THE MENAGERIE TENT
Into the menagerie tent, with its great variety of animals caged and
unconfined, streams the open-mouthed human parade, stopping to comment
and observe on its way to the “big top.” The lions and tigers pace up
and down their cages with hungry eyes that gleam in green and gold.
They stare steadily through the iron bars but take no heed of the pigmy
humans who stare back. There is something in those shining eyes that
tells of thoughts far from the circus, perhaps of a jungle in far-off
Asia. The insatiable elephant swings his greedy trunk tirelessly, and
the black leopard sulks in the darkest corner of his den. Watching
closely the scene in all its aspects is a jovial, deep-voiced man who
urges the immediate necessity of securing advantageous seats under the
adjoining canvas. He controls the peanut and lemonade privilege. Long
experience has taught him all the arts and devices of his business.
He appreciates that his sales will not begin in any volume until
the audience is comfortably settled inside. Then he displays his
commercial craftiness by overwhelming the big area with peanut and
popcorn vendors. No lemonade is in evidence. Thirst comes on apace.
Throats become dry and salty, and there is clamor for liquid. When its
assuaging presence is finally seen in the hands of dozens of hawkers,
the sale is invariably tremendous. If sudden rain comes on during the
performance, he varies his sales with the disposal of umbrellas. He is
ready for any meteorological condition.
He has been associated with red wagons and white canvas for many years,
and there is no department of circus life in which he has not at some
time excelled. As a clown his fame covered all parts of the country.
He was, an old-time programme before me tells, “a grotesque, whimsical
satirist. A wit brimful of ridiculously extravagant, fanciful mirth and
eccentric humor, comic attitudes, funny songs, derisive sayings, quaint
arguments and pleasant drolleries; entirely devoid of low jests and
vulgar tricks and postures.”
The monkey cage is the most popular institution in our menagerie
tent. We have outgrown the “variety cage” of old days, which was a
collection in one den of monkeys, pigs, cats, dogs and rabbits. It
was an interesting collection, I suppose, to country people, but an
insufferable nuisance to the showman. Circus monkeys die in droves. The
show which starts the season with one hundred and fifty of the animals
and returns to winter quarters with twenty-five is fortunate. The
climatic changes act with quick fatality upon the sensitive creatures.
Tuberculosis, animal doctors call the killing disease. There is always
a bully in the cage and always an inmate ready to give battle for the
honor. The privileges of the bully are alluring. He takes for himself
the choicest morsels of food, chooses the most comfortable perch or
corner, gives orders and demands instant obedience, and cuffs and
bites and annoys his fellows until one, rendered desperate, turns
and administers a thrashing and succeeds to the position. The monkey
cage at nightfall is a sure register of the degree of generosity of a
community. In some towns they are gorged with food; the audience has
fed them lavishly. Again, they give pleading indication of hunger; the
place has probably a reputation for penuriousness. Those who believe
in the Darwinian theory assert that the resemblance between the human
race and the monkey is most marked in sick monkeys. Several scientists
who watched our sick chimpanzee noticed many peculiarities of a child.
It coughed like a child and made wry faces like one when asked to take
medicine. Doctors felt its pulse and it received all the care and
attention of a child of the rich.
Natural history is one of the most interesting and absorbing of all
studies, and the visitor to our menagerie finds much zoological
gratification. The hippopotamus, sleeping or floundering in his tank,
and raising his head at intervals above the surface of the water for
the purpose of respiration, is never without a wondering audience. His
is a harmless disposition and he is a pet with the animal keepers. His
den is too small for the water to cover him completely and frequently
he is scrubbed with soap. He enjoys the operation immensely unless
the soapsuds enter his cavernous mouth, which surely is annoying
enough to provoke the most mild-mannered being. His skin is of a dark
reddish-brown color, full of cracks, chaps and cross-etchings, with
dapplings of irregular dark spots, and is probably two inches thick.
He is more than ten feet long and nearly six feet high. When he gives
voice, the lions are humiliated and the tigers acknowledge defeat. It
is a deafening kind of interrupted roar, between that of a bull and
the braying of an elephant. His daily diet is bushels of potatoes,
apples, carrots, oats, bran, hay and salt. Keepers say that the only
hippopotami born in captivity are in the zoo of one of the big cities.
Ignorance permitted the first one which saw the light to die. Keepers
feared to put it in the water, thinking it would drown, and tried to
nurse it with a bottle. It was dead in ten days. Then it was decided
not to interfere when the mother brought forth its next young. The
result was the discovery that it nursed under water. The first genuine
hippopotamus ever seen in America was exhibited by Barnum in his New
York museum in August, 1861. He advertised the animal extensively and
ingeniously as the “great behemoth of the Scriptures,” and thousands,
including many biblical students, flocked to see it.
[Illustration: A “MAN KILLER,” PHOTOGRAPHED HALF AN HOUR AFTER HAVING
SLAIN AN ANNOYER.]
Circus people will travel miles into the presence of a giraffe. They
want the animal with the elongated neck to rub their hand with its
tongue. They say that good luck is sure to follow the operation. The
privilege is one rarely accorded, for giraffes are very costly and
delicate, and, though popular menagerie inmates, are infrequently seen
nowadays. The first one born in captivity in America saw the light of
day in Cincinnati on October 20, 1889. It was five feet high. Daisy,
measuring eighteen feet from the ground to the tips of her ears, and
the last giraffe then on exhibition with any travelling show, was
killed during a voyage to Europe--a lurch of the ship broke her neck.
Circus owners are vainly searching the jungles of India and the wilds
of Africa for rhinoceroses. There are none in the open markets and the
world’s visible supply is limited to twelve specimens. The market value
of the beast ranged from $4,000 to $5,000 until the present shortage
set in. Now a large circus would willingly pay many times that sum. The
rhinoceros has always been a problem to animal keepers, for captivity
generally results in early death. He is a beast so essentially of
the wilds that all efforts at breeding in captivity have failed. Old
showmen remember the attempt to take performing liberties with one of
the spike-nosed monsters in a small town in Illinois in 1872. He killed
two men, upset four dens of animals, tore down a museum tent, stampeded
people for blocks and finally brought up in a vacant house, the door
of which stood open. No fixed desire to exhibit a rhinoceros has ever
since been displayed.
To many persons who go to a circus there is probably nothing that
causes more wonder than to see the keepers of the lions, tigers,
leopards, panthers and other wild beasts sitting in the cages among
them, patting them on their ugly heads, slapping them on their
saliva-dripping jowls, or fearlessly lashing them with their whips if
necessary. Mastery expresses better than training what the keepers have
accomplished with the beasts.
“There is a tremendous amount of work to be done in winter quarters, of
which the public knows nothing,” explained our keeper, as he surveyed
the scene in the menagerie tent early one August evening. “We are
getting new wild animals all the time, and as they come to us there is
not a man living who would dare go into the cages with them. During
the winter we have to break those beasts so that we can handle them
on the road. When they come to us they have thick leather collars
around their necks, with heavy chains attached. The beasts are then
more savage than they were before capture, that having served only to
bring out all that is ugly in them. They will spit and growl at anybody
who comes near their cage, and jump at the bars until they exhaust
themselves. We begin to teach them manners the very day we get them,
and they take a lesson in etiquette every day after that until the show
starts out. My men catch the end of the chain fastened to the collar
and secure it in such a manner to the bars that the beast can move only
a short distance. Then I take a stout rawhide whip and strong club and
enter the cage. I take a chair and sit down in a corner. The instant I
get in, the beast will give a roar and spring for me. I would be torn
to shreds if I were within reach; but the chain holds and instead of
getting at me, the lion, tiger, panther or leopard is brought up with a
shock that sends him in a heap to the floor and I give him a lash with
the rawhide.
“The beast is at me again in an instant; again he goes down and again I
lash him. I always keep the club handy, but never use it unless it is
absolutely necessary. I keep drawing my chair a little closer to the
animal as this goes on until I get so close he can touch me with his
nose but cannot bite me. Then I just sit there and talk to him and you
would be surprised at the power the human voice will finally be made to
exercise over wild beasts. They seem to understand much that is said to
them.
“While I am talking just out of reach of their teeth,” he went on, “if
they get ugly and attempt to spring at me I give them the rawhide. I
keep this up, and after a dozen or fifteen lessons they get so they
only snarl and growl at my entrance to the cage. As soon as I think
it is safe I try the beasts without a chain. It is a little ticklish
business at first but I have plenty of help ready for the first effort.
If it is a success the first time, you generally have your beast
mastered, although once in a while a brute that has been tractable
enough will break out and go for his keeper. We had such a case once
when an experienced lion tamer was clawed by a lioness and nearly
killed. We usually cut the claws of the cat species, however. Lions
will not stay in the same cage with tigers. We tried this once, putting
a lioness in with a Bengal tiger. There was a fierce fight and the
lioness nearly killed the Bengal.”
Our keeper takes very little stock in the theory of the power of
the human eye over wild beasts. The organ plays an insignificant
part, he thinks; it is the power of the man behind the eye and the
qualifications he possesses that are efficacious.
[Illustration: REHEARSING IN WINTER QUARTERS.]
“It is a pretty thing to say, and that is all,” he said. “The man who
wants to subdue a wild beast has to be fearless and go about his
task in a courageous way, and of course the eye plays its part. The man
who attempted to handle a wild beast that was not chained, with nothing
else than a fearless eye would be in a pretty bad hole, though. What
the man must have is a good heart, plenty of pluck and lots of sand.
The secret of successfully handling wild beasts is to become imbued
with a confidence that all wild beasts are really cowardly, especially
if they belong to the cat family. If you are not afraid and you know
how to do it, it is easy enough.
“A circus man once determined to put the question whether the human eye
has power over wild animals to the test. Approaching a large ostrich
he gazed fixedly at it, and to his delight the mesmeric glance seemed
to meet with instant success. The bird crouched and flapped its wings
nervously. Some hours later, however, the man’s body was found with the
ostrich alternately sitting and jumping upon it. The negro guide of
a circus expedition, it is told, was more successful, although there
is some doubt as to whether it was the power of the eye that gave him
victory. He surprised two lion cubs at play and began to play with
them. They liked it so much that when he would take his departure they
refused to let him go. Their cries of enjoyment finally brought the
mother lioness. The negro was paralyzed with fear, and kept his eyes
glued to those of the lioness. Man and beast kept steadily watching
each other. The lioness moved around the negro several times but he
never shifted his gaze. Several times the lioness crouched as if to
spring, but finally after what seemed an age to the negro she called
her cubs to her side and disappeared in the forest. This is the story
brought home from Africa.
“A man once experimented with a wildcat in our circus, and only the
bars of the cage prevented him from being badly scratched for his
pains. As soon as he looked into the eyes of the wildcat the animal
sprang fiercely at him.
“Some interesting experiments were made at our winter quarters in
Bridgeport one year with the object of ascertaining the exact influence
of music on animals. That animals like to hear a violin played seems to
be clearly proved. A zoologist played in the menagerie many times, and
found that the music pleased them. A puma, at the sound of the violin,
stretched himself at full length in his cage and listened quietly as
long as the music was soft and low, but the moment it became loud and
fast he sprang to his feet, lashed his sides with his tail and began to
pace nervously up and down his cage. A jaguar at the sound of lively
music showed great uneasiness, but became quiet when soft music was
played. He thrust his paws through the bars of the cage to detain
the violinist. On leopards the music made hardly any impression. A
lioness and three cubs seemed somewhat disturbed, but as soon as the
player started to go to the next cage they came forward and lay down.
He then played soft music which seemed to please them. He followed it
with a lively dance, at the first sound of which the cubs sprang up and
gambolled wildly about the cage. On the other hand, two striped hyenas,
when they heard the music, drew back to the other end of their cage and
tried to get out through the bars.
“I remember well the year 1889,” he continued, “because then the
question of electrocuting, instead of hanging, prisoners condemned to
die came up. A party of scientists came on to our winter quarters and
conducted a series of electrical experiments upon the animals. Mr.
Bailey placed the entire menagerie at the service of the scientists,
and twenty of us keepers assisted in the work. The instruments employed
were a powerful battery of forty-two Leclanche cells and a resistance
box of one hundred thousand ohms. The experiments began at eleven
o’clock in the morning and continued until nightfall.
“The first animal experimented with was a savage baboon, which fought
furiously before he was tied. He bit one keeper severely and tore the
clothing off another. A sponge, that was used as the end of one wire,
was forced into his mouth. A second sponge was fastened on one of
his paws. A current of two cells was then passed through the simian
and was promptly resented by a fierce attempt to break his bonds and
escape. The baboon’s irritation increased with the current until
twenty-eight cells had been used. When forty cells had been used, the
animal became lethargic and almost comatose, looking for all the world
like a man overcome by strong drink. The highest point of resistance
was eight thousand ohms, a surprisingly large figure. When finally
released, the baboon became wild with rage and attacked the nearest
keeper, inflicting a dozen scratches on him. A tame seal was next
operated on. It allowed the experts to fasten one roll of copper wire
around its neck and a second around its tail flippers. The moment
the current was applied it snapped viciously in every direction. The
savants sprang right and left, upsetting chairs and writing materials
in their haste to get out of reach. When the current was increased the
seal gnawed at the wires and succeeded in disengaging itself from both.
The resistance could not be ascertained on account of its wet coat
acting as a conductor to the electric fluid.
“The gnu or horned horse, did not take kindly to science. When one of
the savants entered its cage it attacked him so savagely, that three
keepers were obliged to go to his assistance. The animal showed a
resistance of eleven thousand ohms and seemed paralyzed the moment the
current was turned on. The small monkeys behaved very much like little
children. The moment they felt the current they screamed and seemed to
be undergoing agony. When the wires were removed, they appeared puzzled
and three of them took up the electrodes as if to study them. A large
blue monkey was so interested that when released he seized the large
sponge and began to tear it apart as if to see what it contained that
hurt him so. The monkeys offered a resistance of from five thousand to
seven thousand ohms. The hippopotamus and sea lion took the full force
of the current without wincing; but a dog, after having a moderate
current passed through his brain, showed signs of hydrophobia and had
to be killed. The wild carnivora showed much sensitiveness to the
electric current, manifesting every symptom of rage and distress when
only a single cell was employed. A wolf to which a mild current was
applied, stood upon its haunches and cried piteously.
“But the elephants proved the star attractions. They actually enjoyed
the sensation in every instance, except when a strong current was
passed through the trunk. When only a few cells were employed, the huge
beasts did not seem to observe the fact, but when the full battery was
employed, they rubbed their legs together, caressed savant and keeper
alike and squealed their pleasure. No odder sight was ever seen than
an elephant with mouth wide open, with one scientist holding a sponge
to the huge tongue and a second another to the root of his tail, and
manifesting every sign of glee.
“The manner in which animals endure pain always awakens our sympathies.
Horses in battle are a striking example of power of endurance and
unyielding courage. After the first stinging pain of the wound, they
make no sound, but bear their agony with mute, wondering endurance.
Elephants also suffer agonies without flinching. When they are shot in
a vital spot they sink down on the ground with a low cry, and silently
pass away. A dog will go for days with a broken leg without complaint,
and a wounded cat will crawl to some quiet place and brood silently
over agonies which humans could not endure. A stricken deer will go to
some thick wood and there in pitiful submission await the end. Lions,
tigers and other beasts will do the same. Seldom do they give utterance
to cries of pain. Cattle will meet the thrust of the butcher’s knife
without a sound, and a wild dove, with shot from a hunter’s gun burning
in its tender flesh, will fly to some high bough or lie on the ground
to die, and no sound will be heard save the dripping of its life blood
upon the leaves. The eagle, stricken high in air, will struggle to the
last, but there will be no sound of pain, and the proud defiant look
will not leave the eyes until the lids close over them and shut out the
sunlight they love so well.”
Sunday is fast-day in the menagerie tent, and every occupant, caged
or uncaged, knows when the day arrives. When the week-day feeding
hour--five o’clock in the afternoon--approaches, not one of the animals
betrays the feeling of eager desire on Sunday which characterizes them
all the other six days. They understand instinctively that there will
be no meal. Then on Monday the “cat” animals begin to pace their cages
nervously and peer through the bars awaiting the coming of the keepers.
They are well aware that liver, which they relish keenly and which
keeps them in good physical condition, will be the food. The Sunday
abstinence is deemed by the trainers an aid to good health, as copying
to some extent the habit of beasts in their native haunts, where food
is not obtainable every day. There is little sickness in the menagerie.
The animals are studied closely and given assiduous attention if the
slightest indisposition is manifested.