June 30th, 1919 br br Notably fond of music, I dote on a br clearer tone br Than ever was blared by a bugle or zoomed br by a saxophone; br And the sound that opens the gates for me of br a Paradise revealed br Is something akin to the note revered by the br blesséd Eugene Field, br Who sang in pellucid phrasing that I perfectly br will recall br Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher that the br boy brings up the hall. br But sweeter to me than the sparrow's song or br the goose's autumn honks br Is the sound of the ice in the shaker as the br barkeeper mixes a Bronx. br br Between the dark and the daylight, when I'm br worried about The Tower, br Comes a pause in the day's tribulations that br is known as the cocktail hour; br And my soul is sad and jaded, and my heart br is a thing forlorn, br And I view the things I have written with a br sickening, scathing scorn. br Oh, it's then I fare with some other slave who br is hired for the things he writes br To a Den of Sin where they mingle gin--such br as Lipton's, Mouquin's or Whyte's, br And my spirit thrills to a music sweeter than br Sullivan or Puccini-- br The swash of the ice in the shaker as he mixes br a Dry martini. br br The drys will assert that metallic sound is the br selfsame canon made br By the ice in a shaker that holds a drink br like orange or lemonade; br But on the word of a traveled man and a br bard who has been around, br The sound of tin on ice and gin is a snappier, br happier sound. br And I mean to hymn, as soon as I have a br moment of leisure time, br The chill susurrus of cocktail ice in an adequae br piece of rhyme. br But I've just had an invitation to hark, at a br beckoning bar, br To the sound of the ice in the shaker as the br barkeeper mixes a Star.br br Franklin P.