Drawn by sixteen dappled steeds, each with
his neck arching like a fish-hook and reined with fancy scalloped
reins, it occupied the center of the foreground. The band rode in
it, far more fortunate than our local band whose best was, Charley
Wells's depot 'bus. And nobler than all his fellows was the
bass-drummer. He had a canopy over him, a carved and golden canopy,
on whose top revolved a clown's head with its tongue stuck out. On
each quarter of this rococo shallop a golden circus-girl in short
skirts gaily skipped rope with a nubia or fascinator, or whatever
it is the women call the thing they wrap around their heads in cold
weather when they hang out the clothes. There were big pieces of
looking-glass let into the sides of the band-wagon, and every
decorator knows that when you put looking-glass on a thing it is
impossible to fix it so that it will be any finer.
Winding back and forth across the picture was the long train of
tableau-cars and animal cages, diminishing with distance until away,
'way up in the upper left-hand corner the hindmost van was all
immersed in the blue-and-yellow haze just this side of out-of-sight.
That with our own eyes we should behold the glories here set forth
we knew right well. Cruel Fortune might cheat us of the raptures
to be had inside the tents, but the street-parade was ours, for it
was free.
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