A Martian at the Rink

Picture a man from Mars, just descended, as he steps into an H.B.C. curling rink during the ninth "end"—when Scottish excitement is at its hottest. Try to comprehend his bewilderment as he hears frenzied shouts of "SWEEP, SWEEP, SWEEP 'er up! GET IT across the hog!" And again—"out turn, Mac; draw-weight and a wick off this one. Just come TO it!"

And sweatered, mufflered figures contort themselves in fantastic fox-trots on the ice as they swing mad brooms in the van of the skidding stones.

The grey rocks curl and thump—or twist uncannily to a berth behind guardian stones. "WE LIE," bursts in raucous chorus from steaming throats. "A marvelous confession thinks the man from Mars."

The roarin' game of Cur-r-r-lin' is in full fling at many of the Company's branches. Young and old all become younger in a fast and furious "draw."

Buy a broom and a pair of "galoshes" and get on the ice. Forget business, bid dull care begone. Curl ten "ends" and then you'll say "where's that pack of worries that was hounding me this afternoon?"