WE KNOW of a police official of Goderich, Ont., who is in a somewhat bewildered state of mind these days. After many faithful years of service on behalf of the municipality of Goderich, PoliceSergeant A. C. Ross had come to have a pretty fair opinion of his own constabulary capacities. He had captured criminals, thwarted evildoers, preserved the peace with notable success all this time, and he had got around to feeling that he was equal to any crisis that could possibly confront a police-sergeant in so normally law-abiding a community as Goderich. It will readily be understood, therefore, that he was badly let down the other evening when a motorist, parked by the curb, hailed him with this astounding request.
“Officer, make my wife sit up in the front seat with me.” Police-Sergeant Ross, faced with so unusual a problem, was completely at a loss. Nothing in his experience or in the law, Dominion, provincial or municipal, as he knew it, could guide him in such an emergency. A brief enquiry disclosed the fact that the wife, being angry with her spouse, not only refused to sit in the front seat with him, but declined absolutely even to speak to him.
Recognizing an impasse, Police-Sergeant Ross withdrew from his untenable position. “Man,” he said, “you married her, not me. If you can’t do anything with her, what on earth do you think I can do?”; and went on about his business. But he feels that he will never be quite the same carefree officer he was before.
Sad indeed was the plight of the Master of Ceremonies who undertook to lead community singing for the Welland County Women's Christian Temperance Union Convention in session at Niagara Falls. Great consternation followed his announcement to the effect that: “We will nowsing Number Seven in the song books.”
Number Seven was “There is a Tavern in the Town.”
Toiling on behalf of a large Ottawa establishment is a young man who is wasting his time as a filing clerk. Sooner or later, mark our words, he'll lx* heard of as another Sherlock Holmes, Perry Mason, Hercule Poirot, Nero Wolfe, Charlie Chan, or whoever your favorite detective may be.
This chap’s boss is a particular sort of an individual, one of those superexecutives who oversees every detail in jx*rson, hating to delegate authority, however trifling. One of his rules is that all incoming correspondence must go first to his desk. A week or two ago an important letter got into the files by a direct route. When the mistake was discovered, the Head Man immediately blamed the clerk in question, calk'd him on the carpet for a severe going over. With patent disbelief the boss dismissed the accused man’s protests that he had no recollection of ever having seen the vagrant document before.
The letter consisted of two sheets, fastened together by a pin. Suddenly the worried but observant victim spoke up w ith serene confidence.
“Sir,” he said, “I never touched that letter. The head of the pin faces to the right. I am left-handed. If I had pinned those sheets together, the head would be faced in the opposite direction. Try it yourself.”
It’s the little things that count, we always say.
Additional information dealing with an untoward happening in ecclesiastical circles comes from Saltfleet Township, Ont., where over a churchyard gate the inspirational inscription is permanently fixed: “This is the Gate of
Heaven.” No one could find any reason to cavil at so eminently proper a sentiment, but a number of worthy citizens were disturbed a few days ago. when, while alterations were being made in the church, another notice appeared beside the original sign. It read:
“Go round the other way.”
King Square, in the heart of Saint John, N.B., besides being a pleasant park serves also as the site for a granite cross commemorating the landing of the Loyalists in 1783, erected five years ago on the 150th anniversary of that famous event. At its base a bronze plaque tells the story, but for no good reason that we know, the monument stands aloof and apart from traffic in the Square. The nearest walk is about twenty feet distant. On one fine early summer day a lady, viewing the memorial from a distance, started to walk across the green lawn for a closer inspection, but was brought up sharply by a sign on the grass, conveying the simple but potent message: “PLEASE.” Confused, she consulted a police officer. She was quite a bit indignant, too. “What,” she asked, “about all the tourists who would like to know what the cross is there for?”
The policeman considered the difficult situation for a few' thoughtful seconds. Then, waving a broad paw in the direction of the monument, he said: “Go right ahead and read it, lady, if you want to. After all, the Loyalists were here first.”
Dawson City, capital of the Yukon, has been experiencing something of a boom this spring, and not all the consequences have been happy. Hundreds of men seeking work have been pouring into Dawson. The big mining companies have absorbed a large number, but there remain many others who, unable to land jobs, have been thrown back on their own resources. It is, of course, a tradition of the Yukon that the going is tough, and only the fit survive. There is reason for optimistic belief that the old tradition survives, even in this effete age, in the fact that many of the men, jobless but undismayed, have set about tearing up the floors of the abandoned saloons and dance halls, now mere dilapidated shacks, that Robert W. Service used to sing of in his rhymes. They pan the dirt under the floors for gold dust which sifted through the cracks in the roistei -ing old days. One man has panned two ounces of gold from this source.
Arctic Exploration novelty that seems to have exceeded even the ingenuity of Sir Hubert Wilkins and Air Commodore Hollick-Kenyon, as reported in the Kitchener (Ont.) Daily Record:
Dispensing with dogs, a hunter of Tobolsk, Siberia, recently fitted a sled with snails and, accompanied by his wife, covered over 600 miles of Siberian trails in 56 hours.
Next year he’s going to see what tortoises can do.
Absolutely without guarantees, we offer for the sake of suffering humanity, the story of two brothers of Arran, Saskatchewan, vouched for by a Parade scout living in Saskatoon. The brothers, elderly bachelors living together, w'ere mutually annoyed because each had a habit of snoring. It was their custom to take a short nap in the afternoons, but neither could sleep because the other snored so loudly. One brother tossing restlessly while the other snored, observed that the snorti ’s feet were crossed. He arose and reversed their position. The snoring ceased. Tw'O afternoons later, the first brother had a chance to try the same experiment on the other. It worked, and peace now hovers over the afternoon slumbers of both.
Well, anything’s worth trying.
The mail order business, as everyone knows, calls for a considerable amount of skill and patience on the part of those responsible for interpreting the often vague desires of customers living in far distant places. The young lady employed by a Toronto mail order house, to whose desk the following request came a week or so ago, was equal to the occasion. The message:
Please send three paiis of men’s socks, size 12, my
husband is 32 years old and has blue eyes.
After only a few moments pause for reflection, the clerk put through an order for the required footwear to be grey with blue clocks.
Except that we have it on the highest authority, in fact upon the authority of the clergyman who was the innocent victim of the unhappy affair, we would hesitate to pass along the report of the untoward coincidence that came close to disrupting morning services in the Ingonish (N.S.) United Church not long ago. In the middle of the main pastoral prayer, a most appalling outburst of hideous noise broke in upon the solemn occasion, the sort of noise that can only be produced by a pair of angry felines battling it out on a back fence. Against such profane interruptions the minister was helpless. Hastily bringing his petition to a close with a resounding “Amen !” he hurried to announce the next hymn. The music, he thought, would at least cover the beastly racket until some agile church worker could hurry forth and shoo the animals away. Not until the announcement was made did he become distressingly aware that the hymn would add to the confusion, rather than help the situation. It was:
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