It was singing that spread the wireless telegraph like a great web across the sky.
It was singing that dug the subways under the streets in New York.
It was singing, a kind of iron gladness, hope and faith in men, that has flung up our skyscrapers into the lower stories of the clouds, and made them say, "I will! I will! I will!" to God.
Ah, how often have I seen them from the harbour, those flocking, crowded skyscrapers under that little heaven in New York, lifting themselves in the sunlight and in the starlight, lifting themselves before me, sometimes, it seems, like crowds of great states, like a great country piled up, like a nation reaching, like the plains and the hills and the cities of my people standing up against heaven day by day—all those flocks of the skyscrapers saying, "I will! I will! I will!" to God.
The skyscrapers are news about us to our President. He shall reckon with skyscraper men. He shall interpret men that belong with skyscrapers.
And as he does so, I shall watch the people answer him, now with a glad and mighty silence and now with a great solemn shout.
The skyscrapers are their skyscrapers.
The courage, the reaching-up, the steadfastness that is in them is in the hearts of the people.
If the President does not know us yet in America, does not know McAdoo as a representative American, we will thunder on the doors of the White House until he does.
My impression is he would be out in the yard by the gate asking us to come in.