NEXT TO the expression in a mother’s eyes as she nurses her first-born, we’d rank the enraptured look of a practical mining man as he fondles a carload of ore or pushes you into a stope a mile below the earth's surface.
A month or two ago, we lightly remarked to some International Nickel officials that we'd like to go through their mines and smelters. They were most agreeable. They sent word to Frood, Copper Cliff and other places th.it wc were to be shown the workings and the message must have been garbled into “give 'em the works,” for enthusiastic hands dragged us from the train at an ungodly hour and it was late at night when, wan of face and with wobbly knees, we collapsed on our simple couch. For fourteen hours we were convoyed through subterranean corridors and chambers, up miles of ladders, through clouds of sulphur and pillars of fire. And, while they do it every day as work, our guides just loved every minute of it. They were like a maiden with a new engagement ring.
But we wander. All we meant to do was to state that there is a tremendous fascination about mining and that the farther north you get the more fascinating it becomes.
Take Desolation Lake, for example. Talk about a primitive place! And yet we have Patricia Wellington, high-spirited daughter of a millionaire, satiated with every gift that civilization can offer, chucking up everything to go to the North West Territories and settle down in a harsh land—a lone woman in a camp of hard-boiled men; precipitated into dangerous intrigue and high adventure; object of a passionate rivalry between two men.
We can contain ourselves no longer. On page five of this issue, we bring to you the opening chapters of the most engrossing novel we have read in many a day—“Resurrection River,” by William Byron Mowery.
At the age of six, William Byron Mowery (that's him higher up) was learning to trap muskrats. At eight, all by himself, he shot a bear. At eleven, he was still without a formal education but, accompanying a somewhat migratory family, he had explored all of Ontario, Ohio and the Upper Peninsula. When fourteen he spent a winter trapping in Athabasca.
Fed up with roaming, Mr. Mowery, at fifteen, got a steady job in order to get a steady education. He got it, and with a master's degree was heading for an academic life when suddenly restlessness o'ertook him and he turned to writing. He has had published nearly four hundred short stories, fifty novelettes and eight novels, all the last-named set in the North West Territories, where he spends his summers barging about in airplanes. He thinks “Resurrection River” is the best job he’s done. We think so, too.
;¡ AS FREDERICK EDWARDS says on page eight, in spite of the pictures you see in the rotogravure sections of the week-end newspapers, all Canadian ambassadors do not wear high hats. There is every year in Europe a sizable delegation of robustious young Canucks, wTho go over tourist or work their way on freighters, and who, once across, roam up and down a dozen lands spreading the fame of Canada and the Canadian people, causing nice things to be printed about Canada and Canadians in numerous queer-looking foreign publications. They are hockey players. They are the backbone of Czechoslovakian, Italian and Austrian teams. “Envoys on Ice” tells you all about it.
(| IN “BRITANNIA Waives the Rules,” two Canadian girls have written a jocular guide to the customs, manners and habits of the English. In a chapter touching upon empire-building, they refer to the black sheep, wTho now “usually go to tropical countries where the natives are too hot and lazy to do much about it—see Malaya, Penang and the rest of the Waugham (Maugham)— countries. Here they are apt to grow beards, drown themselves in drink and surround themselves with native women until their own mothers wouldn't recognize them—which, of course, is a good thing.”
A hardish crack, perhaps, but in “The Finest Privilege,” page ten, Garnett Radcliffe demonstrates that even in such a character there remains a spark that cannot lye extinguished.
On page thirteen, Herbert N. Casson turns from the fictional Englishman to the chap who today, in his own little island, is setting a record for efficiency. There are a few jolts in this piece for those Canadians who have up to now considered that the go-getter is indigenous to only American soil.
(J FROM TIME to time our critics (oh, yes, Geraldine, we do have critics) have wagged admonishing fingers at us and accused us of deliberately engineering controversies in these pages. We have even done that. More often we have just encouraged them. For we believe that there is nothing quite like a good argument—not too boisterous, of course—for getting people interested in subjects in which they ought to be interested. One such subject is co-education. On page sixteen, A. M. Pratt gives forth a stentorian “NO!” He doesn’t think boys and girls should be taught together. His opinion is based on twenty-four years of teaching before the war, twelve years in boys' schools; after the war, twelve years in mixed schools. During the war he won an M.C. Now he doesn’t think much of M.C.’s—when they mean Mixed Classes
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