A LONG-TIME farmer near Norwich, Ont., retired last fall to a home in the village—but you never would have guessed. He’s been going like a combine ever since, ripping up the overgrown raspberry patch on the property and selling the canes, chopping down several unnecessary trees and sawing, splitting and neatly stacking the resulting firewood near the kitchen door. Hardly had a moment to get to know his neighbors at all, till a few weeks back he took a stroll down the street. He paused to chat with one nearby resident who congratulated him on
the improvement he’d made in his property, expressing amazement at all that had been accomplished.
“Yes, sir,” returned the farmer, “and there were a couple of maple trees just standing out in front doing nothing, so this spring I tapped them!”
An official of the Central Mortgage and Housing Corporation recently received an application for a Government loan with which to build a church. Off went a letter of regret, explaining that loans could be issued only for building houses, and back came the indignant reply, “Don’t you know that the church is the house of God?”
Last we heard the correspondence had been carefully enclosed in a special file and the file was being bounced about from office to office like a hot election issue.
A big bus was rolling off the miles between Edmonton and Calgary not long ago and the monotony of the ride had set almost everyone to snoozing except an eager seven-yearold, who was scrambling up and down the aisle visiting all his fellow passengers in turn. His mother tried to make him sit down and relax—but you know what good that did. As the bus pulled to a stop in one town en route the boy was heard chatting in loud, clear tones with one of the passengers as to the relative merits of bus drivers.
“Gee, this is a lot better driver than the fellow we had coming up,” he declared. The older passenger said
he thought all busmen had to be good drivers.
“Well, that guy wasn’t,” insisted the boy. “He was always smiling into the mirror at mother instead of watching the road.”
Big Ontario mining man was heading back to his Bay Street haunts aboard the Northland a while ago, after a mixed business and pleasure trip to the north country with his wife. They’d had a fine but strenuous time and weren’t too happy when they found that due to heavy summer travel they would have to share a lower berth on the trip home to Toronto. After the struggle to gel undressed, the mining man’s wife had a splitting headache; heading for the washroom to take an Aspirin she told her hubby to take the window side of the berth so she wouldn’t have to climb over him when she returned. Back she came down the aisle a few minutes later, slipped between the curtains, crawled in beside the familiar hulking back, crowned by the gradually balding pate, and snuggled down to sleep as her husband began gently to snore.
A split second later she was wideawake and quivering with shock as it suddenly struck her—her husband had never snored in all their married life! She was out of the berth in a flash and standing limply in the
aisle when another balding pate was thrust out of the next berth and her husband snapped impatiently, “Where the devil have you been?” She slumped in beside him and didn’t say a word.
“To separate two glasses which have stuck together,” reports the Crestón (B.C.) Review, in a wellintentioned burst of helpfulness, “fill the inner one with cold water and the outside one with warm water.” Might work at that, if you had a shoehorn.
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