There seems to have been a dearth of late of street diversions. The man who manipulates the drill has begun to pall upon the flaneurs of the pavements; the dizzy glory of the man who adjusts the nuts on steel constructions has faded, and the bowler hat sits upon the head four-square to all the winds that blow. The hurdy-gurdyist sits with his monkey beside the stove at home, and the nightwatchman enjoys his brazier alone.
Even the hero who used to sing Sonny Boy to cinematograph queues is either silent or has been silenced. I was, therefore, the more astonished when yesterday morning I noticed the feet of the shoppers pause awhile in one of our busy thoroughfares, and smiling interest settle on their face. Curiosity drew me nearer, and I found a pair of itinerant musicians reaping a rich harvest, but not by their own unaided efforts. Their success was due entirely to a couple of dogs. These animals had passed at the moment when the instrumentalist of the pair had begun an air, and they had promptly halted in their tracks, fascinated or paralysed by the sound, and were filling the air with an ululatory duet. Their dismal and prolonged howlings were irresistibly comic, and the man with the melodeon repeated his tune without a break in order to maintain the Midas spell. When he gave out the dogs fled abruptly, and the rehearsed effect was over. I wonder how it comes about that dogs are so upset by the sound even of good music.
The Irish Times, January 14th, 1930.