UP which AT Goldfields, straddles the booming boundaries Canadian of Alberta. mining field Saskatchewan ard the North West Territories, everything, including domestic help at fancy figures, is freighted around by air.
Monday may be Blue to housewives of Canada’s urban and rural areas, but in the northland’s new mining camps the day is Black.
No home in the area has a washing-machine, and the one maid available alternates her services among those hiring domestic help at fat prices.
To wash clothes and clean one-room cabins, she hops from camp to camp in an airplane. The longest jump made regularly each week by the air-commuting maid is from Goldfields to Warren, a distance of thirty miles.
Canadians are amazing people. . . George Kedilatze, of the staff of the Ottawa Technical School, came to Canada as an immigrant from the Russian Georgian country. . . and convinced an immigration officer that he was worth letting into the Dominion although his finances were practically nil. He demonstrated his ability as a concert pianist, and the officer helped him organize his first recital, although he couldn’t speak English. He’s often heard on the radio now. . .
Campbell Morgan, of Montreal, has gone into a nursery and left an order for plants up to $1,000 at one call. . . He’s been invited to tell an English flower society about his alpine gardening activities. . .
J. G. Saul, Toronto publisher, has a library which contains more than 2,300 volumes on Keats alone. He had his coal furnace removed and an oil one put in so that he could use the coal bin for a bookcase. . .
Dr. Wilfred Wees, of Toronto, once took time off from writing a series of articles on Mental Deficiency for the Edmonton Journal, to do a personality sketch about his friend, Stefansson. The explorer sent word from New York that he would like a dozen copies for his friends. So Dr. Weesaskedthe Journal to mail copiesof the issue containing his article. Time passed, and no word from Stefansson. One day came a curt note from the famous man’s secretary, saying that the explorer had been away when the papers arrived, and that, following instructions, she had simply readdressed them and mailed them to a number of people, with a note saying that Stefansson considered the article by Dr. Wees in this newspaper to be the finest appraisal of himself he had seen. This done, she opened the remaining paper for filing purposes. The article by Dr. Wees which it contained was headed “Identification of the Mental Defect.”
Workers in some Canadian paper mills have a sign language as rare as it is mysterious. They make long, narrow paper darts and shoot them, to attract attention when they have something to “say.” Because of the terrific noise of the machinery it’s all done with their hands. And the description of a night-before date is something to remember. . .
The world’s fastest moving coin has been driven to cover by the stalkers of souvenirs.
In June of 1931. when Wiley Post and navigator Harold Gatty crashed world headlines by girdling the globe in eight days, 15 hours and 51 minutes, three silver dollars— priceless to collectors—were dropped en route.
Pilot Post left one at Berlin, Germany, a second at Khabarovsk, Siberia, and the third at Edmonton, Alberta.
The “round-the-world-dollar” went on exhibition at the Edmonton airport along with autographed photographs of Post and Gatty and Pilots Jimmy Mattem, Col. Reg Robbins, Captain Frank M. Hawks, and other famed aces who have stopped over in Alberta’s capital.
Souvenir snatchers, armed with razor blades, attacked the airport logbook for the signatures of the famous birdmen, so manager Captain James Bell was forced to put the photographs and certain valuable pages of the book under lock and key at the city hall.
The silver dollar presented a different problem. With other loose change, Captain Bell carried it around in his pocket; came dangerously close to spending it on frequent occasions, and decided his personal safeguarding of the coin to be too much of a strain on the nerves. He solved the difficulty finally by mounting the Post silver dollar on a velvet cushion inside a locked glass case in his own home.
Reading in an English newspaper that the United Kingdom’s young men are all of a dither about Elephant’sBreath or Banana-Skin shades in spring suitings, an Edmonton newshawk made the rounds of the city’s clothes shops and whipped together a story saying the new shades would soon be available for prairie gay-blades.
Into one of the tailoring houses of the city strode a bright young buck, up on a holiday from Calgary; whipped out a copy of the paper and demanded a suit in the Elephant’sBreath or Banana-Skin tones.
The tailor was stumped. He had neither Elephant’sBreath nor Banana-Skin. In desperation he showed the customer a slightly faded Harris tweed from last year’s stock. The customer looked at it and shuddered.
“But,” remonstrated the tailor, “this has even more class than the Elephant’s-Breath material. It’s the new and very swanky Cinnamon-Bear-Sunburn shade.”
“You don’t say!” enthused the anxious-to-be-up-to-theminute customer. “I’ll take it.”
Now that spring is here, perhaps the Montreal roads department foreman feels better about this. They have blizzards aplenty in Montreal and not any too much money to pay for shovelling the snow away. So roads foremen know how to economize. Late last winter, however, a crêpe appeared on the door of a certain house in this particular foreman’s district in Villeray Ward. The foreman thoughtfully had the snow cleared away to the door, so that the funeral should not be impeded. He was full of sympathy for the stricken family when the next snowfall came and another crêpe was hung up. Suspicion dawned when the third funeral was imminent. Instead of shovelling. he investigated. There never had been any funerals. The foreman was vexed—very vexed, in fact.
Poker-face Jascha Heifetz, aristocrat among world renowned fiddlers, smiled the other day. He and his piano accompanist, Emmanuel Bey, were guests of honor at a reception after their Montreal recital.
A gushing lady bore down on them with particular gush for Mr. Bey. ending with “So charmed to hear you again, Mr. Bey. You know I heard you before, when you played here for Horowitz.”
Said Mr. Bey in slow, careful English: “But surely not, Madame—Horowitz does very well without me.”
Heifetz, standing by him, smiled for the first time that afternoon.
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