October 1 1938


October 1 1938



A number of Twin City readers have hastened to tell us about Mrs. Paul Popiel. of Fort William, and the hornet.

Mrs. Popiel, with her sons, was working away at the back of the house, loading a newly cut crop of hay into the barn when from one of the stacks there came a hornet. The hornet stung Mrs. Popiel on the forehead. Mrs. Popiel, tracing the attacker to its source, found a whole hornet colony in the stack. Taking a piece of tar paper, she lit it and applied the flame to the nest.

Three hours later the fire brigade had under control a blaze which had burned or damaged twenty tons of hay. seared the barn and provided a lot of excitement for a lot of people.

Hornets, in rebuttal, are fearsome things.

Roy Browm. famous Canadian war pilot, we are informed by a Par tule operative residing in Lac du Bonnet. Manitoba, is now president of an enterprising airplane transport company, operating in the northwest, known as Wings. Limited. The Wings, Limited, machines are radio equipped, and the company has established radio stations at several strategic bases. Recently President Brown, aloft in his Waco in the Red Lake district, sent out a call for the Red Lake station. He received no response to his signals and continued to call Red Lake at frequent intervals, without result. Operators at Sioux Lookout, 1-ac du Bonnet, and Beresford Lake caught President Brown’s fruitless appeals to Red Lake, and began to get the wind up pretty badly, convinced that something must be wrong with Brown. Sioux Lookout, Lac du Bonnet and Beresford joined in the radio hue-and-cry. all in their turn frantically calling Red Lake. At last the Red Lake operator came out of his coma, came in on Brown’s set and anxiously asked for instructions, the while the other operators held their breath and strained their eardrums for word of whatever frightful disaster impended.

President Roy Brown radioed to Red Lake:

•‘I’m hungry. Stopping ten minutes at Red Lake.

Bring me a couple of fried egg sandwiches down to the dock.”

The Advocate, of Delisle, Saskatchewan, reports as follows:

“Mr. P. H. Climenhaga delivered a thrilling lecture to the pupils and teacher of Frontenac School, on Wednesday afternoon. June 29. on his nickel mining career at Levack, Ontario. His discourse was intermingled with many hairraising episodes, and was enjoyed by all present excepting the teacher and pupils.”

Well. Mr. Climenhaga had a good time at any rate.

Advertisement in the Recorder, of Reston, Manitoba, proclaiming the forthcoming attraction at the Pipestone Theatre:


The Story of the Building of the C.P.R. Thru the Rocky Mountains.

And whistling while they worked, too.

Announcement of an amazing marine achievement as recorded by the Prince Rupert News.

"New York The Queen Mary early today established a new westbound transatlantic speed record of three days, twenty hours and two minutes, three years faster than the mark set by the Normandie a year ago.”

Patients of the Saskatoon Sanatorium were kept awake until 10.45 one night recently, but none of them minded. For they were listening in on a romantic, if robust, broadcast of affection.

A young man living on the west side of the Saskatchewan River had observed and been attracted by a maiden living on the east bank. The fact that they were half a mile apart and had no means of more intimate conversational contact did not deter this western Romeo from wooing his Juliet. For an hour and a half they shouted sweet-nothings at each other across the watery waste, and finally made a date for 7.30 the next night.

No patient of the San has yet told us whether the date was kept in the same manner, or whether love found another way. We’d rather like to know.

Much publicity has been given recently to the Conservation Board, set up in Alberta to control the Turner Valley Oil Field. Comment, on the whole, has been favorable. Nevertheless, some doubt as to the aims of the new body appears to exist in certain circles in Calgary. The Oil Bulletin, published weekly in that city, labelled it as the CONVERSATION BOARD.

For some time now the Kiwanis Club of West Toronto has been making a little money for worthy causes by having had the foresight to borrow Casa Lorna, the famous Pellatt’s Castle, and throw it open for public inspection at a small charge. The other night a friend of Parade joined up with a party of tourists which was being conducted through the building, and went the rounds. The party drew up in front of the huge and famous painting. "The Fall of Nineveh.” Remember? It depicts King Siusharishitun surrounded by a crowd of nearly nude ladies, all in attitudes of horror as the flames set by the invading host, redden the background. The guide explained it all very carefully, giving not a little dope about the history of the Assyrian city and its conquest in 612 B. C. "And so,” he concluded, " ‘The Fall of Nineveh,’ Is there anyone who would like to ask a question?”

A male tourist, who had been devouring the picture with his eyes, spoke up.

"Yes, sir," said he. "I’d like to know, please, which one of them is Nineveh?”

Colin Danson manages a theatre in the town of Sussex. N.B.. about 45 miles from Saint John. He had come to the seacoast city to attend a convention of provincial exhibitors, to meet and hear prominent theatrical men from

Toronto, who were covering Canada in a million-dollar "Better Business” drive.

There was to be luncheon in the Admiral Beatty Hotel at one o’clock, and Mr. Danson walked to the mezzanine to meet some of the boys prior to the meal. Two salons were prepared for luncheon and the Sussex man entered one where a group was just being seated.

They were strange faces, but as he hadn’t attended an exhibitors’ congress for some time, he just marked it down to new men taking over the old houses. He d have to become acquainted all over again.

Smilingly, he approached one man and, holding out his hand, said, "I’m Danson from Sussex. What house do you manage?”

The stranger smiled. Shook hands. "I’m Gordon, Bank of Montreal.”

Colin Danson laughed heartily. The old theatre gang hadn’t forgotten how to be gtxxi kidders. He felt more at home.

Approaching a stocky man, he smiled affably, shook hands and repeated his greeting and enquiry.

“Beatty,” was the pleasant rejoinder, "Canadian Pacific.”

This certainly was amusing, thought the Sussex theatre man. He was completely at his ease now.

Glancing toward the door of the salon, he saw a fellow exhibitor he knew beckoning to him. Puzzled he walked over.

"Aren’t you coming to the lunch?” he was asked.

The cold, sweaty truth began to dawn on Colin Danson. Half an hour later he found he had been hobnobbing at a luncheon in honor of Sir Edward Beatty and Sir Charles Gordon. He’s good sjx)rt enough to tell the joke on himself with gustó.

Mike Mountain Horse, widely known Indian writer, lecturer, and C.E.F. veteran, was talking over old times on the western frontier with friends in Lethbridge, Alberta, the other day, when he suddenly bobbed up with a fragment of reminiscence that seems to us to contain such remarkable qualities of succinctness in the presentation of a true, but usually entirely unappreciated viewpoint, as to be positively startling.

"It all depends,” Mike Mountain Horse told our reporter. “My parents and a number of other Indian families were camped one day, when I was very young, on the Old Man River bottom near where Lethbridge now stands. I was playing with some other Indian boys quite a distance from our camp. Suddenly over the hill came some queer-looking men. Their faces were while! We looked once, and then, terrified, ran screaming to our mothers and the safe security of our familiar tepees.”