WHEN a recent fire in the Acadia Villa Hotel at Wolfville, N.S., threatened to spread, fire laddies from near-by Kentville hurried over to help. Their efforts were hampered when their hose was choked at the hydrant. Detaching the hose, the firemen were surprised to find a number of fat brook trout, ranging in size from ten to fourteen inches, wedged into the
tubing below the connection. The fish had been drawn through the mains from the Wolfville reservoir, but they were too big to get past the hydrant. Kentville and Wolfville divvied up the catch, and both departments had broiled trout for supper.
None but the brave deserve the fish.
Nasty weather in Eastern Ontario, reported by the Northbrook correspondent of the Kingston Whig-Standard:
The severe snowstorm detained Mr. and Mrs. D. MacGregor for two years on their return from Smiths Falls. They are staying with Mr. and Mrs. J.
Huffman, Harlowe, en route home.
Yahk, B.C., is a timber country village of rather less than metropolitan size. To be quite frank about it, Yahk possesses just one street, and on that street in mid-afternoon recently there were just two people to be seen, approaching each other from opposite directions; a burly lumberjack who had been celebrating slightly and a small young lady thinking deeply about something. As the two drew alongside each other on the narrow pavement, one of those odd embarrassments came about that happen to all of us at some time or other. The lady moved to the left. So did the lumberjack. Then the lady stepped to the right at the precise moment when the woodsman decided to shift over to that side. Then to the left; to the right; to the left. You know how it is. Finally the exasperated fellow halted and bellowed in a voice that rattled window sashes for miles around: "F’r Pete’s sake, lady! Stand still, an’I’ll jump over you.”
One of our Western scouts, who teaches public school in Saskatoon, submits a report about an interesting biological phenomenon coming under her personal observation. On an average, she says, not more than three people out of every hundred are left-handed; but of thirty-six new pupils enrolled in one class in her school, six were southpaws; and three later additions, one from the city and two from outside points, were all left-handed, so that now nine of the thirty-nine pupils in that one class use their left hands in preference to their right.
Must be that bracing Western climate.
Nationwide registration of firearms, as ordered by the Dominion Government, turned up a few peculiar effects. At Saskatoon, a Vanscoy district farmer solemnly recorded ownership of an aged large-bore single barrelled shotgun— with a mouse’s nest in the breach. And in Edmonton, Miss Helen Grant who handles the clerical work for the police department, is toiling overtime for no better reason than that Edmonton cops don’t know how to bear down on an indelible pencil. The forms had to be made out in triplicate, using two sheets of carbon paper, the third copy to be sent to Ottawa. When the Edmonton job was finished and the Ottawa copies sorted, they were found in every instance to be utterly illegible, because the registering officers had
neglected to lean heavily enough on their pencils to carry the imprint through to the third sheet. Now the harassed Miss Grant has to make extra copies of the forms on her typewriter—and there are seven thousand of them.
Victoria, B.C., likes to think of itself as “the most English city outside England,” and at the drop of anybody’s hat will submit evidence to support that claim. Now comes Charles B. I.ynch, writing in the Victoria Daily Colonist, and insisting that because of his city’s serene and unexcitable English temperament it has become a haven of refuge for motion picture luminaries weary of having their clothes torn off them by hysterical mobs every time they venture out in public. Mr. Lynch says the movie stars have discovered that they can walk along the quiet streets of Victoria just like any other human beings. “Either they are not recognized,” he writes proudly, “or, if they are, nobody pays any special attention to them.”
Recorded as having had a swell time not being paid any special attention to during the past few months in Victoria and vicinity, are Richard Greene, Spencer Tracy, Pat O’Brien, Mickey Rooney, Henry Fonda, Gracie Fields, Anna Neagle, Maureen O’Hara, Madeleine Carroll, Preston Foster, Robert Preston, Lynne Overman and Charles Laughton. Some crossed over into Canada to have passport visas renewed. Laughton said he came “to get some Canadian cigarettes.”
There was probably some grief and a certain amount of disappointment in connection with the writing of promotion examinations by officers and noncommissioned officers of the Canadian Reserve Army a week or so ago; but it is our considered opinion that the Ottawa Evening Citizen was guilty of gross exaggeration when it announced the event under the general heading: “OBITUARY.”
The Acting Clerk of the Peace at Moncton, N.B., is Mr. J. E. Friel. One of his jobs is to examine and check evidence. Recently, looking over a number of articles marked as exhibits for the prosecution in a theft case, Mr. Friel experienced a mild shock. Many of the oddments spread before him had a vaguely familiar appearance; and with good reason, for closer examination showed several small items Acting Clerk Friel had missed from his automobile on various occasions. “I didn’t know what had happened to them,” Mr. Friel, a man of unsuspecting nature, told the press. “I thought they’d just got lost. It never occurred to me that they might have been stolen.”
“Deadline” on a newspaper—or on a magazine for that matter—is the last possible moment when written material can be translated into type. Sometimes reporters miss deadlines, and then editors get spots before their eyes. What would seem to be an all-time record for missing a deadline turned up recently at Alvinston, Ont., when a column of ready-cast metal bearing the report of an address made to the British Parliament by Queen Victoria, in 1890, was finally delivered to its destination. The type had been shipped to a weekly newspaper, then lost in transit. Workmen tearing down a freight shed a few weeks ago found the package where it had fallen through a crevice in a double-boarded wall; hut it was half a century past its deadline.
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