On the Road With a Circus

by William Carter Thompson

I’m so happy I could weep,

Baby mine;

He is sailing o’er the sea,

He is coming back to me,

He is coming back to thee,

Baby mine, Baby mine;

He is coming back to thee,

Baby mine.

The clowns of the modern circus must needs possess, they confidently assert, more vivacity, wit and observation than their predecessors. The magnitude of the spread of canvas almost entirely precludes the possibility of effective oral utterance, and their drollery is confined to gesture, movement and posturing. This dumb acting places the funmaker at a decided disadvantage, and the problem of creations that will meet public favor is one requiring unusual natural aptitude. Frank Oakley (“Slivers”), fitted by nature for the part, sprang into wonderful public favor in a season.

In the grateful shade of the “big top,” during the period between the two performances, I sat one afternoon with an old-time performer whose age keeps him from the ring, but the memory of whose famous feats retains him in the employ of the circus. The seductive fascination and charm of the life has never dulled within him, and until accumulated years finally forbid, he declares he will be a member of the organization. He was in a reminiscent mood and began: