THEY may have taken some of the romance out of the Royal North West Mounted Police when the force was nationalized, motorized, and generally made over into the Royal Canadian Mounted Police; but the grim determination manifested by the honored axiom, “They always get their man,” remains a tradition of the Mounties, make no mistake about that. We cite
no mistake about that. We cite the case of R.C.M.P. Constable Crawshaw, who arrested a man near Rycroft, Alta., on a charge of possessing liquor illegally. Constable Crawshaw halted the suspect as he was driving along in a wagon. The suspect snatched a gallon jug from beneath the seat and made off into the bush with the law at his heels. The end of a stern chase came when the fugitive, exhausted and out of breath, smashed the jug against a convenient boulder, in an attempt to destroy the evidence. Resourceful Constable Crawshaw observed that the contents of the broken jug had saturated the captive’s trousers. “Take off your pants,” he commanded. The order was obeyed. The constable wrapped the sodden garments carefully in paper and took them to town along with their owner, who travelled in his underwear. Confronted with this sort of implacable justice, the prisoner gave up, pleaded guilty and submitted to a fine of twenty dollars and costs. He had to pay for having his pants cleaned and pressed, too. ♦
Possibly as a concession to the laggard habits of the much discussed clan of Sunday golfers, St. Paul’s Presbyterian Church, of Guelph, Ont., recently advertised: “No Evening Service—You Are Invited.”
Edmonton’s City Treasurer, Frank Barnhouse, and his staff, have at last solved the mystery of the missing bond, after many months of sleuthing—and they had all their trouble for nothing. The bond, a $1.000 City of Edmonton issue, was reported missing from the holdings of an investor living in Ontario, whose name is mercifully withheld. The long search revealed the fact that coupons clipped from the lost bond were being cashed by a man living in San Francisco, through a New York bank. Treasurer Barnhouse notified the Ontario bondholder of his discovery, and was more surprised than pleased to receive in reply a letter begging him to forget the whole business. “The man is my son-in-law,” the absent-minded original purchaser wrote. “I gave him the bond. I guess my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
By a circuitous route a report has reached this department, of discord in Oak Bay, a suburb of Victoria, B.C. A resident of that charming district was distressed when, for several straight days, the sanitation department neglected to collect the refuse accumulated by his household. Every available receptacle, from garbage can to paper bag, was filled to overflowing and the exasperated man decided it was time to do something about it. Scorning to dispute with minor officials he telephoned the reeve and registered his complaint in detail. “My back porch is full of garbage. My back yard is full of garbage. We can’t walk around the house without falling over garbage,” he grumbled. The chief municipal authority pondered for a few moments. Then: “That’s funny,” he said. “Pm having the same trouble myself.”
Roundup on April 30: In the District of Ottawa Income Tax office a large sign reads: “Taxpayers—Please Hang Your Hat and Coat Here.” This leads one of our agents living in the capital city to infer that they have to get your hat and coat off before they can reach for your shirt. A Toronto operative having paid his income tax and immediately thereafter digested the contents of Mr.
Ilsley’s latest budget, looked up from his desk at a wall calendar and read with deep feeling the information: “This Company acts as ieceiver and liquidator, trustee in bankruptcy, etc.” And the Daily Star, of Halifax, N.S., came through on April 29, with the optimistic, hut woefully inaccuiate statement that: “The penalty for late filing will not be imposed on returns, however, coming in after April 30, or earlier.”
Eccentric illustration of the sinister influence of the Machine Age piesented by a classified advertisement in the Sydney, N.S., Post-Record:
FOR SALE—8 yr. old Master Chev.
Gelding Coach. Good shoes and saddle broken. Quiet as a lamb while in the stall. Take it home for $123.49.
R. J. Logue, Ltd.
It’s true, then, what they said about the old grey mare.
A Toronto manufacturer has recently devised an advertising plan that is distributing nervous prostration in large quantities among Queen City motorists, already heavily laden with driving dithers. Feeling his way through narrow and crowded downtown streets among a maze of red, yellow and green lights, bicyclists, stop signs, no left turns, jay walkers and traffic cops, one of our carowning correspondents touched the hot hand of apoplexy when he read this sign, boldly painted in white letters upon the back of a light truck ambling along the traffic lane immediately in front of him:
The driver of this car is a blind man
Recovering his wavering self-control, our operative swung his car around the truck, wishing to be away from that place quickly. The mystery was solved when on the side of the vehicle he read another sign:
The Whozis Venetian Blind Co.
All our drivers are specialists
There ought to be a law !
Reports of outbreaks of psittacosis, or parrot fever, if you prefer to be straightforward about these tilings and not beat around the bush, have led to the enumeration and inspection of parrots and other psittacine birds throughout Ontario. In turn this regulation led to an embarrassing moment for a housewife of Kitchener, Ont., who asked at city hall where she could register a bird. In the city clerk’s office, she was told; so she went to the city clerk’s office and said she wanted to register a bird. A courteous and friendly attendant produced a number of rather elaborate forms, and explained that they must be filled out in triplicate. The lady studied the documents in some bewilderment for several minutes, then, blushing becomingly, she pushed them back across the counter and murmured: “You’ve made a mistake. I said I wanted to register a bird—not a birth.”
Nothing less than a bold challenge to destiny is contained in a letter to the Winnipeg Free Press Prairie Farmer from a correspondent signing herself “Twilight in Alberta.” “I’m a homesteader’s wife just starting,” the lady wrote wistfully. “I can’t milk cows or chickens . . However, learn I will.”
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