The Voice of the City | Page 4

said to Billy Magnus, the best bartender in the diocese:
Billy, you've lived in New York a long time what kind of a song-and-dance does this old town give you? What I mean is, doesn't the gab of it seem to kind of bunch up and slide over the bar to you in a sort of amalgamated tip that bits off the burg in a kind of an epigram with a dash of bitters and a slice of - "
"Excuse me a minute," said Billy, "somebody's punching the button at the side door."
He went away; came back with an empty tin bucket; again vanished with it full; returned and said to me:
"That was Mame. She rings twice. She likes a glass of beer for supper. Her and the kid. If you ever saw that little skeesicks of mine brace up in his high chair and take his beer and - But, say, what was yours? I get kind of excited when I bear them two rings -was it the baseball score or gin fizz you asked for?"
"Ginger ale," I answered.
I walked up to Broadway. I saw a cop on the cor- ner. The cops take kids up, women across, and men in. I went up to him.
If I'm not exceeding the spiel limit," I said, "let me ask you. You see New York during its vocative hours. It is the function of you and your brother cops to preserve the acoustics of the city. There must be a civic voice that is intelligible to you. At night during your lonely rounds you must have beard it. What is the epitome of its turmoil and shouting? What does the city say to you?
"Friend," said the policeman, spinning his club, "it don't say nothing. I get my orders from the man higher up. Say, I guess you're all right. Stand here for a few minutes and keep an eye open for the roundsman."
The cop melted into the darkness of the side street. In ten minutes be had returned.
"Married last Tuesday," be said, half gruffly. "You know bow they are. She comes to that corner at nine every night for a - comes to say ' hello! ' I generally manage to be there. Say, what was it you asked me a bit ago - what's doing in the city? Oh, there's a roof-garden or two just opened, twelve blocks up."
I crossed a crow's-foot of street-car tracks, and skirted the edge of an umbrageous park. An artificial Diana, gilded, heroic, poised, wind-ruled, on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky. Along came my poet, hurry- ing, hatted, haired, emitting dactyls, spondees and dactylis. I seized him. "Bill," said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), "give me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You see, it's a special order. Ordi- narily a symposium comprising the views of Henry Clews, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Ir- win and Charles Schwab would be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad, poetic, mystic vocalization of the city's soul and meaning. You are the very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest G on the piano. Now, you can't put New York into a note unless it's better indorsed than that. But give me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous crash of the chords of the day's traffic, the laughter and music of the night, the solemn tones of Dr. Parkhurst, the rag-time, the weeping, the stealthy bum of cab-wbeels, the shout of the press agent, the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo of the strawberry vender and the covers of Everybody's Magazine, the whispers of the lovers in the parks - all these sounds, must go into your Voice - not combined, but mixed, and of the mixture an essence made; and of the es- sence an extract - an audible extract, of which one drop shall form the thing we seek."
"Do you remember," asked the poet, with a chuckle, "that California girl we met at Stiver's studio last week? Well, I'm on my way to see her. She repeated that poem of mine, ' The Tribute of Spring,' word for word. She's the smartest proposi- tion in this town just at present. Say, how does this confounded tie look? I spoiled four before I got one to set right."
"And the Voice that I asked you about?" I in- quired.
"Oh, she doesn't sing," said Cleon. "But