ower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky. Along came my poet, hurry- ing, hatted, haired, emitting dactyls, spondees and dactylis. I seized him. "Bill," said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), "give me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You see, it's a special order. Ordi- narily a symposium comprising the views of Henry Clews, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Ir- win and Charles Schwab would be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad, poetic, mystic vocalization of the city's soul and meaning. You are the very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest G on the piano. Now, you can't put New York into a note unless it's better indorsed than that. But give me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and far-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous crash of the chords of the day
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