HE GOT off the train at Williams, Arizona, and instead of boarding the tourist special for the Grand Canyon he hired a car, which was expensive but he did not mind expense when it was in the interest of good judgment. Having got safely from the painted women of Manhattan to the Painted Desert of Arizona by keeping strictly to himself and his compartment on the Chief, it was not like him to risk the stake in the last few miles.By CHARLES BONNER
DONCHER go ’way, Annie!” The woman’s voice rose stridently above the steam that encircled the washtubs as she turned to where the child waited quietly. “Doncher go gettin’ yerself lost now. There’s a luve!” Her voice softened and she bent down to bestow a moistly maternal kiss on the white face in its pale frame of fair curls.By Phyllis Lee Peterson
LAST summer Punch, the famous British magazine of humor, sent a roving reporter over to this continent to observe the customs and habits of North Americans. In due time the correspondent (Hod, by name) got around to reporting on the degenerate reading habits of young Americans.By SIDNEY KATZ
A.S. NEILL is a greying 65-year-old school-teacher who can listen equably while a saucy 10-year-old tells him to shut up. He is also a concocter of educational dynamite. At Summerhill, Neill’s now celebrated boarding school in England, lessons are strictly optional.By LESTER MATTHEWS
JUST about the time Adolf Hitler became possessed of the devil and set all Europe thundering to the tramp of marching feet Edith Frances McLean surrendered to The Lord. She was driving with a man friend through her native suburb of Swansea in West End Toronto when she saw a group of men and women in drab blue serge with red facings standing on a corner in the rain singing “Rock of Ages.”By McKENZIE PORTER
NAKED pretty 18-year-old Ann Kempton stood before the bureau mirror in her bedroom, as the flickering rays of a nearby candle cast golden beams on the shapely curves of her body . . . What she did not see was a sinister figure . . . drawing ever closer ... a man with lust in his mind and murder in his heart . . .By PIERRE BERTON
RUGBY FOOTBALL schedules are growing so long and so rugged that an All-Star selector can almost sit back and pick the survivors for his dream team. This process of elimination among the leading linemen and busier backs via the emergency wards has, at various times this autumn, taken care of such football worthies as racing Royal Copeland and Joseph Krol of the Toronto Argonauts.By TED REEVE
WHEN A Canadian wants to have himself a real bang-up meal, in the carefree mood that goes with a big evening on the town or is induced by a flourishing expense account, he isn’t apt to waste much time deciding what to order. Most male citizens of this country think only one thing tastes wonderful enough, has a sufficiently rich and mouth-watering smell, and sticks long enough to the ribs to rate as supreme festive eating—a thick, tender, juicy steak.By Robert Elliott
YOU WON’T find Burnt Creek on any map of Canada. It looks like a place the prop men will dismantle tomorrow, their Grade-B western movie completed. Its log cabins, tucked into the red, sub-Arctic ground; its Nissen-hut cookhouse with the iron triangle outside the door; its mongrel Husky dogs and its bearded miners make it the prototype of all fictional camps.By STUART KEATE
IT WAS New Year’s Eve. The celebration was reaching the “Auld Lang Syne” stage in the officers’ mess at Greenwood RCAF base in Nova Scotia’s Annapolis Valley, when the phone rang. At the first peal a hush fell on the room. The bar steward answered.By EVA-LIS WUORIO
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