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Scenes from the Sudeten Crisis.  Toronto Star, September 16, 1938. Page 25. 

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“Helen beams beneath a Korean painting; brought like many treasures from around the world; to the 1817-built residence of Brigadier Willis Moogh; Mrs. Moogh.” Photograph by Bob Olsen, 1969. Toronto Star archives. Toronto Reference Library, Baldwin Collection. Toronto Star Photo Archive, Call Number:

tspa_0047089f

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“Film-Stage-TV actress Margo Kidder. There’s no real outlet for most of her energy, she complains.” Photograph by Bob Olsen, 1969. Toronto Star archives.  Toronto Reference Library, Baldwin Collection. Toronto Star Photo Archive, Call Number: tspa_0059773f

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Cartoon from Toronto Star, January 22, 1909. Page 09.

“Ain’t that going some! Wonder who they are?”
“Guess they’re some of them speed bugs you hear so much about.”

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“Strange Phrases, Excitement Found at Dufferin Track As Sulkies Spin Madly,” The Globe and Mail. December 13, 1937. Page 09.

On Wednesdays and Saturdays Folk to Whom Pacing and Trotting is a Sort of Religion Gather

(By Jessie E. MacTaggart.)
(Staff Writer, The Globe and Mail.)

They ran the first heat of the fourth race first. They called it ‘scoring’ when the horses wheeled to line up for the start, and there was a wild and joyous bedlam of shrieks rising above drivers, muffled in windbreakers, who crouched in frail sullkies that sped around the track.

It was a bit confusing to a newcomer at the harness meet at Dufferin race track Saturday. It began when one was introduced to ‘the most important man here – Sep Pallin, you know, the driver of Greyhound, 1:56.’

And as you shook the hand of the grinning, silent, ruddy-faced man, you asked. ‘And who in the world is Greyhound and why the 1:56?’

That’s how it began. And you learned that Greyhound was ‘the champion of the world’ and that ‘1:56 was his time.’

Rush from Heat to Heat.
You learned that in pacing and trotting races there is a kind of religion, passed from father to son – and to daughter. And that, even if you don’t belong, there is a glow, perhaps in the weather-beaten faces of the men and the rosy cheeks of the women that makes it all worth while.

Under the grandstand the big round stoves were red with warmth. You rushed from outside to their comfort between each heat, for everything is run in heats, and listened to men in ‘coon coats and leather jackets and the rosy-cheeked women talk about Grattans and Patches.

Once, it seemed, there was a horse called Grattan Royal and a horse called Sam Patch, and all pacers and trotters try to claim some relationship to them in their family tree.

There were about 1,000 people there and they all rushed out for the heats and inside when the heats were over. They grinned at you, and you found that some were said to be wealthy and that although they came from all over, some from the United States, they were known through the records of their horses and, although you were as poor as a church-mouse. It made no difference if you had a horse that could race.

Women Take Reins.
They stood in little wooden stands, and the crowd railed and joshed them. Then every one rushed out for the ladies’ race, and you met a slip of a girl coming out of the stables to climb in a sulky who told you tersely she raced because her ‘dad’ had raced, and thought it queer that you thought it queer that a girl should leave a nice warm home in Norval on a cold winter day to risk her neck behind a temperamental little beast pulling at almost a mile a minute a fragile little sulky.

That was Vivian Clark, dimpled and 19 years old. She suggested you talk to the others, and you went out on the track and hailed a flying sulky driven by a bundled person who had a flashing smile and was marked on the program, Miss Wilmer Harris of Lambeth.

But all you learned about Miss Harris was the flashing smile, for her Prudent Grattan wouldn’t stand still long enough for even a shout nor could a groom manage to hold it.

Races for women drivers exclusively, second of which was run Saturday, were introduced for the first time in the Dominion of Canada at this winter meet at Dufferin, which, by the way, has been going on every Wednesday and Saturday since Remembrance Day, and will continue until after New Year’s. First was won by 19-year-old Vivian.

Thousand Cheer
Seven lined up Saturday, and men bet on them with as much assurance as they bet on the jockeys at the Woodbine. They are the daughters and wives and sisters of trotting and pacing race families, and all come from little places in Ontario except Mrs. Edith Hodgins of Toronto.

After shouts and yells and wheelings and bells, the first heat flew by and the thousand people along the fences hub-bubbed, yelled, thundered and howled.

‘My hat,’ asked the by-this-time-also-yelling reporter, ‘does this thing go on every year?’

Veteran George Hay, manager and timer, grinned down.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And on Christmas and New Year’s Day we get crowds of them four to five thousand.’

It just goes to show you never known what’s going on in your home town.

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“‘Lead Poisoning’ Is Still The Best for Rattlers,” Toronto Star. September 13, 1941.

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“Trouble For A Mouse,” by Harry W. Frees, Toronto Star. January 3, 1937. Page 03. Hot takes from Toronto’s greatest paper. Also – when the Star printed cat pictures on the regular.

“These mice!  They are so mischievous.  And this one is a pest!
He is the most destructive Mouse that ever left a nest.
He tore a teddy bear to bits, a tiny shoe to shreds,
And oh, the silken eiderdowns upon the dollies’ beds!
And now he’s at the breakfast loaf! I hope he won’t look back.
Act swiftly, Snowypaws, I beg.  He does deserve a whack!”

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