On cold winter nights, outside the Metropolitan Opera House, Manhattan, cabdrivers shuffle and swing their arms. It is dull for them. The people they have brought thither, wait to remove, are not even sports; they are music-lovers who give small tips, cold-eyed elegants in evening dress, or critics that ponder, as they read the meter, such terms as "a good performance, well sung," "gala night," "once more with a brilliant cast . . ." wishing to Heaven they could find a new phrase or change for a quarter. At regular intervals, the cabdrivers hear,...
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