THE BIG NIGHT down at Benny’s “Galleon of Panama” café comes twice a month, when the Black Line boat from San Francisco to New York ties up at Balboa. The touts had steered in a splendid haul of customers that evening, mostly tourists, eager to taste the glamour which the Black Line’s highly tinted literature had promised them.By ALLAN SWINTON
MAJOR Hilary St. Clair Yeats-Mowbray was an "alwayser.” He always had that lean, wellgroomed. English county-family air. He always shaved with an old-fashioned blade razor. He always had two eggs for breakfast. To some that would make a man of his age—he was in the late thirties—sound stodgy. The Major wasn’t stodgy.By BENGE ATLEE
BY SEVEN-THIRTY he was ready to go, stock fed, milk out, cows ambling to pasture through the early September chill, yet still he lingered. She might be coming by. She usually did. No hurry anyhow, he had all day. He sat down on the running board of the big truck, lighting his pipe, taking in the long barn, clean, solid red, white trimmed, the outbuildings square and neat.By NEWLIN B. WILDES
WHEN the late Mr. Rudyard Kipling bestowed upon our diverse Dominion the definitive title, "Our Lady of the Snows," he certainly could not have been referring to that lush and lavish neck of land lying between Lake Ontario and Lake Erie, reaching from the city of Hamilton to the Niagara River, and known as the Niagara Peninsula.By FREDERICK EDWARDS
IT WAS a hot night in the Montreal ball park and pudgy Tim Daly, veteran trainer of the Toronto Maple Leafs, mopped his brow as he came puffing up the ramp from the visiting team’s clubhouse underneath the stand. Arrayed in white ducks and opennecked sport shirt, he stood there a moment searching the faces of the customers in the box seats.By DINK CARROLL
ALMOST to the very day that Mussolini drew his dagger to stab the Allies in the back, a large group of Canadian-born children of Italian parentage, residing in Ottawa, were attending after-school classes to "study the Italian language."By ROY DAVIS
AHUSKY oath rang through the decorous Senate Chamber at Ottawa, some weeks ago, reverberating shockingly in every sensitive ear except those of the discriminating Hansard reporter who, in such circumstances, is like the monkey who hears no evil.By I. NORMAN SMITH
I AM WRITING this in Coventry, the city in the Midlands which, as the schoolboy said, achieved fame because Lady Godiva rode through it on a naked horse. There is also a saying, now not often heard, that when you are no longer on speaking terms with someone he is “sent to Coventry."By A. Beverley Baxter
THIS is an admission of guilt. It is that, and something more. I have hoped it might be something more—a yellow light, perhaps, glowing briefly where a rambling path joins a highway. Not an alarming red light, just a little yellow light suggesting a moment's reflection to others who may be ambling up behind me.By Gene Huguet
TWO CENTURIES AGO, an English essayist, Alexander Pope, wrote: ’Tis education forms the common mind: Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined. The English-speaking peoples have never doubted the truth of this statement, but never have they applied it as thoroughly as have the leaders of the Nazi and Fascist movements.
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