IT IS GOOD to see that the lost generation of Canadian education, a species last heard from nearly a quarter of a century ago, has not been lost at all. It’s only been resting, nursing the honorable wounds sustained when the Freudians and the mechanics seized control of the schools and set out on their dubious campaign to turn us into a nation of well-adjusted steamfitters.
BRUCE HUTCHISON, who when he is home is editorin-chief of the Victoria Daily Times, comes east two or three times a year, all as a part of the process of remaining one of the best-informed writers in Canada today. His latest circuit included stops at Ottawa, Montreal, New York, Washington and Toronto where we met him and discussed the article which starts on page 7 . . .
SUFFICIENT time has elapsed since the death of King George VI for us to look upon the event with the appraising eyes of contemporary history; yet it is also recent enough for us still to feel the emotional impact. While these memories are fresh we should try to understand the meaning and the reason for the reaction not only of the people of the Commonwealth but of people throughout the civilized world.
BACKBENCHERS on both sides of the House are looking hopefully to the Government these days. If they are good boys and do all their homework the Government may bring in a bill at this session to provide pensions for members of parliament. Bona Arsenault, MP for Bonaventure and an insurance man by occupation, has been working for this for years.
As one of the most malignant election campaigns in American history gets under way the rest of the free nations anxiously read the faces and platforms of Eisenhower, Taft and Truman — the leading candidates for commander-in-chief of the western world
IN THIS YEAR, one of the most dangerous on human record, the future of mankind will be directed largely by the inhabitants of three buildings. One is the Kremlin. The other two are the Pentagon and the White House in Washington. As the United States moves toward the most confused but vital elections since 1932, as the free world alliance moves toward a period of terrible strain, the Kremlin remains invisible and unknown.
Pioneer Vancouver said Charlie Woodward was crazy when he built his store in a frog swamp. But his clairvoyance paid off in the forty-million-dollar mammoth that boasts the world’s largest grocery floor and is happily battling an invasion from the east
WHEN Eaton’s bought into Vancouver’s family compact of department stores three years ago, eighteen men, stirred by the snapping of fingers, filed out of a brick-fronted eight-story building on the fringe of the city’s skid row. Like pallbearers going to mourn the passing of an old friend they walked up the street into the higher-rent district until they reached another big building.
Pauline Johnson, now best known as the sweet Mohawk singer of schoolbook verse, was once the darling of the salons of Mayfair and the toast of western tank towns. Her vivid readings of her own poetry radiated a savage charm that sometimes made strong men weak
THERE ONCE was an Indian princess who sang in tones both fierce and tender of her people and the forest she loved. When she died they buried her under the tall evergreens at a place where the setting sun burns across the water, and her songs lived on.
Nineteen years old and only four feet tall, Dick Austin still manages to drive a car and hold down a man-sized job. Here, he tells the lively story of a man living amid a race of behemoths — some of whom are his girl friends
RICHARD THOMAS AUSTIN
DOGS may be dogs to you but to me a large dog is as furious as a charging bull, as dangerous as a hungry lion and as fearful as a hippopotamus. You see, when I pull in my belt and deliberately draw myself up to full height, I am still only forty-eight inches tall.
THE GREATEST THREE-CENT SHOW ON EARTH — Conclusion
IN THE RANKS of that vast army of men who at one time or another have worked for Harry Comfort Hindmarsh, the presiding genius of Canada’s largest newspapers, the Toronto Star and Star Weekly, there circulates an intriguing but untrue story that illustrates the awe in which he is held.
The killer motioned with his gun. "Let's be going," he said. And so May and Will stepped out into the searing heat of Wildhorse Basin where their dreams of a private paradise had turned to dust
ROBERT J. HOGAN
EARLY JULY was upon Wildhorse Basin and the summer heat cursed the land. Where grass should be green and lush for the stock, only heat waves rose from the cracked earth. The stock stood on the bare ground watching for Will Hadley to return with a jag of the last swamp hay from the drying mountain spring bench and a barrel part-filled with the day’s run of water.
Every spring as the ice goes out the wild Miramichi River goes gloriously berserk. So do the lean tough salmon that surge among its swollen rapids and the happy, half-frozen anglers who flock to New Brunswick for he-man sport
WILLIAM J. DRISCOLL
WHEN a river, big fish and human beings are struck by spring madness simultaneously as they are each April the result is the chilliest, zaniest, most exciting angling in the world. The river is the Miramichi, which winds through the forests and past the farming and lumbering communities of northeastern New Brunswick and empties into the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
Otto Strasser helped prop Hitler into power, then broke with his Führer and had to flee for his life. Now, from above a grocery in Paradise, N.S., he dreams of returning to power in a divided Germany that flatly refuses to let him cross its border
PARADISE, N.S., has a name that suits it. Quiet, peaceful, contented, it’s set among the apple orchards of the Annapolis Valley and sheltered by rolling hills. No place could seem more remote from cloak-and-dagger drama, more isolated from political intrigue.
ANOTHER MAN'S POISON: Bette Davis, a bit pudgy in jodhpurs, runs her old-time gamut from livid fury to maniacal laughter in this distressing British-made mellerdrammer. It's the sort of thing she used to do before All About Eve, only worse.
Oh, days there are that we set apart For national figures or new crusades, For people or causes close to one's heart, Or, anyway, close to the Board of Trade’s. But once a year there dawns a day For a world-wide amicable display When everybody can claim a place In this festival of the human race.
When winter’s grip seemed stubbornly eternal I saw a robin in the morning light, A harbinger of all things fresh and vernal, And hope awoke within my heart despite The uncongenial bleakness of the weather. Then someone wrote the Tribune setting forth His claim: two robins journeying together Three weeks ago and twelve miles farther north.
There’s fireplace wood and tricycles. A hatchet and two bicycles; A box of clothes to give away. And relics of another dav; Old garden tools and magazines, A drum of oil. some rusted screens; Two ancient chairs that I can't use— Their springs are sprung, their stuffings ooze; Storm doors, three skis, a broken sled.
As a Canadian temporarily residing in the U. S. may I congratulate you and thank you for Fred Bodsworth’s article, What Kind of Canadians are We Getting? (Feb. 15). It was fair, objective and quite instructive. The decline in the number of British immigrants is a very serious matter and is one more example of the lack of cohesion and unity among British Canadians . . .
IN VANCOUVER a barker was demonstrating a product guaranteed to mend torn clothing in a jiffy. Soon he gathered a crowd of shoppers. His spiel wound up: “And if you don’t find this satisfactory, bring it right back and I’ll refund your money.