Jim illustrated this story about a “hotel” kennel for dogs for the summer while the family is on vacation.
Tag: 1923 Page 1 of 2
This comic was one of the earliest references to Birdseye Center. It was also very hard to clean, as it was an example where the paper pressed too hard on the engraving plate, resulting in a lot of black smudges.
By Gregory Clark, February 17, 1923
Training 3,000 Really Human Girls Not To Talk Back When They Are Barked at – a Triumph of Feminine Psychology.
What is your favorite telephone hate?
Wrong number? Line busy? Cut off? Delay in getting central?
All old stuff. We’ve heard a good deal about YOUR hates.
What about the girl at the other end of the wire? What is central’s favorite hate?
Without exception, the hello girl gives it to the tired business man who roars, snarls, swears, growls, groans and yells.
It all the assorted sounds that are sent in over the wires in one day to a downtown central office of the telephone company were saved and set loose at once, it would sound very much like Ringling’s Circus at feeding time in the big tent.
Men are the worst offenders in rattling the nerves of the swift fingered girls who handle the delicate nerve-system of the telephone exchange. But there are women offenders, too. There is a sweet, meowing kind of lady who can say the cattiest things–
How few wrong numbers you get, how astoundingly few errors you are served with in your daily use of your telephone you will never know, you can’t know, until you have seen the system, have a faint, superficial idea of this miracle of wire and buttons which, in the city of Toronto alone, handles from one million and a quarter to one million and a half telephone calls every twenty-four hours.
Errors occur – in which it has been fairly estimated that YOU are in perhaps half the cases partly to blame.
Delays occur – many of which are caused by YOU taking the time to express your opinion of the girl at central.
And in at least half the errors that do occur the central girl on whom you pour out the vials of your wrath has no more to do with the error than the lady in the moon.
Let’s take a case in point.
Suppose you are phoning from your home in a Parkdale number to another Parkdale number.
The central to whom you give your number reaches with the plug from your phone direct to the hole under the number you have asked for.
Now suppose the lady you are calling is upstairs and is slow answering her phone. You get impatient. You can hear it ringing all right, but you begin to think something is wrong. So you start rapidly clicking your receiver hook up and down.
This causes something strange to happen on central’s board in front of her. When you first took your receiver down, a light lit in front of central. When she plugged in to answer you that little light went out. As soon as you hang up your receiver, that light comes on again, as a sign that you are through. Central promptly switches the cord out of your number and you are disconnected.
Now, when you begin jiggling your hook up and down, that light comes off and on, off and on, but so rapidly that it appears to be on. That is central’s sign to disconnect. She does so. It is your fault.
If you want central, move that hook slowly up and down, to the beat of a grandfather’s clock.
Have you ever been called out of bed to answer the phone, only to find when you get there that there is nobody on the line, and central asks politely: “Number?”
Say your phone is in the Hillcrest exchange. Somebody in the North exchange has decided to call you up. The North person gives his central your number. That central does not, cannot give him the number direct. She presses a button on her board which automatically connects her with the Hillcrest exchange, and a girl in the Hillcrest building, miles away, takes the number, gives the North girl the number of a “trunk line” to put your friend through, and then your phone starts ringing.
In the meantime the North girl and the Hillcrest “trunk line” girl go on with their automatic labor of answering other little lights and switching thirty-four plugs and cords about their board.
Your friend listens to your phone ringing. He wonders at the delay. He looks at his watch and discover it is much later than he had thought. He doesn’t want to get you out of bed. So he hangs up the receiver.
On come the lights in his central’s office. His central promptly pulls out the plug. The light comes on in the Hillcrest “trunk line” girl’s board, and out comes her plug.
By this time you are at the phone and are prayerfully yelling “hello, hello,” and variations thereof.
Suddenly you hear central’s quiet voice say “number,” just as if nothing was amiss.
You roar. You rave.
“I’m sorry,” says central, “there is no one on your line now.”
“Well, what do you mean dragging me out of bed?”
And the fact is, of course, this little girl yon are speaking to doesn’t know any more about your mysterious call than you do. The call had been handled by two switchboards that she didn’t see, one miles away, the other in a different part of the building. In fact, until your friend’s plugs were pulled out after he had hung up, and until you lifted the receiver off, no light came on the board of this central of yours.
She is no more to blame than the lady in the moon. And if she cuts you off in the middle of your abuse you have a hemorrhage.
When you are cut off in the middle of a conversation, be sure of several things before you raise your voice. If you are talking from an office where there is a private switchboard, the cutting may have been done by the fair lady who presides at this board, for in most offices she is not only switchboard operator, but office boy, stenographer, private secretary to the head clerk and several other things. Then if you are speaking to someone outside your own exchange, as from Main to Junction, it may not be the central you can speak to at all, but the girl away out in West Toronto.
So don’t blame the only girl you can speak to.
The telephone company is listening in all the time for the purpose of checking their staff, a whole platoon of supervisors and instructors being employed in every exchange for this purpose every hour of the day. These experts declare that at least half the wrong numbers are due to the indistinct speaking of the person asking for the number, or to the defective memory of the customer, who asks for Main 6017 when the number he wants to Main 6107 – and when he gets what he asks for, Main 6017, says to the party at the other end:
“Oh. I’m sorry, central gave me the wrong number.”
Only the rules of the company prevent the supervisors who overhear such conversations as that from taking their revenge and yelling over the phone a triumphant –
The telephone is a miraculous development of a thousand frail things into a substantial and ever-ready service to mankind. Back of that box on your wall is a mechanism so intricate as to stun a layman.
It is also a triumph of psychology. To take three thousand girls, feminine to their fingertips every one, and train them not to talk back – what more profound reform of feminine nature than that? Yet despite the blame and the bullying they are subjected to (a thing which is decreasing every year in marked degree), they must not talk back, however innocent they are, however in the wrong the bully is. Speed is the watchword! Service! And to every irate subscriber they must be polite, lest they prolong the argument, and delay the service with its million and a half calls a day!
But it is not merely mechanical after all. The girls are human. Many of them are strained and unnerved by the grumblers and barkers. The girls get to know the plug holes or “jacks” of the chronic grouses. They come to detest that man – unseen, but visualized as a fat, mottled-faced crank – oh, they are human enough to fancy the faces behind those little plugs, behind those voices kind or rough, quiet or petulant, smiling or snarling.
Human! You ought to see the long distance office. Girls on roller skates! Yes, sir! Young girl messengers whizzing about that big room from board to board, carrying the memos of calls from one town to another by means of one roller skate, propelling themselves with one foot and scooting like streaks on the ether, from Toronto to North Bay or Belleville, that is to say, the boards representing those towns. It looks like great fun. But it’s work – for you, that you might be served with speed. Some time when you are in Eaton’s, drop into the Grill Room at 10.30 a.m. or 3 p.m. and see the demonstration the telephone company is putting on there in connection with the Made-in-Canada exhibit all the month of February. They have the switchboards up, and girls demonstrating the entire process, with all the points referred to in this article graphically explained by means of little dramatic skits.
Editor’s Note: The early days of phones usually required the need to talk to an operator and give the number, which could include the name of the exchange you were calling. Toronto had a 2-letter, 4-number system until 1957 when it switched to a 2-letter, 5-number system to meet new North American standards. The letters could be converted to numbers seen on the dial, which could also accommodate direct dialing without the need of an operator. The letter system was dropped from directories in 1966 when the conversion to 7 numbers was completed.
Jim provided this illustration to a story on horse racing by Ernest Hemingway. The famous author worked as a freelance journalist for the Toronto Star and Star Weekly in the early 1920s as he was starting out. Because he was fond of the outdoors (hunting and fishing), he became good friends with Greg and Jim. During his time in Paris, Hemingway still filed stories with the Toronto Star. When his third son was born in 1931, he named him Gregory after Greg Clark.
By Gregory Clark, September 15, 1923
Into the private office of the manager of a large wholesale establishment on Wellington street was admitted a middle-aged gentleman of refined appearance who told the information girl guarding the sanctum that he was an old friend of the manager.
The manager looked up as the visitor entered, stared at him with a look of puzzlement on his face, and smiled.
The visitor was smiling broadly.
“I have called,” he said, “to see if I could write you up for some insurance under a new plan my company offers men of your age.”
“Now, I’m pretty busy,” said the manager. Then, halting, he asked:
“Look here: I know your face well, but hanged if I can place you.”
Still smiling broadly, the visitor came closer to the manager’s desk. Laying his hat down, he snatched a newspaper off the desk, flicked it open, and, with a sudden movement, tucked it like an apron into his vest. Then, leaning both hands on the manager’s desk he leaned forward and said:
“What’s yours, sir?”
The effect was remarkable on the manager. He leaped to his feet and cried:
“Tim, you old scoundrel! Where have you been all these years?”
And the two set about shaking hands as if they were long-lost brothers.
But they were simply two old friends, a bartender and one of his pet customers, meeting for the first time after seven years of drought.
Tim was head bartender in the downtown bar regularly patronized by this business man for years. An intimacy had grown up between them such as few not habituated to drinking in bars can imagine. A formal intimacy like that between golfers and their old pro, or between a lady and her housekeeper of twenty years.
Making him seated and comfortable, the manager asked his old friend:
“What have you been doing?”
“Well,” said Tim, pulling on the cigar. “I have had some rough times. When the old establishment closed, in 1916, I had no plans, like all bartenders, and couldn’t believe it when the doors were really closed. The old boss offered me a job around the hotel as a sort of watchman. But I was deeply insulted. A soft drink bar was opened in the old bar, and I served exactly four days there, for some of the old boys came in, and to see the look on their faces as they drank a glass of pink pop was really more than I could bear. I felt fallen in the world. I felt unclassed. Without warning, for my kids were all grown up, I packed a valise and went over to the States. Not belonging to their union, I had a bad two years there. I was in several New York towns in succession, but getting further and further down in the mouth.
“When the States went dry, I hadn’t enough money to take me to Montreal, the last oasis. So I worked at odd jobs and darn near starved–“
“Poor old Tim,” stuck in the manager, with real sympathy.
“No, no. It was good for me,” said Tim. “While serving in a bar in Syracuse I made the acquaintance of an insurance man. Two years ago I met him on the street one day, and he gave me a job selling insurance.
“‘If a man who has listened to as many sad life stories as you can’t sell insurance,’ he said to me. ‘nobody can.'”
“So here I am looking up, one by one, all my old friends across the mahogany. Do you remember that sad story you told me one night–“
“Easy, Tim, easy!” implored the manager, a changed man after seven years.
“–about your fears for your poor family, and you feeling that your heart was in a delicate condition?”
“Tut, Tim I have a golf handicap of eight.”
At any rate, Tim drew forth, in the approved manner, his booklets and folders outlining in graphic style the proposition his company had to make to business men of fifty and over. And It was a good proposition, in spite of the sentimental appendages to the deal.
For Tim wrote his old friend policy for ten thousand.
Where are the four hundred and fifty bartenders who, up to seven years ago, were quenching Toronto’s thirst with beers, wines and liquors? Where are the skilful jugglers amongst them whom men traveled far to see, as they tossed a cocktail from glass to glass, a gleaming rainbow four feet long? Where are these repositories of the sad life stories of thousands of male citizens of this now happy city?
Their union is broken up. Thorough enquiries at the Toronto Labor Temple failed to discover Arthur O’Leary, former business agent of the Bartenders’ Union, in his heyday one of the most popular figures in the labor world.
Strange to relate, a good many of Toronto’s bartenders have stuck to bartending, even though the quality of the goods they sell is different.
In remnant of what used to be one of the longest bars in Toronto, now remodeled down to a mere fragment of its old glory, a bartender of twenty years’ experience admitted that he was too old to change his calling just because the law changed.
“Is there much difference between selling liquor and soft drinks?” he was asked.
“I feel,” he replied, “like a banker who has failed and has had to take up the grocery business for a livelihood. As a bartender, I was the friend and confidante of members of the business world, half the city hall staff knew me by name, city fathers took council with me, mayors have wept on my shoulder. In the old days, my customers were regular customers. But of that bunch–“
And he waved a contemptuous hand at a dozen people, mostly idle young men, lounging against the soda bar.
“–of that bunch I don’t know one. Never saw them before in my life.”
“What effect has prohibition had on your income?”
“I don’t get one-third the wages I used to make and I get no tips. My income is about a quarter what it was.”
“Prohibition has hit you hard?”
“Yes it has. But I still think the going of the bar is the best thing ever happened. I do, really. For one good bar, where men had a drink, there were three crooked bars where men got drunk. I never let a man get drunk off my bar in my life. Some bartenders considered their job was to rake over the coin. Some of us, however, figured our job was to serve refreshment to men. But we all got hit just the same.”
Most of the bartenders who are still serving drinks are serving them over the former bars of old hotels. Only a couple are in soda parlors.
A few of the bartenders have gone up in the world. One owns a good hotel near the centre of the city. Others have retail businesses, grocery, hardware and boot and shoe.
One very gifted bartender is now in charge of a gasoline station, and is serving up gas and oil without a hint, in the way he serves up a pint of “medium,” that he was in his day one of the most skilful drink slingers in the city.
But others, the older ones, have had a very poor time the last seven years. Some are jobless, some are janitors and handy men around old hostelries.
“It took prohibition,” said one old bartender, who has been out of a job four of the seven years since his profession quit him, “to show up how shallow was bar-room friendship. I had lived in it so long that I had begun to imagine it was genuine.”
“Men who called me affectionately by name when they ordered a drink, sports who got me to do favors for them, men I’ve cashed checks for, all turned me down when I called on them.”
“I wanted a job, recommendation. But a month after the bars were closed, most of them had forgotten who I was. Not three out of fifty of them held out the helping hand when I was in need.”
Perhaps the hardest part of prohibition to the bartender was not the loss of his calling, but the discovery of the fact that the bar-room affection that shed a glamor over his trade was as thin and unsubstantial as the beer fumes that induced it.
Editor’s Note: Prohibition went through all sorts of referendums and polls between 1916 and 1927 in Ontario when it was repealed. Greg was likely not in favour of prohibition, but his newspaper was. At the time of the article in 1923, Howard Ferguson had been elected Premier, and would move slowly and cautiously on limiting the restrictions.
By Greg Clark, December 8, 1923
“Casa Loma ” Toronto’s Wonder House of the New World, Abandoned Like a Mediaeval Ruin-Sir Henry Pellatt Has Investigated Cost of Moving Castle, Stone By Stone, to His County Estate at King, 21 Miles From Toronto, But ‘Twas Impracticable.
What is to become of Casa Loma?
What is to be done with Sir Henry Pellatt’s magnificent castle overlooking the city of Toronto, reputed to be the most splendid private residence in America?
It is no private residence now. Sir Henry dwelt in one wing of It during the war years, throwing its vast halls and hundred chambers wide open with an open-handedness that has characterized nearly fifty years of military activity to the Red Cross and Daughters of the Empire and sundry other organizations of a patriotic nature.
But with the war over, and a practical-minded city imposing stern taxes on the baronial property though the value of the place has mounted fourfold, Sir Henry abandoned Casa Loma about a year ago, found himself an apartment in the city and devoted himself to his large country estate near King, Ontario.
There stands the castle, on a hill overlooking the city visible from every attic window for miles, lonely and alone, as abandoned as any of the mediaeval ruins of the old world which inspired it, though it is only twelve years old.
A picturesque mass of stone wrought into beauty, worth how many millions of dollars today only architects can guess. In four of its seventeen great suites of rooms the furniture stands just as if it were occupied. There are covers on the huge antique four-posters. Fires are laid in the priceless seventeenth century fireplaces. Rugs on the floors from the mills of England and the tents of Persia, tiger skins, bear skins, Sir Henry’s valuable collection of oil paintings on the walls, the banquet table in the huge panelled and carven dining hall ready to be laid. Nothing is covered up or burlapped in these east wing chambers of Casa Loma. The uniforms of Sir Henry’s rank hang in glass cases in his bed chamber. A long case holds a dozen pairs of military boots, spurred and agleam, photographs on the walls record Sir Henry’s visits to the coronations, a jubilee and that memorable rendition of the Queen’s Own, his regiment, to Britain.
Casa Loma is not packed up for the auction-house by any means.
But it is for sale.
“I’ve made a mistake,” said Sir Henry. “I should never have built Casa Loma so close to the city. It was in the county when I began it. But it is in the city to-day.
I should have built it at King on my country estate on some oak crowned hill. I can see it then … And it wouldn’t then be swamped with taxes as it is to-day, making it worthless, in the hard times, to live in.
One can picture Casa Loma remote on one of those old Ontario hills, impregnable, baronial, afar, behind a most and drawbridge with respectful county bailiffs armed with tax forms standing at the outer gates of the estate, debating the propriety and the risk of venturing further…
Sir Henry has even tried to rectify his mistake to the extent of getting estimates on the cost of removing Casa Loma stone by stone, panel by panel, lock, stock and barrel, to his King estate, twenty-one miles by road from Casa Loma.
“But it was out of the question,” said Sir Henry.
So it waits, while rumors fly, a sight no visitor to Toronto misses a monument to masterful man’s ambition, a work of very real beauty from the hands of Canadians, architect to artisan, a burden, a moral lesson, a problem.
What is to become of it?
Rumor one: A priestly order desires to gain possession of it for a monastery or an episcopal palace. This is the most intriguing of all rumors, since the castle dominates, in its position, the most Orange city in America.
Rumor two: A syndicate wishes to purchase the place as a magnificent apartment house, the rates to be very exorbitant such as only the very wealthy can afford; thus a score of millionaires to support what one millionaire conceived and built.
Rumor three: An educational institution.
Rumor four: A millionaires’ club.
Rumor five: A palace for the king. There is no regal residence in Canada, only vice-regal. The king has no palace in Canada. It was suggested that the numerous loyal and patriotic organizations of Canada buy Casa Loma for that purpose.
Rumor six: A railroad station. The tubes or underground railway which Toronto must sooner or later devise will need a centrally located station of some description.
Rumor seven: That government should cooperate in getting Casa Loma as a joint war museum, art gallery, soldiers’ hostel, soldiers club, and headquarters for the disabled veterans of Canada.
This last rumor is the only one which Sir Henry Pellatt will discuss. Of all the others he has nothing whatever to say.
“If I can’t have Casa Loma myself, I would rather see the soldiers in it than anyone else,” he said. “I have a certain value set on the property in my mind. I would be willing, if the soldiers got it, to contribute a million dollars towards it – by taking a million off the value I have in mind.”
Rumor further has it that the soldiers could get it for $700,000.
Despite the fact that there are numerous properties all over Canada already owned by the government, and that as far as soldiers are concerned, even disabled soldiers, the government’s policy has been one of strict retrenchment, the soldiers’ organizations in Toronto are soliciting the support of soldiers all over the dominion in a determined effort to have the government take into practical consideration the purchase of Casa Loma as a soldiers’ hostel.
Commenced in 1911
Sergeant-Major George Creighton, military secretary to the mayor of Toronto and head of the soldiers’ information bureau at the city hall, says:
“The property is ideal as a soldier’s hostel. Five hundred permanently disabled men could be housed in it. Its basement could be turned into a recreational club for soldiers with a rifle gallery, bowling alleys, gymnasium and swimming pool – all of which are already there – and its main floor a military museum and library of the most splendid sort, as a memorial. Its kitchens are like the best hotel kitchens and could feed a thousand. Its great hall would accommodate large meetings. Its grounds would support garrison parades. It is simply ideal.”
Sir Henry made possible an inspection of the property and agreed to an artist making sketches within its walls for the first time.
Casa Loma was commenced in building in 1911, after a dozen years of preparations. It is not wholly completed yet. The central hall of the castle, a vast chamber ninety feet square and vaulted to the roof, still is filled with the builder’s scaffolding. Many of the hundred rooms are unfurnished. But in 1914, Sir Henry moved into the east wing living quarters, the main rooms of the ground floor, the library, dining room, kitchens, four suites of living quarters and servants’ quarters being furnished to the last degree of completeness.
Not the faintest idea of the richness and magnificence of Casa Loma can be gathered from a single visit. The artist who made the sketches made three visits, and each one found him more helpless to decide which feature of the inexhaustible interests of the castle to select.
For example, the main corridors of all floors of the castle are two hundred feet long, as wide as a city street and high. The walls of corridors and chambers are paneled in great ten-foot squares of the best grained walnut. The borders are deep carving the full richness of which is likely to escape the eye in the lavishness with which wood carving is spread through out the main floor. The ceilings are moulded in splendid patterns after seventeenth century ceilings. The floors are oak planks, a foot wide spaced with teak, studded like ship’s decks, except where a formal chamber demands a fine floor in smaller pattern.
The mantels are genuine seventeenth century marble and inlay pieces, worth about $1.500 apiece. The furniture throughout the down stairs are museum pieces rare, massive antiques, delicate Chippendales and Adams.
There is nothing inside the castle the least bit out of proportion with the outside. The George Second clock which stands just inside the main entrance is the biggest clock imaginable, done in lacquer and rosewood. The beds in the private suites are huge four-posters.
Looking down the main corridor towards the conservatory gives a sense of being back in the days of the Louis. Past dark panelled walls and carven corners, through bronze doors of the most delicate tracery design (modeled after Italian seventeenth century doors) you look into the bright marble conservatory which alone is as big the average house and lot.
Casa Loma is no period. It is a bold combination of the massive Scottish castle and the fine-lined chateau. It grew out of the vision of Sir Henry who visited many splendid mansions in Europe when, as an officer of the Canadian militia, he went to England to Victoria’s jubilee, to the coronations of Edward and of George, and finally when he took his regiment, the Queen’s Own, to England. He admits he saw a bit here, a bit there, a wall, a door, a great room ceiling, and carried the memory of them with him, until as Casa Loma took form in his mind, he began to select deliberately the parts that have been assembled with such genius by E. J. Lennox, the architect who also built the City Hall in Toronto, into this castle which now stands empty.
Romantic Secret Chambers
There was romance in the heart of the man who built it, for even in these plain days, there are secret chambers and passages in the castle like those described in Scott’s novels. Just within the main entrance is a sort of reception room which Sir Henry used as his own den. In the carving of one of its panels is a hidden button. Press it and the panel swings out, disclosing a staircase that leads directly to Sir Henry’s own bedroom, where another secret door is concealed as a panel. In his bedroom is a hidden locker operated by pressure on certain spot in the panel.
From the basement of the castle, a wide tunnel, down which a regiment in fours could march, leads over to the stables, back of the castle.
Out of Sir Henry’s bedroom suite (the seventeen suite of Casa Loma each consist of four large chambers and a bathroom) there extends a passage out to a sort of opera box or balcony, which overlooks the great ninety-foot central hall. From here, the host can look down upon his guests, or can sit to listen to the organ in its loft opposite.
It has the grand touch all the way through.
And it could not be duplicated for four times its cost. Carpenters who built Casa Loma got thirty-three cents a hour – and they were master carpenters too, to handle such massive wood. During the building, the masons struck for forty-seven cents an hour – and if you look closely at the walls and battlements and gigantic buttresses of Casa Loma, you will see that a mason had to be a mason to master such monster stones as those.
Here it stands, the baronial castle, and the baron will not dwell in it. How different from the day, architecturally so to be mourned, when the baron appointed the assessors and the tax collectors himself.
Sir Henry has successfully fought the assessors, and has had the value of his property reduced from time to time by them. His plea is that the castle as a private dwelling, does not increase but actually depreciates the value of his land, since the fabric he has built upon it is not easily saleable.
The present situation confirms Sir Henry’s contention. The building itself is now assessed at about $100,000.
If no institution takes the castle, what will happen? It will take a very wealthy man indeed to support a burden of millions like Casa Loma, without revenue in itself and constantly nibbled by taxes. Each beautiful stone, each splendid beam, each object d’art which has been put into it for the materialization of a man’s dream is one more weight in a colossal burden to penalize him who would dare transmute any dream (save the most small and modest of dreams) out of mist and star dust and thin air into the tangible facts of stone and wood.
Editor’s Notes: Casa Loma had a troubled history, as this article indicates. It still remains a popular tourist attraction, but it’s upkeep remained a problem for Toronto over time. This article is from the time that Sir Henry Pellatt was still alive, but had to abandon the property because of increased taxes.
When the article indicates that Toronto is an “Orange” city, it is in reference to the Orange Order. Basically it meant that the city was very Protestant.
By Greg Clark, August 18, 1923
The Next Big Expansion of the Toronto Exhibition is To Be Eastward To Strachan Avenue Where Monumental Gates Will Front Magnificent Automotive and Electrical Buildings.
A Cleveland man wrote as follows to the National Exhibition authorities:
“Gentlemen: At our club the other day, a discussion arose on the truth of advertising and one of our party said:
“‘Why, look at the advertising of the Toronto Exhibition. They have a bird’s eye picture of what they claim to be their grounds. There isn’t such fair grounds in the world.’
“Needless to say, he had never been to the Exhibition, and I, as a regular visitor took him up on the matter, and assured him that no advertising pictures could do justice to the great size and beauty of the grounds. So I am bringing him with me this year.”
The Ex. is going to lay for that man. They are going to show him. For even one convert, out of the millions who pass through the gates of the great fair, is valuable, since his doubting will make him all the greater booster.
Strange to say, it is Torontonians who are the Exhibition board’s sorest trial. Not one of them in ten knows, for example, that the Exhibition is the largest annual world’s fair in the world. People all over the States, in England and France and Japan know it. Other nations put on as great or greater shows at long intervals, temporary and passing shows. But the people of Toronto and Ontario take the great Ex. for granted. The men behind it don’t, though.
The men who each year give chunks of their million dollar time to the successful presentation of the great fair know what this annual festival of industry means to Canada.
For forty-five years it has grown in their hands, bit by bit, piece by piece, expanding, brightening speeding up, a building added here, a boulevard added there, crowding and bulging its confines while the succeeding boards fought with city councils and councillors and prominent citizens for backing.
But they have given up the piecemeal expansion.
In the possession of the board of the Exhibition is a plan of expansion for the next fifty years. In blue prints and architects’ drawings, in statistics and tables of figures, the board has laid down before it a definite, ordered plan of expansion for the National Exhibition which enters the future one half a century, accounting for the removal of all old buildings as their day ends, working definitely to a finished institution of roads and parks and garden and buildings which no temporary world’s fair, in the wealthiest community in the world, can touch.
The plan is made. They are working to it already. The Coliseum and the Pure Food buildings, opened last year, were the first steps in the gigantic new scheme. Why they are placed as they are, why they are built in certain shapes and colors, will not be evident for many years. But they are part of a whole.
The next steps in the plan will probably be made for 1925. And they will be more spectacular and evident.
They are the extension of the Exhibition grounds, already vast enough to create doubts in strangers’ minds, a distance of 1,300 feet eastward to Strachan avenue.
The entrance via Strachan avenue or Bathurst street is at present unimpressive enough. In a couple of years, this east entrance will be the most monumental the authorities can conceive.
Beautiful stone gates, in a great ornamental wall all along the east boundary of the grounds, will open into wide boulevard stretching straight west into the heart of the grounds a distance of 1,300 feet, halting in a square in front of the Coliseum.
On the lake side of this grand boulevard will be the proposed Automotive Building to house all motor industries, from cars and trucks to the smallest accessories.
Opposite it, on the north side of the great entrance will be the Electric and Engineering building.
And surmounting this building will be one of the features of the whole Exhibition, the Hydro Tower, just one base of glorious light day and night. The tower will be one hundred and eighty feet high, built in delicate yet massive proportions, studded with myriad electric lamps of great power, with reflectors and mirrors and moving patterns, leaping up in the sky to bear witness to Canada’s power development.
These easterly expansions are the next steps in the fifty-year march the Exhibition has set itself. The board has had advice in its plan from the city departments from the harbor experts, from the Hydro officers, from every authority Interested in the Exhibition.
The Automotive Building will be of the greatest popular interest, because at present the Automobile industry is split is several places on the grounds, cars in one place trucks and accessories in another. The new building will house perhaps the finest automobile show in the world.
The building itself, of the greatest beauty, will be 476 by 386 feet in ground dimensions. It will have 51,584 square feet of space for autos, 30,024 square feet for trucks, and 18,110 for accessories. Its interior design will be suited to the display of such beautiful and substantial things as cars. Here the whole motor-mad world can congregate.
The Electric and Engineering building, surmounted by the flaming tower, will have unique features. For example, in the electric display areas, there will be no daylight. No windows will admit the feeble light of day to tamper with the exhibits of electrical devices and appliances. There will be whole departments given over to the “Electric Home,” where the use of power will be demonstrated in model kitchens and laundries and living quarters. Attached to the building will be a restaurant operated by electricity.
In the past, the Exhibition buildings have been built with perhaps just the least little emphasis on utility rather than on beauty and the festival spirit.
These new buildings, the entire plan as a whole, are conceived with special emphasis on the festival spirit. Utility is the first consideration. Beauty and the gala allure then superimposed with a cunning and hearty hand.
The use of white and light stone, grey and red, will dominate the finished product of the toil of these men behind the Exhibition.
This year’s Ex will be gala and gay and blazing enough. But it isn’t the final effort of the Exhibition.
They are looking not one year, but fifty years ahead.
Yet even now there is nothing like in all the world.
Editor’s Notes: This article by Greg and illustrated by Jim is in lead up to the Canadian National Exhibition, which was as very big deal in Toronto in their time. Both news stories and Jim’s comics emphasized this importance over the years.
The Eastern gates were not completed until 1927, and became the Princes’ Gates. The Automotive Building was not built until 1929. The Electric and Engineering building was built in 1928, but was demolished in 1972. The Hydro Tower proposed was never built.