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 hum of cab-wheels, 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 essence 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 proposition 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 inquired.

"Oh, she doesn't sing," said Cleon. "But you ought to hear her recite
my 'Angel of the Inshore Wind.'"

I passed on. I cornered a newsboy and he flashed at me prophetic pink
papers that outstripped the news by two revolutions of the clock's
longest hand.

"Son," I said, while I pretended to chase coins in my penny pocket,
"doesn't it sometimes seem to you as if the city ought to be able to
talk? All these ups and downs and funny business and queer things