From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sound
The scratch of the needle on the Victrola won't stop whining "Poor Butterfly," and frankly, the song’s tragic pining is beginning to grate on my nerves while bread is up to six cents a loaf. Between the screech of the new electric streetcars and the frantic headlines about Secretary Baker’s army bill, the city feels like a powder keg ready to blow. I hear the newsboys shouting about war college figures, their voices cracking over the rattle of Ford engines, and it all feels a bit over the top for a Saturday morning. I flick the new toggle switch to kill the parlor lights, staring at the ticker and wondering if we’re all just waiting for the whistle to blow.