On a certain broad, shady street in London each year a crowd of people gather. The men stand, hands in pockets, derbies askew, smoking casually out of the side of their mouths. The women in impossible hats nudge each other and giggle. Little boys wiggle in and out among the legs of bystanders seeking a place of vantage near the paving. They all stare with English impassivity out upon the cobbles, waiting. Then, from a distance, drifts up the music of a band and someone shouts, "Hits 'im, hits the king."

Louder comes the music. A regiment with great bearskin hats, long coats, and polished boots swings in to view. They are followed by six matched horses hitched with gorgeous gilt trappings. On the blinkers are the tiny, polished letters "G. R." Behind the horses is a great gilt coach within which sits His Majesty the King. He is, as every one knows, on his way to open Parliament.

Today President Hoover will drive in a Cadillac to the Capital and before a microphone will deliver a message which will formally open the Congress of the United States. It is one of the disadvantages of democracy that it has no royalty. Quite possibly all the King's horses and all the King's men will have a difficult time putting the empire together again, but they would add a graceful note to a gathering which will soon loose itself in a struggle for party supremacy to decide who will be the next president to open the next session.