The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965, 1928-11-27
BY ARCH STEINEL

Babe Ruth, John Mccormack,
William T. Tilden and Gene Tunney
sang a lusty quartet Monday after
noon at TIT South Alabama street,
and not stack" of type was car
ried about the event.
Not a barroom ballad issued from
their throats. "Ninety-Nine Bottles"
were kept hanging on the wall
throughout the afternoon and not
once did the spirit move them to
break forth in song with those old
time favorites, "Juanita" and Sweet
Adeline."
The "Bambino" with mean bass
and big Bill" and his water roll
carried the quartet to operatic
heights. They trilled, rilled and
rolled in a manner that would have
made CALI Curci envious. Even
CALI herself couldn't have carried
her high notes to the gallery with
the clear bell-like tinkle Of Tunneys
bell tour.
Tunney can stay out of that nasty
old prize-f1ght ring from now on
out If he only can continue the
cadenceS and "cazzocs"-or what
ever it is-that he did Monday. He
was supreme, heart-rending, no
wonder Polly Lauder married him.
DUT what have we here? They're
- trotting out Jiggs, Mutt and
JEFF and John Wilkes Booth for an
other quartet. Whoa! John Wilkes
has been dead ever since the last
time they discovered him alive down
in Oklahomy, and Jiggs-why, he's
a cartoon, he can't step out of the
printed page.
You've guessed tit was the
singing contest of the Indianapolis
Roller Canary club for all the little
Rollers Were they there? With
wings on-125 of them
Did they sing? Say, If that re-
mark the "canary'S whiskers" isn't
apropos, then it'll have to be the
elephants tusks" in describing the
kluckes, water rolls, bell tours,
Schockels and Rollers that were
emitted from their epicurean bills.
One woman in the lobby of the
South Side Y. w. c. A.-where the
contest was held-remarked that
she was thinking of taking a can
of birdseed home and feeding it to
a woman in her apartment house
who sings o Sole Mic, as If she
were fishmonger crying his wares.
EOR novitiates attending a ca
l. nary singing contest here's the
modus operandi:
The birds-au males, for the fe-
males don't sing-are entered by
numbers.
The entrants cages are kept
closed from all light by black cloths.
The birds think it's night-course it
isn't, it's just about time for an
afternoon coke" Well, when they
see this black cloth over their cages
they pipe down" on the singing.
Course there's a few night-owls
among them.
While the exhibitors stand by
their cages a man glides into the
room and calls some number. The
cages, clothed in their funeral garb,
are taken into the judges room.
It's up to the bird to sing out and
sing we'll when the black cloths are
taken from the cages in the judges
room.
ERANK EAGER, Chicago, the
Il judge-has an educated canary
ear. He has been thirty years rails
ing rollers and fifteen years judging
them.
Now if you think One-Eyed Con-
nelly could crash the judges room
at a canary show, you've another
guess coming. One must do Hou-
dini, out-talk a Demosthenes if one
would have speech with MIR. Eager.
But when you get in and watch
him coax notes out Of some Of the
voiceless ones and see his genial
face smiling, never ruffled, as he
sits hour after hour judging the
faulty bells, the bad nasals and the
ugly interjections, you are of the
firm belief that it's easier to raise
your problematical son in a Cow
college" and let him judge cattle.
You can walk around, chew to-
bacco and smoke at a livestock
show, but not at canary singing
expositioa-you'd asphyxiate the
canarieS.
The Judge will tell you that canar-
les have lived to be IA years old, that
the roller family are the royal sing
ers of the canary brood. The canar-
les singing in the contest Monday
and today range for the most part
under a year, with exceptions in
sweepstakes classes up to 4. years
old.
DUT as in real life, there are trag-
ID edies in the span Of years for
some canaries. For while his blue
blooded brothers are singing their
way to fame and glory lonely Pete
of no certain canary lineage and
pet of Elizabeth Mckenzie, eXecu-
tive secretary of the south side Y.
w. G: A., sings in his cage on the
first floor of the "Y" building. He
poor fellow-was born under the
wrong star and don't know where
his papa is or who his mama was.
"Pete" may be singing the st.
Louis Blues or the Prisoners Song,
but there's doubt for it seemed as
if his harsh, unmelodious voice-too
harsh for competition with the
roller breed-sang a solo to his
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