Now, the individual voice is not lacking. We can understand the
song of the poet, the ripple of the brook, the meaning of the man
who wants $5 until next Monday, the inscriptions on the tombs of
the Pharaohs, the language of flowers, the "step lively" of the
conductor, and the prelude of the milk cans at 4 A. M. Certain
large-eared ones even assert that they are wise to the vibrations of
the tympanum produced by concussion of the air emanating from Mr. H.
James. But who can comprehend the meaning of the voice of the city?

I went out for to see.

First, I asked Aurelia. She wore white Swiss and a hat with flowers
on it, and ribbons and ends of things fluttered here and there.

"Tell me," I said, stammeringly, for I have no voice of my own, "what
does this big--er--enormous--er--whopping city say? It must have a
voice of some kind. Does it ever speak to you? How do you interpret
its meaning? It is a tremendous mass, but it must have a key."

"Like a Saratoga trunk?" asked Aurelia.

"No," said I. "Please do not refer to the lid. I have a fancy that
every city has a voice. Each one has something to say to the one who
can hear it. What does the big one say to you?"

"All cities," said Aurelia, judicially, "say the same thing. When
they get through saying it there is an echo from Philadelphia. So,
they are unanimous."

"Here are 4,000,000 people," said I, scholastically, "compressed upon