Now I don't know much about politics (cheers) but I do know something about my native state (more cheers) so when I address you on a question of injury to the welfare of that state, I speak with the tongue of authority, the voice of one crying about his own wilderness. Vermont, ladies and gentlemen, is an old state. It is a noble state.

And, ladies and gentlemen, Vermont has as good mountains as any other state. So when the President of this country, Calvin Coolidge, cannot find a mountain in Vermont good enough to bear his name, I scruple at his right to continue as manager of the only silent spokesman, official or otherwise, ever heretofore allowed to parade the White House Grounds.

Now I may be wrong. Mr. Coolidge may be perfectly willing to have a mountain named after him, even a small mountain. I can only believe the press. (Grace and I were never confidential although we both have spent our lives in or near Vermont.) But the press reports that there isn't a mountain high enough for such honor. I would amend that to say, didn't fear a war with the vested interests, that there isn't a mountain low enough.

For my faith in Coolidge is completely shattered these days. I used to like the brother. When he was respectful enough of a man's religion to give Al Smith the only fish he caught all summer, I actually admired him. And when I saw ho his influence had made for better roads near Plymouth, I even praised him.

But that's all over now. When he begins to pick on the Mexicans I get angry. I've known Mexicans and Mexicans and they've all been good fellows. Let them alone to fight their own battles, I say. What if they do hurt our oil interests? I can use a street car. I don't have to use a taxi all the time.

Coolidge is a Vermonter, he ought to do the same thing. The trouble with him is that he's spoiled. Ever since that time when he refused his secretary a lily cup out of pure economy he's been no true son of Vermont, for we're not like that (cheers), honestly we're not. The mayor of my town has two suits of winter underwear--one for summer.

He's got a high head. Anybody who gets the habit of shaking hands the way he has can't last long. Indeed I no Ionger can call him an asset to the state. We've spleened on him ever since he began to spend government money on a house detective for his son at college. That's carrying things too far. Anyway he should have sent John to our own state university and kept the money in the state.

No, Calvin Coolidge has shot his bolt. He's dead. His official spokesman is a spiritualist. And then take the matter of these people down in Nicaragua. I have never been acquainted with many of them, although one never knows whom he's going to meet in Cambridge. Yet I have a friend who is engaged to one and he says he really likes her. In fact he prefers her to the Roumanian outfit. Now she's probably representative of a lot of that bunch down there. Good fellows who like a little war once in a while, not a big war with a bunch of American cruisers, but a little war with knives and pawn shop pistols! No wonder they get sore at having to tell their family secrets to the marines.

And here we are spending more money than it takes to keep the national supper club on a sound basis, minding their business for them. It's disgraceful. Coolidge is right at the center of this. He has always been that way. Waits until the time comes when there's only one place to jump and then jumps in that place with the smile of one who has planned a surprise. The only difference this time is that the water is over his head. And then there isn't good enough mountain to name Calvin Coolidge Hump or Mt. Calvin in my state? It isn't right, ladies and gentlemen I think you.