“If I’m not exceeding the spiel limit，” I said， “let me askyou. You see New York during its vocative hours. It is thefunction of you and your brother cops to preserve theacoustics of the city. There must be a civic voice that isintelligible to you. At night during your lonely rounds youmust have heard it. What is the epitome of its turmoil andshouting？ What does the city say to you？”
“Friend，” said the policeman， spinning his club， “it don’tsay nothing. I get my orders from the man higher up. Say，I guess you’re all right. Stand here for a few minutes andkeep an eye open for the roundsman.”
The cop melted into the darkness of the side street. Inten minutes he had returned.
“Married last Tuesday，” he said， half gruffly. “You knowhow they are. She comes to that corner at nine every nightfor a—comes to say ‘hello！’ I generally manage to be there.
Say， what was it you asked me a bit ago—what’s doing inthe 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 skirtedthe edge of an umbrageous park. An artificial Diana， gilded，heroic， poised， wind-ruled， on the tower， shimmered inthe clear light of her namesake in the sky. Along came mypoet， hurrying， hatted， haired， emitting dactyls， spondeesand dactylis. I seized him.
“Bill，” said I （in the magazine he is Cleon）， “give me alift. I am on an assignment to find out the Voice of thecity. You see， it’s a special order. Ordinarily a symposiumcomprising the views of Henry Clews， John L. Sullivan，Edwin Markham， May Irwin and Charles Schwab wouldbe about all. But this is a different matter. We want abroad， poetic， mystic vocalization of the city’s soul andmeaning. You are the very chap to give me a hint. Someyears ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us itspitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest Gon the piano. Now， you can’t put New York into a noteunless it’s better indorsed than that. But give me an ideaof what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to bea mighty and far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it wemust take the tremendous crash of the chords of the day’straffic， the laughter and music of the night， the solemntones of Dr. Parkhurst， the rag-time， the weeping， thestealthy hum of cab-wheels， the shout of the press agent，the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens， the hullabalooof the strawberry vender and the covers of Everybody’sMagazine， the whispers of the lovers in the parks—allthese sounds must go into your Voice—not combined， butmixed， and of the mixture an essence made； and of theessence an extract—an audible extract， of which one dropshall 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 poemof mine， ‘The Tribute of Spring，’ word for word. She’s thesmartest proposition in this town just at present. Say， howdoes this confounded tie look？ I spoiled four before I gotone to set right.”
“And the Voice that I asked you about？” I inquired.
“Oh， she doesn’t sing，” said Cleon. “But you ought tohear her recite my ‘Angel of the Inshore Wind.’”
I passed on. I cornered a newsboy and he flashed at meprophetic pink papers that outstripped the news by tworevolutions of the clock’s longest hand.
“Son，” I said， while I pretended to chase coins in mypenny pocket， “doesn’t it sometimes seem to you as if thecity ought to be able to talk？ All these ups and downs andfunny business and queer things happening every day—what would it say， do you think， if it could speak？”
“Quit yer kiddin’，” said the boy. “Wot paper yer want？ Igot no time to waste. It’s Mag’s birthday， and I want thirtycents to git her a present.”
Here was no interpreter of the city’s mouthpiece. Ibought a paper， and consigned its undeclared treaties， itspremeditated murders and unfought battles to an ash can.
Again I repaired to the park and sat in the moon shade.
I thought and thought， and wondered why none could tellme what I asked for.
And then， as swift as light from a fixed star， the answercame to me. I arose and hurried—hurried as so manyreasoners must， back around my circle. I knew the answerand I hugged it in my breast as I flew， fearing lest someone would stop me and demand my secret.
Aurelia was still on the stoop. The moon was higherand the ivy shadows were deeper. I sat at her side andwe watched a little cloud tilt at the drifting moon and goasunder quite pale and discomfited.
And then， wonder of wonders and delight of delights！
our hands somehow touched， and our fingers closedtogether and did not part.
After half an hour Aurelia said， with that smile of hers：
“Do you know， you haven’t spoken a word since youcame back！”
“That，” said I， nodding wisely， “is the Voice of the City.”
