In the Confidence

In the Confidence

December 15 1937
In the Confidence

In the Confidence

December 15 1937

In the Confidence

WHEN WE invited our readers to tell us about their Strangest Christmas we had no idea that in Canada there could be so many people who have participated in unusual, dramatic and weird happenings, both here and in remote corners of the earth and sea.

To handle the manuscripts submitted we had to muster an extra staff. It ended its labors worn to a frazzle by the strain of making the final selection. To have published all the stories worthy of publication would have meant throw' ing out everything else in this issue.

This we couldn’t very well do. We have had to content ourselves, and, we hope, our readers, by selecting what were considered to be the most unusual stories. They are presented on pages ten and eleven of this issue, and they demonstrate once more that truth is stranger than fiction.

To the many hundreds of readers who sent us stories we wish we could

use but can't, we express our thanks. We hope this coming Christmas will be to them unusual only in the sense of being more than usually happy.

{j NOT INCLUDED in the abovemientioned feature is the story of strange Dan Ridley's strange Christmas. The strange part about Mr. Ridley is that so far as we know there never was a Dan Ridley who drove a stage across frozen Lake Temiskaming from Haileybury to the Quebec side, and at the same time there are a few Dan Ridleys who aren’t called Dan Ridley. You’ll have to read that last sentence very carefully or you’ll get confused. What we mean is that there still are people who are sour on Christmas and will remain sour until something happens to reveal to them the real spirit of the Festival. Dan Ridley was particularly sour. It took a grandfather of a blizzard and a girl to sweeten him. And if for any reason at all you think there isn’t a Santa Claus, we urge you to read Leslie McFarlane’s tale of the “Christmas T ree T rail,” on page seven.

(j A CROSS-COUNTRY journey in a night bus isn’t in itself as exciting an experience as staging across Lake Temiskaming in a blizzard. But even while most of the passengers never know of them, there must he times when a bus is a rolling theatre in which one or more travellers are characters in a powerful drama or a

high comedy. In the case of the night bus in B. M. Miller’s story on page twelve, two of the passengers knew oí the drama being enacted as the miles flashed by. They knew because they were part of it. And when the denoue' ment came, we suppose the other people in the bus just shifted in their seats and kept on snoring.

WE HAVEN’T any means of checking the statement, hut we are told that in Canada more people

listen to Foster Hewitt broadcasting the hockey matches than listen to any other radio personality, including Charlie McCarthy. Sitting in the Maple Leaf Gardens we have wondered about Foster. Away up in the Upper Stratosphere, encased in a sort of gom

dola reached by dizzy stairs and dizzier gangplanks, there he sits like a Greek god on the tip of a cloud, gazing down at the skating gladiators and, mind you, keeping track of them. Which is far more than we can do sitting on a seat on the ground. The other day our curiosity got the better of us. So we called in Henry Roxborough and we said: “Henry, you know Foster Hewitt?” Henry, looking, we thought, rather self' satisfied about it, said, “Oh, yes. Very well.” “Well,” we said, “you might go and ask him just how he handles this broadcasting business, how he keeps track of the players so that he doesn't mix them up, how he ever got into the business, and so on. And he may

have some interesting experiences to relate.”

Said Henry, “I thought that sooner or later you d be wanting to know that. It's all here. This is Foster Hewitt’s own story as told by him to me.” And forth' with he dived into his overcoat pocket and produced the article which appears on page fourteen.

There isn’t much joy in being an editor when a feb low acts like that. He might at least have said,“O.K., Chief,” gone away and come back the next morning with the story.

However, we did get a smile or two from Beverley Baxter’s London Letter in which, on page nineteen, he writes of humor in the British parliament.

AND NOW, to what better purpose could the remainder of this space be devoted than that of conveying the season’s greetings?

To all our subscribers and readers who find value in Maclean's, and to those who know they could edit it better.

To the authors and artists who have contributed to these pages, and to those who will do it yet.

To our editorial associates and to every member of the MacLean family who plays a part in producing, distributing and selling our publications.

To the advertising staff which brings in the where ' withal and to the adverti:ers and agencies who knov g a good thing when they see it (and to those whe ) will eventually).

To the postman who delivers us, an d the wholesalers and newsdealers.

To our competitors.

To Hamish, the composing-room mes ' senger, who sees to it that we sha1 ,1 never need a larger hat.

To Colonel J. B. Maclean, who, in h is seventy'sixth year, is still planning and building.

To these, and to everyone else

3 i|appp Cijristmas