CHAPTER III

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.

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.

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.