ON SUNDAY, AUG. 5, 1951, at ten minutes to three, a stocky red-haired man of thirty-eight, was set adrift, a few hundred yards above the Horseshoe Falls on the Niagara River. He rode a strange craft which had been christened The Thing—a flimsy contraption made up of thirteen rubber inner tubes held together by canvas webbing and fish nets.By SIDNEY KATZ
EARLY in 1950 a CBC Citizen’s Forum panel was asked to name the ten greatest Canadians of this century. Only two were chosen unanimously: Mackenzie King and James Shaver Woodsworth. They made an odd contrast. By any material standard Mackenzie King’s life was a triumphant success, Woodsworth’s a failure.By BLAIR FRASER
ANY MOMENT now Maurice Richard will score the three hundredth goal of his National Hockey League career and sometime early next spring he will break Nels Stewart’s all-time record of three hundred and twenty-three goals and thus become the greatest goal scorer in professional hockey history.By TRENT FRAYNE
NOT LONG AGO I received a letter from a woman who had seen me slapping some fellow around in a movie. She wanted me to drop in and take a poke at her husband. I declined. Just the other day a civic-betterment group asked me to say a few words at a public meeting summoned to discuss “Good Citizenship—Keeping Our Streets Clean.”
YOU'VE HAD a bad accident, son." My father's strained faltering words rang around the bare white walls of a strange hospital room. ". . . You’ve lost both your arms.” Coming up from the well of unconsciousness where I had lain for nearly three days I vaguely remembered the train, the fall and the shouting.By HERB GOTT
BETWEEN the beginning and the end of the Second World War my wife and I probably saw as much of Winston Churchill at work as any other two people alive. I was his personal bodyguard and Mrs. Thompson—who was Mary Shearburn until our marriage in 1945—was one of his secretaries, whose chief duty was taking personal dictation.By W. H. THOMPSON
LYING awake on a stifling hot night in his flat in Balham, Adam Draycott could think of nothing that was not a source of active discontent. His wife bored him; his suburban home revolted him; his boy, whom he could not understand, disgusted him; above all, the humdrum routine of his job exasperated him.By J. B. MORTON
MAGGIE INGRAHAM is leaving her home in Neil Harbour, the secluded little fishing village down north on the Cabot Trail in Cape Breton. She is leaving the sea, the broad sky and the Highlands to get a job in Toronto. Maggie has never been farther than Sydney, a hundred odd miles away.By EDNA STAEBLER
IT IS possible that you have never heard of Alt Aussee, this mountain village in the Austrian Alps. Incredible as it seems you might never have learned, except for my assistance, of the great battle fought here last week between the Aberdeen terrier of the Baroness S—and the French poodle of Madame R—of Paris.By Beverkey Baxter
WHEN the North Atlantic Council reconvenes in Rome this month no doubt the security arrangements will be as elaborate as they were here in September. NATO likes to have troops of guards (in Brussels last year they carried sub-machine guns) and lots of passes in various colors, and documents stamped Top Secret in big letters.By BLAIR FRASER
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