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
happening every day--what would it say, do you think, if it could
speak?"

"Quit yer kiddin'," said the boy. "Wot paper yer want? I got no time
to waste. It's Mag's birthday, and I want thirty cents to git her a
present."

Here was no interpreter of the city's mouthpiece. I bought a paper,
and consigned its undeclared treaties, its premeditated 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 tell me what I asked for.

And then, as swift as light from a fixed star, the answer came to me.
I arose and hurried--hurried as so many reasoners must, back around
my circle. I knew the answer and I hugged it in my breast as I flew,
fearing lest some one would stop me and demand my secret.

Aurelia was still on the stoop. The moon was higher and the ivy
shadows were deeper. I sat at her side and we watched a little cloud
tilt at the drifting moon and go asunder quite pale and discomfited.

And then, wonder of wonders and delight of delights! our hands
somehow touched, and ou