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.