The Great Stork Derby: When Having Babies Was Literally a Competition in 1920s Toronto

Every now and then, you stumble on a piece of history so strange, so wildly implausible, that you find yourself double-checking whether it really happened. The Great Stork Derby is one of those stories. On paper, it sounds like the setup for a dark comedy: a dead millionaire, a bizarre will, and a ten-year baby-making race that gripped an entire city.

But this was no joke. It happened. In Toronto. In the 1920s and ’30s. And it became a decade-long spectacle, a social experiment gone off the rails, and, for several struggling women, a very real fight for survival. Let’s rewind.

A Rich Man with a Very Peculiar Sense of Humor

The whole saga begins with Charles Vance Millar. If you haven’t heard of him, you’re not alone—most people outside of Ontario probably haven’t. But he was kind of a legend in his time: a wealthy lawyer, real estate investor, and serial prankster known for having a razor-sharp mind and a wicked sense of humor. He never married, had no children, and by all accounts, enjoyed stirring the pot.

He was the kind of man who’d leave stock in a Catholic-only beer company to Protestant ministers, or give racehorse shares to anti-gambling advocates, just for the chaos. People who knew him described him as clever, mischievous, and completely unbothered by social conventions. So when Millar died in 1926, few were shocked to learn that his will was a bit… unconventional. But no one expected this:

“To the woman in Toronto who, in the ten years following my death, has the greatest number of children, I bequeath the residue of my estate.”

No criteria, no mention of legitimacy, and no stipulation that the children survive infancy. Just—have the most babies, win a fortune. At first, it seemed like a joke. But once the legal dust settled and the courts ruled the will valid… well, the city of Toronto entered a whole new kind of baby boom.

The Stork Derby Begins

The late 1920s in Canada were a strange, tense time. The postwar optimism of the early decade had curdled into economic anxiety, and by the early 1930s, the Great Depression had dug in deep. People were out of work, struggling to feed their families, and increasingly desperate for any kind of financial relief.

So when word spread that there was serious money on the line—somewhere between $500,000 and $750,000, which today would be worth tens of millions—the game changed. What had started as a peculiar legal curiosity became a full-blown media frenzy.

Toronto newspapers began running regular updates on the “contestants.” Reporters would show up to maternity wards. Families were tracked. Pregnancies were tallied. One outlet even started printing baby scorecards, like sports stats. People had opinions. And the women? They just kept having babies.

What It Was Actually Like for the Women Involved

It’s easy to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But behind the humor and headlines was something much more complicated—and more human.

Many of the women in the so-called “derby” were poor. Most lived in cramped apartments or cold houses, relying on public assistance or charity. Childbirth in the 1930s wasn’t exactly a cushy affair—it was grueling, dangerous, and often traumatic. There were no epidurals, no prenatal vitamins, no maternal leave, no modern NICUs. Each pregnancy came with real risks.

And imagine doing it under public scrutiny. Knowing people were counting your children, calculating your worth in headlines, speculating on your motives. Some women later said they didn’t even realize they were contenders until journalists showed up at their doors.

But for others, the prize was very real. Some leaned in. There were rumors (unconfirmed) of women speeding up pregnancies, seeking fertility treatments, or exaggerating family sizes. In one especially grim case, a woman who had ten children was disqualified because two were stillborn. It sparked outrage—after all, how do you measure motherhood by a number?

The court had to decide: Did stillbirths count? What about adopted kids? What if a child died in infancy? The whole thing became a bureaucratic minefield, and lawyers were called in to determine the rules of a competition that was never meant to be real.

1936: And the Winner Is…

After ten years, the race came to an end in 1936. The city watched with morbid fascination as the courts finally sifted through the candidates. In the end, four women were declared co-winners—each having given birth to nine children during the contest window. Their names were:

• Annie Katherine Smith
• Kathleen Ellen Nagle
• Isabella Mary Maclean
• Lucy Alice Timleck

Each of them received roughly $125,000—a life-changing amount at the time. Enough to buy a house, feed a family, and lift themselves out of grinding poverty. For some, it meant sending their children to school. For others, it simply meant breathing room after years of financial pressure.

Several other women received smaller awards, some of them because they had just barely missed the mark—or were disqualified on technicalities. In every case, there was relief. But also exhaustion. And more than a little bitterness. One winner later reflected, “I didn’t have my children for money. But I won’t say the money won’t help.”

What Was Millar Really Trying to Say?

So what was the point of it all? Some historians believe Millar was poking fun at society’s obsession with legacy—how the wealthy use wills to control the living long after they’re gone. Others think it was a subtle critique of the government’s lack of support for families and the poor. Maybe it was a jab at the Catholic Church’s anti-contraception stance. Or maybe… it was just a prank. The last laugh of a man who delighted in absurdity.

After the dust settled, the Great Stork Derby slipped into that category of Canadian history that’s so strange it almost feels made up. It’s rarely taught in schools, and even in Toronto, many people haven’t heard of it. But for the families involved—especially the women—it was unforgettable.

It’s easy to shake your head and say, “Only in the 1920s.” But maybe what makes this story timeless is that it reminds us how complicated—and sometimes absurd—human behavior can be when money, legacy, and desperation collide. And honestly? Somewhere, Charles Vance Millar is probably still laughing.