MATTERS over in Europe look a bit brighter as this is written, and on the other side of a sadly spotted world the Chinese are doing fairly well in their argument with their kindly Japanese neighbors about what sort of carryings-on are good for China. So we hope the Vancouver man who had the wind up pretty badly a week or so ago is feeling easier in his mind by now. He telephoned to the always obliging Daily Province of that city, and asked plaintively:
“Say, where can I buy a gas mask?”
One of our most energetic operators, working the territory adjacent to Saint John (in Saint John County, New Brunswick) reports on the bewilderment of a certain philanthropic matron of that city who, answering her doorbell a few days ago. found on the front steps a sweet little old lady, bent with many harsh years, thinly and poorly clad in threadbare and utterly inadequate garments, who asked in a timid quaver if there might be any cast-off clothing in the house that she could have.
Tearful w'ith pity, the kindly housewife said yes indeed there were some things, but she was very busy at the moment, and could the old lady return first thing in the morning? “I’ll get them all together in one bundle for you." she said sympathetically.
Early next day a smartly dressed and quite nonchalant young miss in her middle teens presented herself, explaining that her grandmother had sent her for the old clothes. She w'as handed a large and fairly heavy parcel, which she eyed thoughtfully for a moment, then asked if she might use the phone. The request was granted. The girl picked up the receiver, turned to the softhearted donor, and remarked : “Granny told me if there was too much of it to call a taxi.”
She did, too.
Mr. Fleming was a native of Aberdeenshire in North Britain, was born in the year 178(5, came to Canada in 1903, and died in this city after a short illness on the 30th July, 1832, aged 4(5. —Montreal G lar.
Referred to the Department of Higher Mathematics.
One of the biggest transport planes in Canada operates in Northern Alberta, a four-ton affair the folks up there call the “flying box-car.” For months now this machine has been carrying heavy cargoes ranging all the way from steel beams to canned soups into a camp at Tazin Lake, where the Consolidated Mining and Smelting Company is building a $500,(XX) power development. A few Saturdays ago at a subcamp at Wellington Lake, a staff of twenty-«ix men and three women were hanging about contemplating ruefully another dull week-end. when somebody remembered there was a Saturday night dance at Goldfields, twenty-two miles away by the bush route; but how to get there? Pilot McRory, smallest flier in the mere matter of inches in the C.A.L. service loaded the whole crowd into his machine, flew them to Goldfields, enjoyed the dance with them, then flew the old bus back to Wellington Lake on Sunday.
Anybody remember when a hayride was considered exciting?
Mr. Albert Goldman is postmaster of New York City, and that must be quite a job; but we doubt if M. Maurice Duplessis, the ebullient Premier of Quebec looks on Mr. Goldman’s important office with anything but scorn. The New York postmaster recently issued an edict to his public. When addressing mail to M. Duplessis’ domain, said Mr. Goldman, it must be marked plainly, “Quebec, Canada.” The use of the abbreviation “P.Q.” he explained has led to many letters and parcels being sent to “P.I.,” otherwise the Philippine Islands, quite a distance in the opposite direction.
Generally speaking, we are opposed to automobiles of bizarre color plan. Pink and green, sky blue and primrose, scarlet and mauve vehicles affront our delicate senses, cause us to sniff more than a little. Still and all, the tragic tale of an automobile-owning Edmonton resident makes us pause to think that perhaps there ought to be fewer automobiles which look exactly like a lot of other automobiles. This gentleman, getting into his car in front of his office, was somewhat surprised to hear a lot of squeaks and groans he had not previously noticed. The old bus, he told himself, needed a darn good greasing, and he drove at once to a service station, where he demanded and obtained a thorough greasing job, plus new oil. It was not until after he had f;ted the bill that he discovered that the car wasn’t his at all, merely one of the same model and color.
Now he’s wondering if something with spots on it mightn’t be better.
In the February 15 Parade we told of a magazine mailed from Paris, France, to Odessa, Saskatchewan, then backtracked to Odessa, Russia, its correct destination, at a cost of four cents. Mr. John Hodgson, of Kamloops, British Columbia, claims a better record. A letter mailed last December in Kamloops to his sister, living in Durham, England, got to wandering around and turned up in Durban, South Africa, many weeks later. Post-office officials in Durban sent it back to Durham. So, to reach its goal, this missive crossed Canada from coast to coast, travelled to England, from England to South Africa, then back to England again. Mr. Hodgson feels he got a lot for a three-cent stamp.
We hear of a celebrated and bashful Vancouver musician who, wending his way homeward by street car after a concert, was more than a bit embarrassed by the obvious efforts of a vivacious and gushing lady admirer to attract his attention. In defense he bowed his head and dropped his chin on his necktie, assuming an attitude of one in deep thought. After several minutes of fruitless eyebrow work and a number of “ahems!” the lady rose from her place across the aisle and bustled into a vacant seat beside the shrinking impresario, remarking in a clear soprano that immediately focused the attention of every other passenger upon her victim:
“Well, as it says in the Bible, if the mountain won’t come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain.”
Preachers, in our experience of them, are by no means a lugubrious lot. The merry quip, the joyous jest, is every bit as thoroughly relished by the men who live in parsonages as by the bon vivants who luxuriate in penthouses. Many of Parade's most appreciated contributors wear their collars back to front, and the enthusiasm they display as they report gay items—sometimes with the joke on a fellow padre, often on themselves—is convincing evidence in support of their claim that a religious vocation is not necessarily a bar to a keen sense of humor. All of which brings us to a sign displayed outside a Hamilton, Ont., church not so many Sundays back.
Rev. D. A. Cowan If We Let Him In
Passers-by got many a chuckle. Those with inside information laugned even more heartily. The Rev. D. A. Cowan was—as the clerics phrase it—preaching for a call.
It is difficult to know just what to do about Mr. Joseph John Cowan who lives in the municipality of Blyth, in Huron County, Ont. It might be that Mr. John L. Lewis should take up the case of Mr. Cowan in a serious way. Mr. Cowan is fireman, chief of police, weed inspector, sanitary engineer, town hall caretaker, clerk of the weigh scales, jailer, and he rings the school bell for Blyth. In addition he is a county constable and must see to it that the local beverage room observes the law. He has to attend all meetings of the towm council, and, since the village has no public clock, he rings the bell on the town hall every day at' twelve noon and six p.m. Each night he checks the pumping equipment at the waterworks as well. He gets $600 a year for his services, and when some insidious miscreant suggested to him recently that he ought to ask the municipality for a raise in pay, his staunch reply was: “I’m too dum busy to go on strike.”
What on earth can a man like that do with his spare time?
Explanation of Why Editors are Always Morose, from the Toronto Globe and Mail.
“. . . fire brigade had arrived and brought two horses to bear on the cellar and upper rooms from which smoke was issuing,”
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