SIMPLE RITES

A heavy pall hangs over Washington. The newly arrived stranger in the city reads gloom written all over the faces of the honest burghers. Perplexed to explain the general mourning, he asks a passer-by what great person is dead. Shaking his head, the honest, citizen sighs: "Nobody dead, worse luck. There ain't gonna be any circus at all." After months of feverish anticipation the great show has been canceled.

The newspapers, in fact, flash headlines that President Coolidge has whittled his inaugural expenses from $100,000 to $449.87. Stands, fireworks court of honor, all the pomp and circumstance proper to the coronation of the Peepul's annointed, are waved aside. The only vestige of the grandeur that was Rome which has escaped the austerity of the censor is the badge, symbol of authority, and lineal descendant of the fasces which the lector bore in front of the Roman consul on occasions of state. In token of the triumph of Jacksonian democracy, every performer in the procession will wear one of these badges upon the left suspender of his overalls, and every badge, to escape the suspicion of favoritism, will read: "Admit one Good only on the date punched."

It is rumored that members of foreign legations have been instructed to lay aside admiral's hats for this occasion and wear stocking caps. Report goes that the President will appear in simple semi-formal dress of close-fitting black tights, safely suspended by white silk suspenders. He will ride in the procession seated comfortably on top of a have wagon with pitchfork in one hand and brown derby in the other. In short, everything is to be as simple as possible.