But though no early robins sing, Here's one authentic sign of spring— I burrowed through the drifts today And put the garden chairs away.
Before the dinner there’s a gap— Just time enough for him to nap. And after mealtime, there’s no question Snoozing aids a man’s digestion. The paper’s news and sports events Induce a rapid somnolence. Through radio programs he selects He’s slumbering with sound effects.
No Problem—Experts are trying to figure a way to relieve prison congestion. Just give any convict an auto and a half-hour’s start.— Saskatoon Star-Phoenix. Boring Too—Patient: “Five dollars is an awful lot of money for pulling a tooth—two seconds’ work.”
ONE thing you begin to appreciate at the age of forty is what a complicated job it is to break a habit. For instance, it recently took a plumber, a Bologna sandwich, my wife and a view of Georgian Bay to break an old habit of mine of taking a certain kind of bath.
No job is really safe, it appears. Even bank clerks can sprain a thumb from counting hundred-dollar bills.
In Magog, Que., a police officer was suspended from the force a few hours after giving a parking ticket to the mayor. Clayton Howard, a bus driver, was bitten by a passenger who objected when Howard awakened him at Brazil, Ind. After spending a week collecting material for a series of stories on pickpocket thefts, a newspaper reporter in Winnipeg had the notes stolen from his pocket as he walked to his office.
Please accept my compliments on your Jan. 15 editorial, Let the Supreme Court Review the Meyer Case. A member of a regiment in the occupation force, I had the opportunity of attending the trial. It seemed to me a great deal of odd testimony was being allowed to get by with no argument from the defendant’s lawyers . . . I had no reason to feel sorry for a German SS general, having fought against the Germans from Normandy to Oldenburg and been wounded during the Belgian campaign.
WHEN a man in Nanaimo, B.C., stopped at the local tavern after work he soon found himself deep in conversation with friends and forgot the time. Fortunately his wife had a sense of humor. Well past his dinner hour a messenger arrived with a covered tray bearing a perfectly cooked meal: “With the compliments of your wife, sir!”