MR. BARNUM'S GREAT SHOW IN WINTER-QUARTERS.
Two-thirds of all the boys who read this article have without doubt been to the circus. But who has seen a show in winter-quarters? Not more than half a dozen of you, I fancy. And if you were to apply to the great gate of the mysterious inclosure at Bridgeport, you would not be let in, for there are very strict regulations, and the public are "not admitted." Somehow or other our artist found an "open, sesame," and he has given us a page of sketches showing some of the characteristic features of a great show not on exhibition.
To any one entering at the gate of the grounds two secretaries will usually present themselves. One of these is Mr. Barnum's private secretary, the other a pet bird of like appellation, to which is permitted a dignified freedom. There are also several pelicans strolling about, and a coach-dog, a great favorite with the elephants. On the right is the building in which the painting, carpentering, harness-making, and general tinkering for the show are going on. Here are a score of chariots in different stages of construction, orchest-melochors with the exasperating tune part taken out, broken cages and wagons. There are forges in different parts of the building. On the left is the car shed, a building over three hundred and fifty feet long, and four or five tracks wide, in which the cars for transporting the show are kept. It is full to overflowing, a number of flat cars being outside.
Under the wide eaves of the car shed are ranged the gorgeous and luxurious show wagons in which the animals are exhibited. The three large buildings form three sides of a quadrangle. Behind them is the ten-acre lot where the Bridgeport show is held at the beginning of every season.
How many elephants do you suppose Mr. Barnum has now? Can you fancy it?—there are twenty-two, big and little, young and old. Just think of the noise they can make! At a signal from the keeper they will begin to trumpet at once, and then the noise is like several thunder-storms with the rain and lightning left out.
As a matter of course you have all heard of the baby elephant recently born in the show. It came on the 2d of February. The mother is the elephant Queen. The father is named Chief. He is the largest in Mr. Barnum's herd of twenty-two. Those who have seen the elephant pyramid act will recollect him posed with uplifted trunk at the top of the heap. He is of wayward disposition, and has of late exhibited some savage traits of character. When the little one was born she weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds; her trunk was seven inches long, and she was about as big as a full-grown Newfoundland dog. Mr. Barnum has named the new-comer Bridgeport. He is going to exhibit her with Chief and Queen, as "The Elephant Family," and of course we are all going to see them.
One of the most interesting things about these elephants is the intelligence they show, and the attachment they form for their keepers, and even for the other animals about them. An amusing incident was daily witnessed last season in the greenroom of the show. Donald Melville, a little child two and a half years old, son of a trainer, formed a strange attachment for Gypsy, one of the largest elephants in the herd. Gypsy was equally fond of the child, and would follow it anywhere.
Donald could scarcely talk, but he would pull and tug at Gypsy's trunk until the intelligent animal would comprehend what was wanted, and carefully lay its huge carcass upon the ground, when the child would climb upon its back. To play hide-and-seek between Gypsy's legs was a favorite pastime with Donald.
There is a mammoth sloth bear in the menagerie which attracts a great deal of attention from such visitors as are admitted. He weighs upward of four hundred pounds, and when standing erect is nearly six feet tall. At the word of command the bear stands upright upon his hind-feet, closes both eyes, opens his mouth, and makes a guttural sound that the men call preaching. His calm, dignified attitude is ridiculous in the extreme, and has earned for him his clerical nick-name of "the Preacher."
Among the leopards there is a full-grown animal called Pet. It is so tame that the keeper will enter its cage, take it in his arms, and handle it as familiarly as if it were a house cat. Yet this is dangerous business. The men whose profession is the training of wild animals had sad stories to tell of their own and others' experience. One of Mr. Barnum's tamers carries a great scar on his forehead. He was in the cage with some lions one day when one of them took advantage of his looking away, and sprang at him. Its paw struck him in the face, and a claw made the dent in his skull. He did not lose his presence of mind, but seeing that the lion was temporarily frightened at having hit him, he got out of the cage as fast as possible. The claw just failed to reach the brain. Another time he tried to tame some hyenas, and one of his fingers was bitten short off. "The hyenas," he remarked to our artist, "are among the most cowardly and treacherous of wild beasts."
A rhinoceros is not supposed to be a playful animal, but there is one in the show that has a decided taste for playing with a ball. He will roll it up and down the wall of the cage with his absurdly shaped nose, and apparently finds great enjoyment in the sport. He expresses his delight in what may be called deep grunts of satisfaction.
The circus business demands a small army of performers and attendants. Mr. Barnum in the coming season will have over six hundred persons in his pay. The "master of the sails" will have a force of one hundred and twenty-five tent-setters; the head groom, sixty grooms: the loading-master, one hundred "razor-backs"; the menagerie, sixty attendants; and the advertising department, seventy men always ahead of the show. There will be performers of all sorts, caterers, side-show men, etc., at least two hundred more in number. The master of the sails said that in eighteen minutes his force of one hundred and twenty-five men had taken down and packed in the wagons fifteen tents containing two hundred and sixty thousand yards of canvas, to say nothing of the ropes, poles, and other appointments.
A novel feature of the show the next time it starts out in a procession is to be "Mother Hubbard's Shoe." A shoe of gigantic size, mounted on wheels, and filled by the convenient children of the company, will take its place among the chariots and cars. This new attraction will unquestionably be a source of delight to all small people.
[TONY'S BIRTHDAY, AND GEORGE WASHINGTON'S.]
BY AGNES REPPLIER.
It was the great misfortune of Tony Butler's life to have been born on the Twenty-second of February.
There was no comfort in reflecting that there were doubtless plenty of other boys in the country who labored under the same disadvantage. The other boys might perhaps be better fitted for the honor, but for poor Tony the distinction was a crushing one.
In the first place, he had an older brother, and that older brother's name was George. Now it is generally conceded that one of a name is enough for any family; but when Tony was born on the Twenty-second of February, how was poor Mrs. Butler to act?
Not to have called him after the Father of his Country would have been, in that good woman's opinion, a positive slight to the illustrious dead. As long as her boy was fortunate enough to have the same birthday as our great President, it became her plain duty to give him one other point of resemblance, and then trust to time to complete the likeness.
It was a pity that they had a George already, but that difficulty could be done away with by calling her second son Washington. Washington Butler sounded well, and seemed all that was desirable; only there was just a little too much of it for every-day use. Sometimes the boy was called Washie, and sometimes Wash, and sometimes Wall, and sometimes Tony, until, as he grew older, and able to talk, he evinced a decided preference for the last title, and would answer to no other.
But although this lessened his troubles, it by no means ended them; for when a child has so many nicknames to choose from, everybody is apt to select a different one; and to confess the truth, he was not at all the right sort of a boy to be called George Washington.
There was nothing of the soldier, nothing of the patriot, nothing at all remarkable, about poor Tony in any way. He was a shy, homely little boy, who would have passed well enough as plain Sam, which, being his father's name, would also have been his had it not been for his unfortunate birthday. But as a George Washington, even his doting mother was forced to realize he was not a complete success.
The first day he went to school the master sonorously read out his name as Antony Butler, whereat his brother giggled, and Tony, blushing fiery red, stammered out that he was not an Antony at all.
"Not Antony?" said the teacher, in natural surprise. "Why, then, are you called Tony?"
"Because my name is George Washington, and we had a George already," was the embarrassed answer.
After this the boys with one accord dubbed him Washing Tony, as if he were a Chinese laundryman, and Washing Tony he continued to be called.
Under these circumstances, perhaps he was excusable in wishing he had been born on some less illustrious day, and when the Twenty-second came duly around, it required all the delights of a new pair of skates and a fur cap to reconcile him entirely to his fate.
It being a general holiday, all the boys proposed spending it on the ice, and Tony could skate a great deal better than he could write or cipher; although even here he was never what boys consider brave, and what their parents are apt to more accurately define as fool-hardy.
The truth is, there was not in the child a spice of that boyish daring which seems so attractive in its possessor, and which is in reality so wanton and useless.
Tony never wanted to climb high trees, or jump from steep places, or pat a restive horse, or throw an apple at a cross old farmer. All these things, which were clear to the hearts of his companions, were totally unattractive to him. He could never be dared to any deed that had a touch of danger in it, and the contrast between his prudent conduct and his illustrious title was, in the eyes of all the other boys, the crowning absurdity of the case.
On this particular birthday the weather, though clear, was mild for the season, and some apprehension had been felt as to the complete soundness of the ice. A careful investigation, however, showed it to be all firm and solid except in one corner, where the lake was deepest, and where the ice, though unbroken, looked thin and semi-transparent, with the restless water underneath. Around this uncertain quarter a line was drawn, and soon some thirty or forty boys were skimming rapidly over the frozen surface.
Fred Hazlit and Eddy Barrows were the champion skaters of the district, and their evolutions were regarded with wonder and delight by a host of smaller boys, who vainly tried to rival their achievements.
Not so Tony. Although perfectly at home on the ice, he seemed to have no more desire to excel here than elsewhere, but skated gravely up and down, enjoying himself in his sober fashion, his cap drawn over his eyes, his little red hands thrust in his overcoat pockets.
George, who did not think this at all amusing, was off with the older boys, trying to write his name on the ice, and going over and over it with a patient persistency that, practiced at school, would have made him the first writer in his class.
Gradually the forbidden ground began to be encroached on, some of the older boys skimming lightly over it, and finding it quite hard enough to bear their weight. Soon the line was obliterated by a dozen pairs of skates, and the children, never heeding it, spread themselves over every inch of ice on the lake.
All but Tony. With characteristic prudence he had marked the dangerous corner well, and never once ventured upon it. As he stopped to tighten his skates, four of the younger boys, hand in hand, came bearing down upon him.
"Catch hold," shouted Willie Marston, "and we'll make a line. Hurrah! Here goes!" and Tony with the rest shot across the smooth sheet of ice until they came to the inclosed quarter. The others were keeping right on, but Tony stopped short.
"It is not safe," he said, "and I am not going on it."
"Nonsense!" cried Dick Treves. "What a coward you are, Tony! We have been over it a dozen time already this morning, and it is just as safe as the rest."
"Of course it is," said Willie. "Come ahead."
But Tony did not go ahead. Neither did he discuss the matter, for argument of any kind was not at all in his way. He merely stopped and let go of Willie's hand. "It isn't safe," he persisted. "You can do as you like, but I am not going on it."
"Well, stay there," said Ned Marston, giving him a little shove—"stay where you are, General Washington, and cross the Delaware on dry land if you can."
"Three cheers for General Washington!" shouted Dick, derisively. "Hurrah for the bravest of the brave!" and then the three boys skated on, leaving Tony standing there upon the ice.
His face flushed crimson with shame, but he never stirred. He hated to be laughed at and called a coward, but he was afraid to venture, and no amount of ridicule could urge him on.
Slowly he turned to go, when at that instant an ominous sound struck his ear. The treacherous ice was cracking in all directions, a dozen jagged seams spreading like magic over the smooth surface. There was a sharp snap, a cry of terror, a splash, and three boys, white with fright, started back from the yawning hole, barely in time to save themselves from falling.
In the excitement and fear of that moment no one of them thought of his companion; but Tony, who stood beside, had seen poor Willie's despairing blue eyes fixed on him with a mute appeal for help as he staggered and fell into the dark water.
Somehow all his habitual caution, which was so falsely termed cowardice, had disappeared; he never even thought of being afraid, with that pitiful glance still before his eyes, but, urged on by some great impulse, cleared the space between them in an instant, and plunged down after his drowning friend.
Another minute and both boys re-appeared, Willie clutching fiercely at his preserver, and Tony holding him off as well as he could with one arm while he struck out bravely with the other.
It was but the work of a moment before help reached them, but that moment had saved poor Willie's life, and changed forever the opinions of the school.
They had learned what true courage was. Tony Butler might be timid and insignificant, but he had proved himself beyond a doubt worthy of his illustrious name, and a fit hero for the Twenty-second.
