That inimitable lunk, Mayor John P. O'Brien, who combines the effrontery of a lamp-post with the insouciance of a glassy-eyed codfish will leave New York the poorer for his passing, not only in the crassly material sense, but spiritually as well. For Honest John has in his own good way lightened the gloom of the morbidly shaded metropolis with the steady beam of a courage which has faced without flinching the unleashed terrors of double negatives, redundant participles, and hopelessly severed infinitives. Before the onslaught of mad sentences without verbs and facts without relevance his head remains bloody, but unbowed. With flags still flying in the teeth of adversity last week, he named a Manhattan street for the Polish hero, Kosciusko, and with something of a manly tear in his voice he denied any ingratitude ("that basest of all sins") on the part of the City to its foreign population, and recalled to his audience that he, O'Brien, had installed in a municipal office a Pole, "the first of his kind."

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With brief but fitting ceremony the Khaki Shirt movement of America was interred at a police station in Philadelphia yesterday when the commanding general, Art. J. Smith, surrendered to meet a charge of having run off with the funds of the party, such as they were. Before one dismisses too lightly the chance of resurrection, one should cast a glance at the humble beginnings of the Nazi party, which all Germany thought squelched after the ridiculous beer-hall putsch, when a peculiar loon named Hitler jumped on a table, fired three shots into the ceiling, and proclaimed the Revolution, whose end came a few moments later with the arrival of government troops. CASTOR.