IF YOU should chance to pop over to the town of Mayo, in Yukon Territory for a week end you would probably be more than a bit astonished to find an overwhelming proportion of the citizenry wearing long hair and bushy beards in thoroughgoing old-time frontiersman fashion. Even the bank manager looks like .Simon Fraser. None of the gals have had so much as a finger wave for weeks and weeks. Oddly enough, the reason for Mayo’s hirsute excesses is found in Mayo’s renewed prosperity. For years the silver mines that are Mayo’s chief industry have been doddering along feebly, closed down most of the time, pecking out ore in thimblefull quantities when they were ojierating at all. With the war, the demand for silver increased suddenly, and tremendously. The Mayo mines reopened, and the company hired every available able-bodied male for miles around—-including the town’s only barber. Now the nearest tonsorial artist is thirty-five miles away, at Elsa. That’s too far to go for a haircut or a shave, says Mayo, and lets the dam stuff grow.
An elderly widower living in Bellechase County, Que., is glad he has no ear for music. Compelled by harsh circumstances to sell some of his household goods, he selected[for the initial sacrifice an old piano, considering it the least useful of his possessions. A few days after the sale the purchaser returned and handed him a package of United States and Canadian currency—$8,500 in all. “That was my wife’s” the oldster explained. “I knew she had her money put away safely somewhere, but she never would tell me where she had hidden it.”
Anybody who has ever had anything to do with one of those gallimaufries of extemporaneous energy called a bazaar will support a vote of thanks to the Women’s Guild of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, at Victoria, B.C. These ingenious ladies, wishing to put on a benefit for Scottish air-raid victims, devised a bazaar that should be practically painless. No futile scurryings to and fro, no problems of decoration, booth allotment, committee appointments. No pouting because Mrs. Spivis snatched the job Mrs. Doakes ardently desired. In short, a bazaar without grief. It hardly seems possible.
Starting with the logical premise that the sole purpose of a bazaar is to raise money for a worthy object, these Victoria strategists mailed letters to prospective patrons inviting them to participate in an imaginary bazaar; a bazaar which no one was asked to attend, for which nobody was asked to bake or sew, or provide saleable articles, at which neither time, money, nor temper were to be wasted. Setting a fixed scale of imaginary expenses—twelve cents for imaginary transportaion, a quarter for imaginary entrance, a dime for imaginary wear and tear on clothes and shoe leather, the ladies asked their supporters to send to Guild headquarters the real money due, plus an unlimited amount for imaginary goods supplied and imaginary purchases made. The scheme worked magnificently. In sheer gratitude for the trouble and heartburnings they had been spared, designated customers kicked in handsomely with hard cash, then went on serenely about their ordinary affairs, comfortably conscious of a good deed accomplished entirely without suffering.
When a constable of the Welland, Ont., police force started out on a recent evening for a bit of revolver practice at a remote spot near Dain City, he set in motion a chain of deplorable circumstances that ended with a motorist decorated with a black eye, the officer suffering wounds, bruises and contusions, and Mayor Lewis of Welland heading a hastily assembled riot squad. The policeman, wearing civilian clothes, finished up his target work to his complete satisfaction, then thumbed a ride back toward Welland. The car that picked him up was driven by a sturdy citizen who was carrying his well-
proportioned wife as a passenger. After the car got under way the motorist and his better half simultaneously and with equal trepidation, caught sight of the pistol stuck casually in the officer’s pocket.
A stick-up, they signalled, and the driver, without waiting to ask questions, braked the car abruptly and leaped on his guest. The lady joined in. The motorists hoisted the policeman over a fence. The policeman scrambled back to the roadside and landed a stiff right on the driver’s eye. The passenger clawed several strips of flesh from the policeman’s arm. Other cars halted. A crowd assembled. Agitated citizens of Dain City rushed to their telephones, called the Welland police, the fire department, also near-by Army and Air Force camps. In Welland, Mayor Lewis got word that one of his men was being beaten up. He rallied half a dozen other officers and, ignoring speed limits, raced to the scene. By the time the mayor arrived peace had been restored and mutual explanations and apologies were being exchanged. Next time that constable hitchhikes, he’ll at least display a badge.
Word arrives of a resourceful Saskatchewan woman who fooled a wild duck with triumphant success. The lady, occupied with chicken raising, was distressed by the circumstance that she possessed more fertile eggs than she had hens to hatch them. A grass fire passed near by, exposing a mallard’s nest containing several badly scorched eggs. The chicken rancher substituted her hens’ eggs for the duck’s wasted product, and the unsuspecting wild fowl hatched out as nice a brood of fluffy chicks as you’d ever want to see.
Confronted unexpectedly with a mathematical enigma that might well baffle Einstein, a Winnipeg man solved the problem in the grand manner. Boarding a Logan Avenue bus, this passenger handed the driver a transfer. The busman looked at the slip of paper in amazement, nicely blended with suspicion. Where did you get this? he asked. The passenger told him. But, the busman objected, it’s dated tomorrow! After only a moment’s thought the transfer holder came through with the snappy answer. “I guess the conductor was in a hurry,” he said, and sat down, well satisfied with everything.
Purchasers of Victory Loan bonds are entitled to wear a miniature torch in their coat lapels or on their gowns. A correspondent thinks something rather special ought to be arranged for Harry Lee, Chinese proprietor of the Star Cafe at Fredericton, N.B. Restaurateur Lee, born in Canton province, has lived in Canada for twenty-five years, fifteen of them in the New Brunswick capital. No millionaire, Harry Lee nevertheless is a regular contributor to the support of China’s war effort, buys ten dollars worth of Canadian War Savings Certificates every month, and was the first Fredericton subscriber registered in the June Victory Loan campaign.
We used to think that golfers, who have been known to paint golf balls red so they could play when snow covered the fairways, were the world’s most fanatic sportsmen. Recent developments at Cameron Lake, in Waterton National Park, Alta., compel a revision of that adolescent opinion. With midsummer suns blazing down on the land, never-say-die members of the Calgary Ski Club are rowing themselves and their equipment two and a half miles across the lake in order to do telemarks and double stems over the snow fields that rise for 2,000 feet above the shoreline at that point.
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