In ancient Greece, the victorious athlete was adjudged a crown of olive, his praises were sung in an ode, and his triumphs were celebrated by a magnificent procession, and a riotous evening festival. In modern America, where olives do not abound except in jars, where the art of ode-making has degenerated since the time of Homer, where processions are a nuisance to traffic officers, and riotous festivals are rather stupid for lack of the means of making them genuinely riotous, it has been necessary to seek a new reward for unbeaten brawn.

Out West, where the he-men carry ice during the summer vacations and study the care of pigs at college in the winter, the admirers of strength in its crudest form--namely, that displayed in football, have decided that nothing less than a seat in Congress will suffice for their conquering heroes. A certain russet-topped citizen of Illinois, whose last name calls to mind a once important political movement that took place in that state, will be the first athlete to receive such emolument--provided his followers have their way.

If success at dodging tackles is prognostic of success at dodging issues, and if great skill at passing a football carries with it equal skill at passing the buck, there is no real reason why "the flying iceman" should not make a successful candidate. It is true, one difficulty does present itself. Mr. Grange is not yet twenty-five, which is the minimum age for Representatives. After much deep thinking on the part of his admirers, however, it was agreed that if this objection should be hurled at them, they would retort, "Remember Henry Clay!"