three young Toronto bridge fiends recently cornered a female friend and spent a long summer evening supplying her with basic training in the rules, techniques and simpler shibboleths of the game. Next night the four gathered around a table and prepared to get down to real business.
“You remember what we told you last night?” one of the instructors Í asked the novitiate.
“What did we tell you?"
Back came the terse, confident reply: “When you shuffle, 1 deal.”
• • •
As there always is at any proper gathering of the clans, there was a good deal of oratory at the recent
Bruce County Old Boys Reunion, in the Lake Huron-Georgian Bay peninsula. Despite the competition, Chief I Tommy Jones of the Cape Croker Indian Reserve easily carried off top honors as a spellbinder. The Chief I gave a talk about the good old days and the good old prices prevalent during j same-—which prompted a member of the audience to ask what the Chief thought we ought to be doing about ! inflation anyway.
“Give the country back to us,” Chief ; Tommy advised succinctly.
Most tourists have grown used to the harsh fact that, in many parts of the U. S. A., Canadian money is regarded with the same suspicion as Confederate money. That brings us to the Port Arthur bus traveler who stopped at Zion National Park in Utah this summer to buy a .souvenir and included a Canadian penny among the coins he gave in payment. Two days and several hundred miles later, his party’s bus driver approached the hero and a group of fellow' Canadians, held out the Canadian penny and demanded sternly: “Which one of you fellows spent this at Zion?”
• • •
Our man in Halifax swears the grisly tale that follows is true. It involves a buddy of his who returned home late after a few rounds at the club and after fumbling with his key found it impossible to insert it in the lock. As his frantic efforts to get in involved knocking several flowerpots off the ledge, his wife awakened. .She tiptoed to the telephone, called the police and reported a burglar trying to break in.
The police arrived, removed the culprit and lodged him in an iron cot in a room where the walls were made of stone. Next morning the little woman looked into hubby’s room and found the bed unslept in, just as in the detective stories. She went back to the telephone, called her old friends the police and reported a missing husband. The good old Missing Persons Bureau was right on the job—they had a man who answered exactly to the description.
• • •
Poignancy seems to be the keynote of our Maritimes coverage this issue. From that vicinity we hear about a 75-year-old farmer who retired to town with his savings of $3,000 in cash. The old gentleman didn’t seem to be sleeping very well and finally his sonin-law discovered the reason: the O.G. was carrying the three grand in his pocket by day and stashing it under his pillow at night. He was persuaded, somewhat against his better judgment, to put the money in the town bank. But he still couldn’t sleep. Finally the son-in-law came up with a suggestion that, so far, is working like a charm. Every night, just as darkness falls, the old gentleman strolls down the main street, pauses for a moment at the bank door, tries it to make sure it’s locked, then ambles on home to a dreamless repose.
• • •
Those B. C. flood stories are still coming in. The latest stars a farmer on the Arrow Lakes, B. C., and his hired hand, fellow called Andy. Andy has been cautioned by the farmer to keep one rule and keep it well: “There’s a
place for everything. When you use something return it promptly to its place.” Enter a Swedish bucksaw, breathing heavily, whose proper place is on a nail in the woodshed.
When the floods came Andy had to wade through three and a half feet of water to get his saw to cut firewood. Andy, on orders, changed into dry clothes, then commenced his chores. At suppertime, farmer and wife noted that Andy was once again sopping wet. Said Andy: “Well, you see the water hadn’t gone dowm none when I went to put the saw back.”
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