EARLY SCENES ON THE LOT
The selection of the place of exhibition is a duty which requires
careful study and practical observation and involves a variety of
considerations. Ten acres is the smallest piece of ground on which our
circus can spread itself, and an unoccupied site of this size which
has the requisite advantages is not always easy to find in these days
of rapid-growing communities. A plot which had all the conditions
demanded the year before may be the foundation of many houses when the
show arrives on its next visit. The spot chosen is generally rural
in its situation--the claim on space makes this unavoidable--but
it imperatively must be urban in convenience. Swift-moving trolley
cars have added joy to the circus business, for they make accessible
these remote localities. Obviously when transportation facilities are
awkward, the show suffers. And so it is that usually we find ourselves
settled for the day where stretches of electric wires are a constant
menace to towering chariots and a source of terror to their fair
occupants. Of course, the conformation of the immediate ground and the
condition of the soil are taken into important account in the choice
of the lot, but the difficulties which they offer often submit to the
mastery of the army of workmen. Water must be convenient, abundant and
wholesome.
Sometimes nowhere in a town can be found empty room for all the big
and small tents, huddle them as we will. Then the “big,” menagerie and
side-show “tops” are given places in the allotted limit, and the canvas
adjuncts are planted down the road, in neighboring back yards or in
distant fields. It is an irritating and inconvenient compromise, but
one that cannot be always avoided. These annoying conditions, however,
do not present themselves as a general rule. Our destination is more
often a fragrant spacious pasture where the air is pure, the sun
brilliant and nature’s tranquil beauty all-pervading.
The boss canvasman is first on the ground and remains in supreme
control of the horde of brawny men who trail after him. With the
arrival of the chain-and-stake wagon the active work of erecting the
tents begins. The “cook tent” is first placed in position, for food
must await the throngs of men, women and children who are on the way.
This is a simple and expeditiously accomplished duty, as compared
with the elevation of the “big top,” a swelling fabric within whose
folds fifteen thousand persons can accommodate themselves. The boss
canvasman combines with other qualifications a practical knowledge of
surveying. His comprehensive scrutiny of the area determines accurately
boundaries, positions, extent, lines and angles, and indicates to his
experienced mind how best to avoid roughness and depressions and how
to overcome the other resistances the tract offers. Sometimes huge
rocks or spreading trees make the task one of great difficulty, for it
must be accomplished with haste. His examination finished, he unwinds
a metal tape line and traverses the lot. Slender iron rods are planted
where he indicates. These are immediately replaced by strong wooden
stakes to which the “guys” or ropes of the tents will be fastened. Soon
the ground bristles with these pegs, thrust into place with unerring
aim and in perfect cadence by gangs of sledge-hammer drivers.
Teams of horses pull the towering centre poles into upright position
and the skeleton of the monster is in place. The vast reaches of
canvas are unrolled in sections and laced together while flat on
the ground. Then the mammoth white cloth rises like a canvas-backed
Aladdin’s palace and is attached to the side-poles, which are twelve
feet high and twelve feet apart around the outer edges of the white
spread. The scene is one of bustle and activity. Small boys are
pressed into service, receiving a ticket to the show as remuneration.
Menagerie, side-show, stable, blacksmith, harness, dressing, wardrobe,
and barber tents yield to diligent exertion, and soon the delegated
proprietors of the broad green space have finished their morning
labors. Meanwhile the wagons and apparatus have arrived, and owner,
manager, riders, ringmasters, animal trainers, gymnasts, jugglers,
clowns, ticket-sellers and all the rest of the heterogeneous throng put
in appearance. Curious crowds rivet their attention upon the unwonted
doings. They come from farm and merchandise and from seats of learning
and courts of justice, and find keen enjoyment in the sights and sounds.
The “cook tent” is one of the marvels of the modern circus. It was the
custom for many years for the circus management to send its employees
to the local hotels for their food. The undertaking of providing
meals for the army on the grounds was so stupendous that the most
comprehensive and well-organized show hesitated to make the essay.
Finally, the objections to the old method made the accomplishment
imperative. As circuses grew in size, the combined resources of the
hotels in many towns were unable to meet the demand made upon them.
There was too much delay and unsatisfactory provisions, and the circus
felt their injurious effects. The arrangement now in vogue does away
with all these difficulties. Advance men see that all the needs of the
commissary department are provided for, and meat, vegetables, water
and the other requirements await the hand of the chefs. There are two
separate and distinct culinary establishments. One is occupied by the
workingmen, whose stomachs are not gratified until the tents are raised
and all the apparatus is on the lot. This is a wise provision which
insures prompt work. There are no laggards in their ranks in the early
morning.
Under an adjoining canvas are fed the executive staff and performers,
men, women and children. There are three long rows of tables, and
crossing them at one end a shorter set of boards where is the
owner’s place and those of his immediate associates. It is from this
position, his abundant family collected around him, that he makes his
announcements, administers rebukes and extends praise. He surveys the
scene critically and is immensely pleased at the healthy relish which
pervades the place. Curious sightseers peer through the apertures and
he abruptly bids them retreat with the assurance that “we are not
wild animals. We eat just like other human beings.” Outside the tent
rest hogsheads, from which are dipped panfuls of pure, clear water,
for grimy hands and dusty faces. Long towels slung over stretches of
rope are ready for use. Scrupulously clean cloths cover the table, and
no spot or stain afflicts the dishes. The food, cooked in the open,
has its own peculiarly delicious, appetizing flavor. It is served in
abundance, and a happier, heartier party never did justice to a meal.
Skilful waiters do prompt, experienced attendance. Service and quality
could not be improved upon in the large hotels of many cities. As the
“cook tents” are the first to be raised, so they are the first to be
levelled and packed away on the cars. The last meal of the day is
served at five o’clock in the afternoon, and two hours later there is
no perceptible trace of the improvised restaurant, save the coals which
glow in the twilight.
The harness and blacksmith tents are as complete in their facilities
as any stationary establishments. In the former, waxed thread, needle
and hammer are busy through the day. The showy equine accoutrements
and trappings require constant care, and among the tangled mass of
collars, traces, saddles, reins and other framework of straps there
is always labor of repair. The blast-furnace of the blacksmith blazes
from morning until night, and his anvil knows no rest. There are horses
to be shod, iron pieces to be forged, wagons needing attention, and a
variety of work which must be done with dispatch and thoroughness.
Across the field in a shady and sheltered spot the ashen cloth of
the circus barber shop shows. No detail of a well-equipped city shop
is missing. Even is seen the pole, striped red and white spirally,
denoting the presence of the profession. Here the men of the circus are
shaved and have their beards trimmed and their hair cut and dressed
with great expedition and much perfume. It is a time-saving convenience.
[Illustration: CIRCUS COOKS PREPARING BREAKFAST.]
The whir of sewing machines is never absent from the wardrobe tent, and
seamstresses work with needle and thread from light to dark. Wear and
weather work sad havoc with resplendent uniforms and trappings of human
and brute, and the need of repair or replenishment is always pressing.
Cages are thrust under the menagerie tent only long enough for the
feeding of the animals, and a hasty burnishing of gilt and cleaning of
wagon wheel and body. Horses reappear soon, now plumed and ornamented,
and drivers don the uniform of the parade. This tent, like its big
canvas companion, will be empty and silent, save for the arranging of
apparatus, until the parade returns from its formal journey to town.
In the stable tents the Shetland ponies delight the children and
command the admiration of the elders. They come from the wild and
sterile islands between the Atlantic Ocean and the North Sea, where
they run at large. They are very hardy, and their strength is great
in proportion to their size. Rough hair covers them, and their manes
and forelocks are large and shaggy. Very useful in active, sure-footed
work, and very valuable to the show from an artistic standpoint, are
these small breeds of horses, but also are they very vicious and
tricky. They bite and kick at small or no provocation, at keepers
and strangers alike, and frequently engage in violent combat among
themselves. They are the subjects of eternal espionage, but human
vigilance cannot always thwart their mischief. The dun or tan color,
with a black stripe along the back, is prevalent among their shades,
and they compose one of the prettiest scenes on the circus lot. The
tricks they perform in the ring always meet enthusiastic favor.
In the Southern States, “snack stands” line the limits of the circus
lot. Colored people conduct them, and the food they provide is
wholesome and wonderful in variety. No Northerner who has not witnessed
circus day in the old Confederate section has any adequate conception
of the extent to which these eating places flourish. The appetizing
odor of food pervades the air, patrons are filled with the exuberance
of the occasion, and the scene is one to add a measure to the joy of
living. No dish often has a price exceeding five cents, and the ham and
chicken and cakes and biscuits served have a peculiar charm of flavor,
which sometimes even lures the showman from the canopied canvas of the
“cook tent.”
Applicants to join the circus come by the score in every town. There
are few changes in the ranks, however, during the season, except in the
cases of canvasmen and hostlers. These desert, are discharged or find
other places frequently. After a spell of rainy weather, never more
wearing on man and beast than with the circus, the less stout-hearted
or robust leave rapidly for easier work. All the performers contract
for the season or longer, and are philosophic and satisfied at all
times. Sometimes the eager candidate for circus honors is awaiting
us at the railroad station, follows to the lot, and often no rebuff
or decided denial of his demand for a position will suffice. This
persistent person we turn over to the head clown and watch the cure. He
is escorted with great deference to the dressing-room, received by the
performers with keen anticipatory delight and ostentatiously welcomed
to their ranks. It is explained that he must begin his career as a
laugh-provoker. His hair is filled with powdered sawdust, he is daubed
with chalk and dye-stuffs, put in tights and ordered to the ring. There
the ringmaster, prepared to do his part, awaits him. The luckless
victim feels the sharp lash of the whip on his almost naked legs, and
is put through a course of sprouts which finally drives him from the
arena, a sorry fun-producing specimen. Desire for sawdust and spangles
has left him.
An awkward problem which sometimes presents itself is the replenishing
of the horse stables. No stauncher troupe of draft horses can be
found anywhere than the circus carries. Great strength is a prime
requisite, but they must needs be handsome, handy and gentle. These
qualifications are not frequently grouped in one animal. So it is that
great care is lavished upon the circus equine that his condition remain
all that is necessary. Despite all attention of the practised men of
the stables, however, sickness and accidents often send the beasts to
the stock farm or the graveyard. Facilities for their treatment in wet
weather are inadequate, notwithstanding an expert veterinary always is
in attendance upon them, and is on the regular pay roll. The strain of
sleeping in a moving train of cars at night and heavy hauling at day is
tremendous, and strange, rough roads invite misfortune. Ailing animals
cannot be transported, and replacing begins.
At the outset of the season we were in particularly bad straits. A
rainy night when we first paraded, in New York, caused an epidemic
of pneumonia, which our proficient veterinarian could not stay. The
supply of horses diminished rapidly, and in two weeks it was with some
difficulty that we accomplished unloading, parade and departure without
serious delay. Then were displayed, conspicuously, on the phalanx of
stable tents and at the entrance to the lot, announcements that we
desired to purchase native animals. The show was then in West Virginia.
For a fortnight the scene in the horse quarters resembled a gypsy camp.
The owner and his associates knew just what they wanted, made the
fact plain and were ready to pay spot cash when they found it. But
the farmers and horse traders at once conceived the notion that this
was a heaven-sent opportunity to rid their stalls of the aged, infirm
beasts which had accumulated on their hands. Concealing defects with
adroit craft, they would flourish up to tents and with great gravity of
manner dwell upon the merits of the animal which fitted him perfectly
for circus requirements. They reckoned not upon the familiar knowledge
of the men with whom they dealt. A keen glance or a practised touch
revealed all blemishes. No trick or stratagem, and I am sure every one
known to sharp equine transactions was employed, availed against the
showman’s discernment. A favorite dodge was to exhibit the animal in
the shadow of the naphtha torches at night, but exposure followed at
once. The circus traversed three States before the proper horses were
procured.
Meanwhile “Boscow” unremittingly consumes snakes in a gaudy canvas
booth at the entrance to the grounds. Clyde, a man of long established
integrity and not deficient in lungs, gives personal assurances of the
progress of the reptilian feast. “Eighteen years old, not married,
pretty; and eats snakes like you eat strawberry short-cake! Eats ’em
alive! Bites their heads off!” is his frequently repeated promise, and
the constant, eager procession passing his stand and into the ophidian
enclosure, testifies to the weight of his forceful eloquence.
Squatting in a cavernous serpentarium, patrons find “Boscow,” feminine
in appearance only because of long, coarse black hair, surrounded by
coiling, crawling reptiles. “She” has presumably just completed an
especially elaborate animal meal, for to the nostrils comes the breath
of tobacco and upwards winds the suspicion of cigar smoke. But “Boscow”
waves away the muttered insinuations which penetrate even into “her”
wild, untutored mind, and at the word of command eats ravenously of the
amphibian mass which surrounds “her” on all sides.
“Boscow” was captured in the far-off jungles of Africa, Harry, the
lecturer explains, and in wonderful words he continues of “her” fight
for liberty, the ineffectual efforts to tame “her” savage nature, and
“her” sullen refusal to discontinue snake diet. It is very awesome
and impressive, and the audience, before making way for the clamoring
ones behind, look with renewed interest at the strange creature.
“Her” appearance lends belief to the fluent narrative, and to the
more shrinking ones is proof of the need of precautionary measures in
the dismal clanking of heavy binding chains as “she” springs scowling
about the compartment. Little wonder no credence is placed in the
bold assertion of one who proclaims that he saw “Boscow’s” brother,
or surely a near blood relative, perspiring freely as he helped
in the erection of the booth that morning. Her kin are, of course,
in a remote, uncivilized land, and as ferocious as the girl herself.
The incredulous person saunters off with dim wonder at the remarkable
likeness filling his mind, Clyde’s frantic invitation to go inside
pours out tirelessly, and Harry paints again and again the glowing
picture of the snake-eating wonder.
[Illustration: TWO HEN’S EGGS, HAMMER, FILE AND NAIL-CLAW PRESENTED A
PLEADING, PENNILESS MISSISSIPPI NEGRO BOY TO SECURE ADMISSION. HE GOT
IN.]
There is nothing like a spell of rainy weather to breed a feeling of
despair in the showman. The route has been planned with the idea of
evading as far as human foresight permits, unfavorable meteorological
conditions, but it is inevitable that sometimes rain and mud and
wind be encountered. There can then be nothing more mournful and
disheartening than life with the circus. If, for a brief succession
of days, performances have to be abandoned, profits are consumed with
a ruining rapidity. It is not infrequent that this form of misfortune
bankrupts the scantily-financed circus which has started out with
hopeful prospects, for the overwhelming expense of maintaining the
organization is not reduced whether it remains huddled on the cars
or is displaying its glories to lucrative crowds. So resolute and so
prepared for exigencies are the bigger shows, however, that nothing
less than a flood can prevent unloading and presenting some sort of an
exhibition. If the rain is continuous, there is no immediate prospect
of relief, and the lot is a quagmire, the animal cages are often left
on the cars. A staggering march to the marsh is made by the other
vehicles and a semblance of show is given in the menagerie tent. In the
space usually allotted to the animals, seats are put in position and a
gallant effort made to get some financial return. A doleful, drenching
sight it is, horses wallowing in the ring, acrobats and gymnasts
shivering and slipping, and clowns feebly trying to call to life the
smile of pleasure. Straw is littered over the premises in the endeavor
to absorb the moisture, but avails little. Where the stretches of
canvas are sewed together the water penetrates through, and muttering
spectators leave reluctantly or elevate umbrellas. The heavy laboring
of the groaning tent adds to the feeling of misery and melancholy. The
circus people gaze longingly across the empty fields where are houses
snug and tight. Then the heaped-up gloom of the night, the black, wet
journey to the cars and a possible awakening to identical conditions in
the morning. These are times that strain the buoyant temperament and
the rugged constitution. Sunshine, however, restores human spirits,
tarnished gilt and saturated canvas, and drives away the ghastly memory
of it all. Exuberance reasserts itself and the panoplied colony emerges
in all its former order, convenience and beauty.
It is the first heavy rainfall of the season that brings the most
overwhelming woe. The custom of circus owners is to wash their tents
with paraffine at the beginning of each season. The waxy mixture
renders the cloth waterproof and preserves it from atmospheric
influences. The treatment is not efficacious, however, until the fabric
has been thoroughly soaked with rain and succeeding sunshine has dried
it out. So it is that a dull dread of approaching calamity fills every
professional heart when the initial storm sets in. The water falls
upon showman and patron as if no so-called protection was above. A wan
and spectral “big top” it is at night, sometimes with vivid lightning
filling it with sulphur-smelling blazes, and the frail dressing-room
tent clinging to it like a luminous bulb.