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The story was a front-page newspaper sensation on September 30, 1927. Chicago school superintendent William McAndrew was on trial.

The Board of Education had hired McAndrew in 1924, telling him to clean up the school system. That he had done. Most of his reforms were applauded. But he'd also antagonized many people in the process.

McAndrew had become an issue in the 1927 mayoral campaign. Ex-mayor Big Bill Thompson was challenging incumbent mayor William E. Dever. Thompson claimed the superintendent was unpatriotic, and had brought foreign influences into the schools.

Thompson beat Dever in the April election. McAndrew had nine months left on his contract. That was too long a wait for Thompson. He began looking for a way to get rid of McAndrew.

In August the Board of Education replaced 288 teacher-clerks with new employees. By now the Board was controlled by Thompson, and McAndrew felt this was an attempt to bring political patronage back into the system. He resisted the order.

So the Board suspended McAndrew. The superintendent was charged with "insubordination."

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The little boy is waiting outside the court house for his hero, the big league baseball player. The player emerges. Tears in his eyes, the boy approaches the man. "Say it ain't so, Joe," the kid pleads. The player says nothing.

If that familiar bit of folklore ever happened, it happened on September 28, 1920. That was the day the Black Sox scandal broke.

In 1919 the Chicago White Sox had entered the World Series as heavy favorites. When they were upset by the Cincinnati Reds, rumors spread that the series had been fixed. Most of the public refused to believe it, and the whispers died down.

Then, in the summer of 1920, a Cook County grand jury began investigating a supposed fix in a Cubs-Phillies game. Various baseball people testified. The recent World Series came up, and Sox pitcher Eddie Cicotte was summoned.

On the stand, Cicotte admitted taking $10,000 from gamblers to throw the Series. Other players were called, and eight White Sox were indicted. The charges involved such things as running a confidence game, and conspiracy to defraud teammates out of $1784--the difference between winner's and loser's shares in the World Series.

Team owner Charles Comiskey suspended the indicted players.

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The Little House, by Virginia Lee Burton, is a classic children's book. A sturdy frame cottage is built far out in the country. But as the years pass, the city grows up around it, making the house sad. Finally, the house is put on rollers, moved further out into the country, and is once again happy.

Chicago has its own version of the Little House. Except that the Chicago house was moved twice--and the second time, it was moved back downtown. The city is now celebrating its 175th birthday.

Henry B. Clarke was one of Chicago's early settlers. He operated a hardware business and was a director of the city's first bank. In 1836 he built a house on the outskirts of town, near what is now Michigan Avenue and 16th Street.

Clarke's home was no little cottage, but an imposing mini-mansion with pillared portico and high cupola. When Henry died, his wife Caroline continued to live in the house. That's when it became known as "The Widow Clarke House."

At the time of the Great Fire in 1871, the house was owned by a tailor named John Chrimes. Though the fire didn't come anywhere near the property, Chrimes wasn't taking any chances. He had the house moved four miles south onto the open prairie.

Settlement eventually grew up around the Clarke House.

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Last year 127th Street in Calumet Park was renamed Obama Drive. As anyone familiar with downtown Chicago knows, "president streets" are an old city tradition.

Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Adams, Jackson, Van Buren, Harrison, Tyler, Polk, Taylor, Fillmore. Those are the first 13 presidents, and 12 of them have streets in or near the Loop. Since there were two presidents named Adams, Quincy Street honors president #6, John Quincy Adams.

The one president without a street is #10, John Tyler. Some sources claim Tyler Street was changed to Congress Street during the Civil War, when Tyler declared allegiance to the Confederacy. Yet Tyler Street is still mentioned in news stories into the 1890s. Maybe the city didn't get around to changing the signs until then.

After Fillmore left office in 1853, the city seems to have abandoned the custom of automatically giving a president his own street. Now he had to earn the honor.

Lincoln Avenue, Grant Place, Garfield Boulevard, Roosevelt Road. From 1853 to 1909, out of eleven men who served as president, only four made the cut.

Wait--what about Pierce or Hayes or Arthur or Cleveland? Chicago does have those streets, but all of them were named for other people.

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The Mayor of Chicago was introducing the Prince of Wales to a crowded saloon. "Boys, this here is the Prince!" he shouted. "Prince, these are the boys!"

That is the legend, and it may not be fact. But on this September 21st in 1860, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, did become the first royal personage to visit Chicago. His host was Mayor John Wentworth. And that's the kind of thing that Long John would have said.

The 19-year-old prince was on a tour of Canada when Wentworth met him in Montreal, and invited him to see Chicago. The prince liked the idea. He said he would come, but only unofficially, as "Baron Renfrew."

Nobody was fooled by that dodge. When the prince's train chugged into the city, he was greeted by a crowd of 5,000, many of them wearing special medallions or waving banners. Then he was whisked away to his hotel.

Rising late the next morning, the prince received formal greetings from Wentworth and a committee of distinguished Chicagoans. Then he was taken on a tour of the city. Though the prince wanted to keep his visit low-key, his itinerary had gotten into the papers, and over 50,000 people lined the streets to watch him pass.

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"You may say I may be unfit to be mayor, but you can never say I'm an unfit mayor."              

--Rahm Emanuel

Triathlete Rahm is probably the most physically-fit mayor that Chicago has ever had. Just for fun, let's take a look at the last century of his predecessors, and see how they measure up.

In 1911 Fred Busse was completing his single term as mayor. Busse had been a saloon-keeper and was built along the lines of a beer keg--he was fondly known as Fat Freddie. He died at 48.

Busse was succeeded by Carter Harrison Jr., returning for a fifth term on the fifth floor of City Hall. I never thought of Harrison as portly, until I ran across the accompanying picture. In any case, Harrison lived to be 93.

From 1915 to 1931 the city had three terms of William Hale Thompson, sandwiched around one term of William Emmett Dever.

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The Great Depression was a grim time. Yet even then, people needed to laugh. In September 1936, Chicagoans were chuckling over two stories. Both of them were somewhat risque--at least by 1936 standards.

The first tale begins with Hazel LaBreck, a 27-year-old singer from Wisconsin, traveling to Chicago for a concert audition. On the bus she became acquainted with an older man named Mr. Larue. Larue told the young lady he was a movie agent, and that he might be able to get her a job in Hollywood. But first she had to demonstrate she had a shapely figure.

LaBreck might have been from farm country, but she was no hick. Once off the bus she called police. Now joined by two detectives, the young woman went to the Morrison Hotel, where she had arranged to meet Larue in his room. The cops waited outside.

When the young lady arrived, Larue produced copies of official-looking studio contracts and a silhouette chart. Then, taking out a tape measure, he told her to get undressed.

With that, Hazel LaBreck gave a signal, and the detectives burst in. Larue quickly confessed that he was not a Hollywood agent, but a clothing salesman. He also gave the cops his right name--which wasn't Larue.

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