Approximately 300 offenders of the Hall county Whisker club went walkin' at 1 o'clock Saturday, June 25, to form a ludicrous parade which many in the throngs that lined the sidewalks of Third, Fourth and connecting streets appraised as "one that would be a credit to the celebration proper." With about 330 victimized by the kangaroo court on wheels Thursday, nearly 300 showed up to carry out the instructions of the court and testify to the spirit of co-operation with which the efforts of the Whisker club have been met.

Old Man Depression has gone the trip. With hogs worth a half-dollar more, and the lifeless body of the never-loved intruder duly placarded and hustled off to the cremation ovens, the existence of Depression is no longer debatable. Today he is only a spectre. He was carried by six pallbearers.

Happy Mistake

While the Whisker club and their good-sport victims had considerable to do with the slaying of the invader, judging from proximity in the parade and confessions which read "We're Glad We Made a Mistake," carried by members of the medical profession who followed the body in a group, there were others who inadvertently aided in the defense. The members of the medical squad carried saws, tongs, pliers, hatchets, dynamite, thread and court plaster.

Following behind the medical squad was a corps of grave diggers, placarded as "Cavity Fillers." They carried picks and shovels, and were prepared to work as never before to dig out a cavity sufficient in depth to guarantee that the "filling" would stay put. With the mercury peeking out of the thermometer from the 91st floor at noon, together with remarks of bystanders concerning the character of Old Man Depression, they weren't needed. The corpse was cremated in the coffin, as is, and was nothing more than a heap of ashes when the parade was over.

Baby Sired By Whiskerites

Came the whoops, yells and screams of a new born babe, and the hilarious mourners beheld the offspring of the Whisker club--"Our Baby-Prosperity, Sired by the Whisker Club." It was at this point that the real cheering from the sidewalks began. No greater joy flooded the soul of the venerable Abraham when he first took a squint at his first born son, Isaac, than swept over the beings of the onlookers as they beheld Prosperity himself garbed in a great deal of nothing, of record breaking size to begin with, and a sturdi-ness that forecasted continued growth.

The marshals had a bit of trouble to keep sedate men like Lawrence Donald from imagining he was dancing to a Kiltie band or Colonel William Frank from trying to make an address on irrigation, while attending the corpse, as honorary pallbearers, but they finally convinced the youths of the seriousness of the occasion.

Celebrate It's "Death"

"The Noisy Wake," composed of some twenty marchers put plenty of emphasis on the adjective. Armed with steins reminiscent of a baby 14 years ago, but which, according to some predictions is soon to be legally returned, the keepers of the wake showed the effects of the all-night vigil. Clay pipes added to the appropriateness of the scenery.

While Dick Valonis knows his syrups when it comes to soft drinks, a Greek from Greece learned a lesson on gambling when he bet on depression. Valonis, an optimistic cuss in many ways, was so sure Old Man Depression wasn't dead, that he bet candy shop, stock, fixtures, coat, shirt, pants and those dainty silk underthings that musn't be worn a second day without washing, that Depression was still living. He paraded up the street in everything he had left-a circular wooden garment of staves basted together with hoops.

The largest contingent of the parade fol'