Closing Hours

"The Congress that nobody liked"-- Senators and Congressmen said it about themselves. They said it because the press said it. But they realized the truth of it keenly; although all of them left the Capitol feeling sure that they would return in December--none of their terms expire until next March-- they went knowing that many of them would come back, following the November elections, only for a farewell session.

The consequent feeling of depression was evident in the closing hours. The Democrats .strove to shift the burden of disfavor upon the Republican Congress. The Republican members were eager to lay any failure to obstruction by Democrats and insurgents. Both were anxious to put blame on the Administration, which retained an unaccountable popularity, playing a cautious, silent game at the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue.

Recrimination and invective were the closing keynotes.

The House worked desperately to clean up its calendar. Late hours and early hours were resorted to. Time was doled out in minutes. Speakers belched forth their arguments in haste in order to have their say before the descending gavel silenced them. Conferees worked desperately, reports were agreed with or disagreed with in hasty efforts at accomplishment. Business was rushing.

In the Senate there was not quite the same amount of hurry. The disposition of the Senators would not permit it. Most of them preferred to express themselves freely and fully, even if some legislation might fail for lack of time to consider it.

On the Democratic side of the aisle, in the rear row, Heflin of Alabama shone, his elephantine frame resplendent in cream colored pongee. Ever and anon the great chider would burst forth in oratory, belaboring the Republicans --regular and insurgent--making the galleries laugh. When a Republican rose in reply, and there seemed any possibility of a successful counter attack, Caraway of Arkansas interposed. He wandered from seat to seat, with his hands in his pockets, or walked like a monk in the monastery yard-- head bowed, hands held before him-- stopping only to drawl an apt, ironical remark. In the third row, beside the aisle, handling his books and papers, the downright Robinson, Democratic leader, maintained a watchful eye on the course of legislation, now and then casting in a tart remark or direction.

There was Copeland of New York wearing his inevitable red carnation, and McKellar of Tennessee, who became irate because the Chair did not see him when he rose. Underwood of Alabama came and went, playing an unobtrusive part in the front row. Pat Harrison of Mississippi, the great denunciator, remained for the most part silent, save when he rose to deliver one of his thunderbolts across the House. Two rows further back, pince-nez on nose, sat the sententious Ashurst of Arizona, intent on periodically expressing himself with great deliberation, learning and politeness. King of Utah, very 'businesslike, examined every bill, the least important, with meticulous eye and, "reserving the right to object," would demand an explanation of it. Following this, he generally declined to object, while Mr. Cummins from the Chair murmured the oft-repeated formula, "Is-there-any-objection-the-Chair-hears-none-the-bill-is-passed." Very occasionally a man with a sleek white head and formidable jaw, James A. Reed of Missouri, rose to speak a few words of conviction.

On the Republican side, no less pronounced characters took a hand in the proceedings. In the first row on the aisle--appropriate seat -- Senator La Follette appeared, tight-lipped and bushy-haired, in neat frock coat, and slightly stooped, with rather a genial air. His desk was a frequent stopping place for Senators meandering about the chamber. With a critical smile he watched the progress of legislation, and then, when the moment came, stepped forward with an impassioned speech about the starving women and children of Germany. Stepping into the aisle, gesticulating fiercely, he paced about. Half a dozen times his voice broke with an excess of emotion. When he had done he dropped into his seat exhausted, and several Democrats rushed across to congratulate him.

By contrast, Henry Cabot Lodge came and went like a silent wraith. He seemed frail, apparently steadied himself by the desks, so that a sudden draught might not upset him. He paused to chat with this one, with that one, with La Follette, with Pat Harrison, and then retired to recline in the background with legs stretched out and jacket tightly buttoned.

There was Wadsworth of New York, bald and businesslike, tall and efficient, getting the bills of the Military Affairs Committee through in proper order. There was the venerable Warren of Wyoming, father-in-law of General Pershing, quietly, politely, seeing to the Appropriation Bills. Back of Warren sat Borah, silent mostly, but now and then rising to express in even tones few well-directed arguments. Further to the side, but coming forward when he spoke, was Brookhart, the singularly soft-voiced insurgent from Iowa, striving in unequal battle with the Heflins and the Caraways, badgering the so-called farm bloc for its unsuccess.

Moses, trim and aggressive, occasion ally unleashed his lightning wit, or gave a neat whip cut across the flank of an attacking Democrat. Smoot, the Mormon elder, tall and slender as a mast, with a voice like a wind murmuring among the halyards, went unostentatiously about his business. Fess, coming forward in a halting defense of his brother Ohioan, Daugherty, met the biting attack of the active, relentless Norris. While from the farthest cor ner, Magnus Johnson, in broad Swedish accent, vouched for the distress of the farmers and threatened, if he were re-elected next Fall, to "but in" on their behalf as he had not done during the apprenticeship of his brief ad interim term.

In the House the final minutes wore away without controversy. A few minutes before the closing hour, seven p. m., the clock was stopped and the members gathered together and sang Merrilly We Roll Along, The Old Oaken Bucket, Sweet Adeline, My Country 'Tis of Thee. Speaker Gillett announced that the session was at an end, and wished the members "pleasant vacation." "And reelection!" shouted the members as the gavel fell.

In the Senate final legislation was tied up by filibustering. Senator Spencer made a long speech to prevent action on the report of the Public Lands Committee which investigated the naval oil leases. Senator Heflin aired for the last time his opinions on the Republican Party's record. Then Senator Pittman, angered that a provision was not included to furnish funds for a reclamaation project in Nevada, started his own filibuster, declaring that the bill should not pass. There was confusion in the chamber. President pro tempore Cummins ordered the Sergeant at Arms to clear the aisle of Senators. At three minutes before closing, when it was apparent that the Deficiency measure could not pass, Senator Robinson asked unanimous consent to provide the funds necessary for the bonus. Senator Borah objected. The gavel fell.

The men above named and their colleagues, "the Congress that nobody liked," went home to burn incense before their lares and penates, to offer prayers for success in November elections.