Last April we tried these two men as murderers. Their crime: they killed a mad woman who threatened the survival of their arctic band. For them, it was an act of self-defense, an execution carried out with the full sanction of Eskimo custom. But it was also a crime against our laws—and the trial was the final act of a larger tragedy: the slow humiliation of a proud and self-reliant people.By FARLEY MOWAT20 min
As THE AUTOCRATIC RULER of one of the world’s biggest food empires, George Cedric Metcalf is rather good at giving millions of stomachs a comfortable, well-fed feeling. At the same time he is disturbingly adept at causing ulcers, butterflies, little knots of resentment and other assorted tremors in the stomachs of his associates, his competitors, his shareholders and certain of the seventy-five thousand people around the world who are technically, if not directly, his employees.By STAN HELLEUR12 min
FINDING THE: I AST resting place of the French treasure ship Le Chameau (The Camel) off the coast of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, was difficult, agonizingly slow and often hazardous. But that was nothing compared to the task Alex Storm and his partners Dave MacEachern and Harvey MacLeod faced when they came to lift the treasure from the seabed where it had lain for two hundred and forty-one years.By ALAN EDMONDS12 min
In The Thorn In Socred's Flesh (Reviews), R. A. Fenn, of the University of Toronto, reported on the ease of Professor Colwyn Williamson and his failure to obtain tenure at the University of Alberta. The report contained many errors, and was grossly false in the impression it left — i.e., that academic freedom is endangered at the University of Alberta by a frightened faculty succumbing to government pressure.
THE LATE Paul Chartier's abortive bomb assault on the House of Commons has once again left Canada’s meek band of parliamentary attendants cowering under a cloud of shame. “Why didn’t they stop him?” goes the cry. “We need tighter security, new policing methods, safer MPs.” Well, I believe the squawks of outrage about our latter-day Guy Fawkes are all in vain.By DAVID COWLISHAW5 min
THE TELEPHONE rings insistently in the middle of the afternoon. The young housewife, busy with her chores, lifts the receiver expectantly. It’s a welcome break in her routine— perhaps a friend suggesting a coffee break or even her husband ringing from the office to say he’ll take her out to dinner.By SHEILA H. RIERAN4 min
NO INSTITUTION is more susceptible to the whims and fads and passing fancies of the fickle public than a coifee house. In London two centuries ago Dr. Johnson’s dyspeptic displeasure (some over-roasted grounds?) was enough to put one of the most famous City meeting places out of business.By NANCY ELLIOTT4 min
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