Canada: THE DOMINION: Preventive Medicine

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One day last week a reporter went to call on Canada's Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King at his three-story brick house at 335 Laurier Ave. East, Ottawa. The housekeeper took him to the tiny elevator, pushed the button for the third floor.

At a desk in an alcove of his book-lined study sat the Prime Minister. There was a large bouquet of red roses in front of him. Two feet away, where Mr. King could see it with the slightest turn of his head, hung a portrait of the Prime Minister's mother in a pose resembling Whistler's mother. The picture was illuminated from below by a table lamp.

The Prime Minister rose to greet his guest. He carried his 71 years lightly. His voice was firm, his hands steady, his face and fingers just perceptibly wrinkled. He walked toward the grate to give the fire some encouragement. Swiftly he moved the screen aside, thrust the poker into the coals, put on a thick glove and tossed a fresh chunk of coal squarely into the center of the fire. He made these casual, hostly gestures with neatness and dispatch. But as he was settling again in the deep sofa, something disturbed the Prime Minister. He hopped up, shifted the fire screen one-half inch to the left.

Now the talk could proceed. The Prime Minister's seven-year-old Irish terrier, Pat II, padded in. The visitor asked if Pat II had by now replaced Pat I, an earlier Irish terrier, in the Prime Minister's affections. Gravely the Prime Minister replied that no dog could ever do that.

But the Prime Minister was quite happy with Pat II; he explained that he was a military dog. "Salute," called the Prime Minister, and the dog stuck forward his paw. "Get into the trenches," and Pat flopped on his belly. "Find the enemy," and Pat retrieved a cookie from a chair. The Prime Minister looked pleased.

As he leaned back in the deep sofa, his heavy head perched squarely on his chunky body, Mr. King seemed to have no neck at all. As he talked, his only motions were slight oratorical gestures with the hands, an occasional smoothing of his wispy grey hair. Once in a while he plucked his key ring from his pocket and absently swung his keys.

Mr. King talked—of Canada's future (he is optimistic), of the recent election ("with any kind of organization we could have won 20 more seats"), of his own sobersided career ("It's the result that counts, not the figure you cut while you're getting there"). He quoted Burns and the Bible and discussed the brotherhood of man.

New Stature. More perhaps than any other living ruler, he is the embodiment of his country. And now both King and Canada had reached another milestone. This week by Act of Parliament, for domestic purposes, Canada declared the war against the Axis officially ended and the nation was once again on a peace footing. And, as he had for more than 18 years, Bachelor King would continue to lead his country. He had led it to Britain's rescue in the war; he had led it through to victory ; now he would lead it out of war and well along the road to peace.

He was proud of what Canada—a nation of but eleven and a half million people—had done in the war, and, better than almost anyone, he knew what the war had done for Canada.