O. O. McIntyre // Poets have remarked the beauty and glamour of that hour New York rarely sees. It is when dawn surmounts the mist—the lingering hiatus between the last lap of sleep and awakening. The city’s heartbeat is sluggish and there is a languorous hush to the town. The skyline is crested with rare purples merging into a softly creeping pink. A slight noise reverberates as in a giant canyon and an early morning whistler or the clop-clop of a milk wagon horse may be heard blocks away. At no other time does the city seem so mysterious and provocative. And then with a booming the laughter and tears of a passing night are drowned in the rushing cascade of another day. All of which shows how staying out until daylight to entertain out-of-town friends affects a home boy.
The noisiest time a day in the silly hamlet is at nine o’clock in the morning. The voice of the city reaches crescendo. Every mechanical device—including an electrical massaging dingus the fool has next door—is in top speed to get the metropolis to work.
Syndicated column, Dec. 27, 1928