"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
an island, which is mostly lamb surrounded by Wall Street water. The
conjunction of so many units into so small a space must result in an
identity--or, or rather a homogeneity that finds its oral expression
through a common channel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of
translation, concentrating in a crystallized, general idea which
reveals itself in what may be termed the Voice of the City. Can you
tell me what it is?"
Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high stoop. A spray
of insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray of impudent
moonlight flickered upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel-plated.
"I must go and find out," I said, "what is the Voice of this City.
Other cities have voices.
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