HUMOR

Parade

April 1 1938
HUMOR

Parade

April 1 1938

Parade

HUMOR

LIVING on the rim of the Arctic Circle, the folks of the Far North use airplane services for freight and express as casually as those of us in the effete East stick a stamp on an envelope; but they aren’t being recklessly extravagant about it.

An Edmonton scout reports that the office of an airways company in his city received a letter the other day from one of the pioneer wives stationed at a Northwestern outpost of civilization. There were, she wrote, just four white women in the settlement, and they all wanted cats for domestic ix*ts. But she feared the cost of obtaining four cats, and then transporting the animals a few thousand miles by air into the Arctic, would be prohibitive. Would tlie company then, please lx* good enough to discover for her and ship one cat, shortly to become a mother.

Clergymen in Eastern Ontario are having quite a bit of fun at the expense of a brother in the cloth, the Rev. W. E. Davies, pastor of St. Luke’s Presbyterian Church at Finch. Radio station CBO, Ottawa, is an accessory before the fact. CBO has a daily feature of music selected by listeners and dedicated to personal friends. On a recent morning the announcement was made that the Ladies’ Aid Society of St. Luke’s had requested a number to lx* dedicated to their pastor. And very nice, t<x>. The song chosen wras, ‘‘I 1 .ove You Truly.”

The announcer did not explain that the occasion was a wedding anniversary for Mr. and Mrs. Davies.

To County Court in Saint John, N.B., stern stalwarts of the Marine Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police haled the skip|x*r of a sclxxmer, charging him with smuggling liquor. I lis ship had been stopped and his cargo seized by an R. C. M. P. cutter in the Bay of Fundy.

In the witness box the captain of the police Ixiat told his story. After the seizure had been made, he said, he had taken the schooner’s master to the cutter, and into his cabin.

The Crown Attorney asked : "What did you say then?”

At once defense counsel was on his feet, foaming objections at every [xire, and the ensuing argument last«! a full half hour. Mighty volumes of law were brought in, precedents were quoted. Other precedents were quoted to refute utterly the first precedents, then more precedents to refute the precedents that had relut«! the first precedents. At last Judge J. A. Barry, obviously pretty much fed up with the whole weary business, rukri that the question was proper, and could stand.

"What did you say to him?” the Crown Attorney queri«l again, mopping the ix-rspiration from his moist brow.

“I asked him,” said the witness, "if he would like a cup of coffee.”

Sex discrimination item from the Sherbrooke (Que.) Daily Record:

The work of removing the small cemetery near

A. S. Harvey s place at Flanders has been completed,

the ladies having been transferred to the Birchton

cemetery.

Leaving the men, as usual, to shift for themselves.

One of those double feature motion picture billing (aux ¡¡as is reported from Smiths Falls. Ont., where the cosy Capitol Theatre put up in electric lights:

VICTORIA THE GREAT UNDER SUSPICION

The Good Queen would not have been amused.

Because we are always having trouble getting ourselves identified at strange banks—or any banks for that matter— we feel an extra throb of sympathy for the plight of the Toronto housewife who, wishing to cash a cheque in a neighborhood where she was not know-n, found herself distressingly lacking all means of satisfactory identification. Then, inspired, as she fondly imagined, by a really brilliant idea, she bent over her three-year-old son standing obediently at her side and, pointing toward the teller, said: “Junior, tell the nice man your name, like a good Ixiy.”

"My name,” replied the youngster stoutly and without a moment’s hesitation, "is Mickey Mouse.”

Another bit of infant precocity comes from Regina, through the medium of a corresjxindent living at Bladworth, Sask., telling of a primary-class teacher who had explained eloquently the simple and moving parable of the Prodigal Son—how he had left home well f«l and rich, then had squandered his substance, until at last he became destitute, hungry, homeless, an outcast.

"And what do you think he did then?” the teacher asked gently.

"He went on relief,” one practical-minded infant answer«! promptly.

Then there was the small boy in King Street School, Weston. Ont., who wrote on an examination paper that the name of the Governor-General of Canada was John Bunyan.

Every so often things happen that make us wonder whether Canadians really understand how vast their country is. We get used to the idea of the prairies, the north country, and the arctic regions as wide open spaces, but it d(x>s seem, at times, that folks in Halifax and Saint John and Quebec and Montreal and Toronto and Winnipeg and Calgary and Vancouver, lack comprehension of the deep forests, the uncharted uplands of the remoter territories contained in the older provinces of this Dominion.

One such happenstance comes to us from Saint John, N.B., telling of a roads commissioner of Kings County, in which New Brunswick’s great port is situated, who attended a convention of rural municipalities in Madawaska County in the northwest corner of his native province. With friends, he was driving away from the meeting, up one road, down another, when he got himself lost; and eventually, not only lost, but out of gas. Seeking information, and especially, fuel, the party ran across a road grading crew. The roads commissioner assured his passengers that all would now be well, recalling a regulation making it proper for a provincial roads official in New Brunswick to commandeer from grading crews sufficient fuel to carry him to the nearest filling station. Approaching the foreman, the roads commissioner made his request.

Never heard of it, said the foreman. But it’s in your rules the roads commissioner told him. Not in my rules, the foreman asserted. Wait until I tell Mr. Dysart about this, warned the now thoroughly indignant roads official. And whoinell’s Mr. Dysart? the foreman asked. You mean to tell me, raved the commissioner, that you, a roads foreman, don’t know who the Premier of New Brunswick is? Don’t see what difference that makes, said the foreman. You folks is just about thirty miles inside the State of Maine.

Look at the map, and you’ll see how easily such things happen.

From Gagetown, N.B., an industrious Parade undercover man rejxirts encouragingly on the financial situation at the New Brunswick Protestant Orphanage, which has just received a donation—no strings attached—of $11 from a dog. It was his own money, too.

The sagacious animal’s name is Clubs, from markings on his back vaguely resembling the ace of clubs, and he belongs to E. S. Brodie, a Gagetown general storekeeper. It seems that Clubs discovered, while yet a pup, that good things to eat can be purchased with money. He quickly learned to trap pennies and nickels and dimes in his mouth, never fumbling a catch, then to run to his master’s store. He delivers the coin and takes up a happily expectant pose beside the candy counter, the cookie jar, or sometimes even the glass case holding the cheese. Gagetown citizens, amused at Clubs’ antics, contribute freely to his collections.

Storekeeper Brodie, feeling that such exceptional business sense in a cross between an English bull terrier and a foxhound merits encouragement regardless of returns, has set up a bank in Clubs’ name. The dog gets the goodies he yearns for, anyway. The money goes into Clubs’ bank, and every so often it moves from the bank to the Orphanage —in Clubs’ name.