Twenty-five years ago the school children used to chanttheir lessons. The manner of their delivery was a singsongrecitative between the utterance of an Episcopal ministerand the drone of a tired sawmill. I mean no disrespect. Wemust have lumber and sawdust.
I remember one beautiful and instructive little lyric thatemanated from the physiology class. The most strikingline of it was this：
“The shin-bone is the long-est bone in the hu-manbod-y.”
What an inestimable boon it would have been if all thecorporeal and spiritual facts pertaining to man had thusbeen tunefully and logically inculcated in our youthfulminds！ But what we gained in anatomy， music andphilosophy was meagre.
The other day I became confused. I needed a ray oflight. I turned back to those school days for aid. But inall the nasal harmonies we whined forth from those hardbenches I could not recall one that treated of the voice ofagglomerated mankind.
In other words， of the composite vocal message ofmassed humanity.
In other words， of the Voice of a Big City.
Now， the individual voice is not lacking. We canunderstand 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， thelanguage of flowers， the “step lively” of the conductor， andthe prelude of the milk cans at 4 A. M. Certain large-earedones even assert that they are wise to the vibrations of thetympanum produced by concussion of the air emanatingfrom Mr. H. James. But who can comprehend the meaningof the voice of the city？
I went out for to see.
First， I asked Aurelia. She wore white Swiss and a hatwith flowers on it， and ribbons and ends of things flutteredhere and there.
“Tell me，” I said， stammeringly， for I have no voice of myown， “what does this big—er—enormous—er—whoppingcity say？ It must have a voice of some kind. Does it everspeak to you？ How do you interpret its meaning？ It is atremendous 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 afancy that every city has a voice. Each one has somethingto say to the one who can hear it. What does the big onesay to you？”
“All cities，” said Aurelia， judicially， “say the same thing.
When they get through saying it there is an echo fromPhiladelphia. So， they are unanimous.”
“Here are 4，000，000 people，” said I， scholastically，“compressed upon an island， which is mostly lambsurrounded by Wall Street water. The conjunction ofso many units into so small a space must result in anidentity—or， or rather a homogeneity that finds its oralexpression through a common channel. It is， as youmight say， a consensus of translation， concentrating in acrystallized， general idea which reveals itself in what maybe termed the Voice of the City. Can you tell me what itis？”
Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high stoop. Aspray of insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray ofimpudent moonlight flickered upon her nose. But I wasadamant， nickel-plated.
“I must go and find out，” I said， “what is the Voice ofthis City. Other cities have voices. It is an assignment. Imust have it. New York，” I continued， in a rising tone， “hadbetter not hand me a cigar and say： ‘Old man， I can’t talkfor publication.’ No other city acts in that way. Chicagosays， unhesitatingly， ‘I will；’ I Philadelphia says， ‘I should；’
New Orleans says， ‘I used to；’ Louisville says， ‘Don’t careif I do；’ St. Louis says， ‘Excuse me；’ Pittsburg says， ‘Smokeup.’ Now， New York—”
Aurelia smiled.
“Very well，” said I， “I must go elsewhere and find out.”
I went into a palace， tile-floored， cherub-ceilinged andsquare with the cop. I put my foot on the brass rail andsaid to Billy Magnus， the best bartender in the diocese：
“Billy， you’ve lived in New York a long time—what kindof a song-and-dance does this old town give you？ WhatI mean is， doesn’t the gab of it seem to kind of bunch upand slide over the bar to you in a sort of amalgamated tipthat hits off the burg in a kind of an epigram with a dashof bitters and a slice of—”
“Excuse me a minute，” said Billy， “somebody’s punchingthe 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 ofbeer for supper. Her and the kid. If you ever saw that littleskeesicks of mine brace up in his high chair and take hisbeer and—But， say， what was yours？ I get kind of excitedwhen I hear them two rings—was it the baseball score orgin fizz you asked for？”
“Ginger ale，” I answered.
I walked up to Broadway. I saw a cop on the corner. Thecops take kids up， women across， and men in. I went up tohim.