IN November ALMOST and any March part of (and Eastern sometimes Canada, between between October and June), you will meet lots of people who have decided to chuck everything and go to Tahiti to live. They are the folks whose cars won’t start because
they are frozen; whose garage doors have stuck; who can’t get the upstairs rooms warm in spite of constant wooing of the furnace; who can’t shake off what they describe as a “coad id the head.”
A few, such as Hamish, the composing room messenger, long to go to Tahiti because they saw “Mutiny on the Bounty.”
I know several people who actually
went to Tahiti to live. They all came
back. They said that evidently things
had changed a lot since the days of Chief Pomare and his lovely daughters.
Personally, after reading Captain George Waynard’s article on page ten of this issue, I think I’d be rather partial to Tonga. Being midway between Fiji and Samoa, Tonga has escaped the tourist
rush. It is a very backward place, lacking all the advantages of civilization. For instance, it has no national debt at all. Its treasury always has a large surplus. Which, of course, is ridiculous. There are no lawyers. The people work five hours a day and each citizen is allowed to own a certain amount of property and no more. He can’t speculate. In a way it is a communist state. Yet it is ruled by a queen who, in turn, is sufficiently democratic to do her own housework.
As for Captain Waynard, who describes Tonga, someone is bound to make a movie out of him. He admits that Waynard is a nom de plume. He fought with the Austrian army, was wounded four times, and since the war has been a gun-runner, done survey work in Central Brazil, mined for diamonds in South West Africa, hunted big game from Alaska to Zanzibar, built railways in Mongolia and Finland and dykes on the Hwang Ho. He has flown airplanes in the Argentine and driven racing cars over the Alps. He says that he cannot remember ever being bored.
(jj MR. ROBERT NORRIS never for a moment thought of going to Tonga, except perhaps when his tax bills came in. Being a wealthy manufacturer he could afford to let other people worry about starting his car and getting his garage doors open. But don’t run
away with the idea that he didn’t have any troubles. Their name was Betty.
A lovely daughter, but trying. The sort of lass who made the newspaper headline writers tingle with joy. Will you just try to picture Mr. Norris’s face when he saw, splashed nil over the front page, in screeching blackface type:
DAUGHTER OF MANUFACTURER WOULD CONFISCATE PRIVATE PROPERTY
So Miss Betty was packed off to the woods to find out how a living is earned, and as a result we have Anne Wormser’s story, “A Brush With Capital,” which adorns page seven.
THIRTY-THREE years ago, a young defense player on a Brandon hockey team went, in the
opinion of his coach, team-mates and audience, clean crazy. Having stopped the puck, instead of lofting it into the far rafters, what did he do but skate prettily down the ice, through the opposite defense, and take a close shot at the goal. Which was awful. Terrible. Since that night, Lester Patrick, aided by brother Frank, has upset so many preconceived notions about hockey and its rules that the only way to keep track of the revolutions is to read both chapters of Fred Edwards’s saga of “Patricks’ Progress.” The first installment appears on page eleven.
(j HAVING REACHED the age of
sixty-five, Stephen Leacock, along with other professors of equal age, has
been retired by the Governors of McGill University, and is, to use his own words, going to devote more time to his other job, that of being President of the AntiMosquito Association of East Simcoe. But after a half century of teaching, Dr. Leacock has some very definite ideas about it. On page fourteen he discusses the matter of Academic Freedom—what things professors and students have the right to say and do. Should you for an instant be tempted to think the subject is stodgy, just read the first few paragraphs.
(J WHEN BILL JOCELYN married Delphine Hogan the wise ones shook their heads from left to right and said that Bill’s political progress was at an end. No man in public life could overcome the disadvantage of having a wife about whom people talked in whispers. So that when scandal was smeared across the public prints and Delphine Hogan's name was involved, it appeared that the wise ones were right. But were they? The correct answer will be found in Allan Swinton's story, “Public Opinion,” presented on page twelve.
(J NOW FOR a little healthy excitement let us be shunted to page sixteen whereon there is displayed a railroading yarn that is of the stuff which makes strong men quiver. With our own eyes you can see Jimmy Regan dodging a hail of bullets to
scramble aboard the runaway box car, which, charged with dynamite, has been shot down the track to meet head on an advancing train. “Loaded Coupling” is by Carl Jacobi, who got Illustrator Harold McCrea so het up that he broke three of his best brushes.
A NEW serial commences in our next issue—“Tarnished Heritage,” by Allan Swinton. It is an out-and-out adventure story packed with color, action and romance. You'll like it.
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