The Century World's Fair Book for Boys and Girls / Being the Adventures of Harry and Philip with Their Tutor, Mr. Douglass, at the World's Columbian Exposition

The dauntless three reached the gates next morning at about nine o’clock, and found an even larger crowd than usual. They had to form in line at some distance from the ticket-office, and advanced toward it as slowly as people come out of church. But, as before, good humor was the rule, and, excepting for a few of the weak-minded men who always fight their way through a crowd, there was every effort made to accommodate one another.

Philip heard a woman say, “Why, we are all here to have a good time, and to let other people have the same.” It was worst just in passing the wickets, but once through, the trouble was at an end.

“How shall we go toward the Plaisance?” Mr. Douglass asked. He felt that the expedition was undertaken for the boys’ pleasure, and wished them to have their own way about it.

“Why don’t you take the Intramural, as I did yesterday?” Philip asked. “It will give you and Harry a new view of the grounds, and it’s a very short ride to the other end.”

“All right,” said Harry; “but we must keep our wits about us. I knew a boy once who was carried back to where he started from.”

For this little dig, Philip gently knocked Harry’s hat over his eyes. Harry left the hat untouched until Philip put it back in place. “I don’t care how I wear my hat,” said Harry, “so long as it is in the very latest style.”

As they got on the cars, Mr. Douglass noticed that the gates along the sides were all opened and shut at once by the conductor, and at some stations there were large signs saying, “Don’t climb over the gates. They will be opened.”

When they were just westward of the Horticultural Building, Harry remarked, “There is no need of getting into the large crowds,—there is plenty of room over there, and only one man has found it worth while to occupy the space.”

Philip looked where Harry pointed, and saw a workman climbing up a dizzy little stairway half-way to the top of the great glass dome.

“If he should fall through, he’d break a lot of glass,” said Philip, reflectively.

They left the railway near the mammoth Building of Manufactures, and walked to its northern entrance. Here Mr. Douglass secured their chairs, the young men who pushed them having the time of starting noted upon cards that they kept neatly inside their caps. Wheeling into line, they rode comfortably along through the parting crowd, Philip carrying his kodak upon his knees, ready for business. He had secured a little card, tied to a string, that permitted him to take pictures “with a four-by-five camera only” for that one day. He had paid two dollars for this privilege, and felt bound to use up his roll of forty-eight exposures.

At first the boys found their chairs a little uncomfortable; but the guides raised the foot-rests until their short legs could reach them, and after that they found the vehicles as comfortable as an arm-chair in a library. It was a bright, clear day—“Just the day for taking snap-shots,” Philip said enthusiastically; and everything was plainly outlined by sharp contrasts of light and shade.

As usual, Mr. Douglass began to talk to his guide, and learned that the young man was a college student who was rolling a chair at the Exposition partly for the money he made and partly for the sake of seeing the Fair and the people from all parts of the world. As Mr. Douglass had worked his own way through college, he was able to give his guide some practical advice, which was gratefully received.

Passing along in front of the Illinois State Building—always conspicuous for its dome—they passed around the Women’s Building, and came to the entrance of the mile of curious structures that made up the Midway Plaisance. But before they had come so far, the boys, too, were talking to their guides, who proved to be other college men.

A thing one of them told the boys amused them. The guide said that people, intending to be considerate, would lean far forward when the chair was pushed up a slope. “And that,” he said, “brings all their weight on the little guiding-wheels in front, where there are no springs. Then the wheels turn hard, and we have to ask them to sit back. So, you see, the kindest people sometimes give the most trouble.”

In spite of this warning, when they were ascending the first bridge—one that led across an opening from the Lagoon—both boys leaned forward, as one does in “helping” a horse up hill. But when the guides laughed, the two boys quickly sank back again.

Passing under the elevated railway, they joined the ranks of visitors to the Midway. As they intended to come back another time, they glanced only at the exteriors of most of the buildings, pausing first when they came to the Javanese village. While they rode through the crowd the boys were amused to see the odd glances of those who met them. The luxury of being pushed in a chair was, by many of the newer visitors, considered fitting only for sick people, and their eyes plainly said that two strong, healthy boys should walk. The boys knew this, for they had had the same feeling toward riders during their own first day; the second day’s walking, however, entirely changed their views, and they understood that it was a wise economy to save bodily tire when eyes and brain were so busy.

“You can ride right into the Javanese village,” one of the guides told them; so they bought their tickets and were pushed into the grounds.

Surrounded by a bamboo fence with a lofty gateway was a collection of steep-roofed, grass-thatched, one-story huts. Each had a little veranda in front, and as it was sunny, many of the short, dark-skinned little people sat outdoors at work.

Here Philip expected to get a few more pictures. He had already taken one outside. Leaving the chair in the main roadway, he had gone to the side, where the ground was higher, and had secured a negative (or hoped he had!) showing the crowd thronging the long street between the houses.

But on entering the Javanese village he was told that he could not take pictures without another permit. After a little search and inquiry he found a hut within an inclosure marked “private” and “office.” Here he met the superintendent, and was given permission to take views inside the village.

All the time they were among the Javanese, they had heard a queer musical, liquid pounding. Near the center of the grounds they found the cause. An odd water-wheel of bamboo revolved beneath a stream that flowed from an upright iron pipe, and as this wheel went around it struck short hanging bits of wood that gave forth the musical notes. The wheel had apparently no other purpose than to make a noise—it was a primitive music-box. This was Philip’s first camera subject.

His second was also musical. There was a band of musicians playing upon some sweet-sounding metal gongs, and another species of Javanese tom-toms. The musicians smiled encouragingly as Philip waved his camera and gazed through his glasses with eager inquiry, and as soon as they were hard at their music Philip took them.

Another picture he lost. While he was just on the point of pushing the button, a guard clapped one hand over the lens. It was too late to stop, and Philip lost his temper as well as his exposure.

“You can’t take pictures here,” said the guard.

“The superintendent said I could,” said Philip, sharply.

“I beg your pardon,” the guard answered politely.

“That’s all right,” Philip said in a pleasanter tone; “but it doesn’t give me back the negative. Next time, please find out before you interfere.”

In all the foreign exhibits there were seen many objects with which the boys were only too familiar. For instance, looking through the door of a Javanese hut, Harry saw three cheap American clocks, all in a row; and on the veranda of the same house a man was presiding over a sewing-machine plainly inscribed with a well-known American trade-mark. Nevertheless, the little Javanese themselves were unusual enough: the men wore turbans of figured cotton, a tight-fitting jacket, and then, above their trousers, a short skirt or apron that hung about half-way down the thigh. Some also wore above their turbans wide straw hats.

One of the women had a cute little baby in her arms. Philip put a silver coin into the baby’s hand, and was allowed to take its picture. But the father held the child. Philip said to Harry, as they walked away, “There’s a pretty baby”; then, hearing a gentle chuckle from a motherly-looking woman near him, hastened to add: “For that kind of a baby.”

The party had left their chairs in a corner of the village, and were now on foot. As they walked around the inclosure they saw a woman and girl embroidering upon a veranda. The girl was about twelve or thirteen years old, had a tinge of pink in her cheeks, snappy black eyes, and shiny coarse hair.

Philip wanted a picture of her, and, after a talk with the man of the house, at last gained his consent. Philip had a little trouble in making the man comprehend that the girl must come out into the sunshine; but by pointing to the sun and to a side of the hut that was in its full glare, he finally had the little model, blushing prettily, posed in a good situation. The man stood up beside her, and they were photographed together.

No sooner had Philip raised his camera than the sight-seers gathered eagerly about him, until he could hardly find space to reach the button. He pushed it in a hurry, and made his way out. Just a moment after, he secured an even better subject, entirely by accident. Upon another veranda sat a mature Javanese gentleman crouched down upon his heels. He was lazily sunning himself, and Philip leveled the camera and took him before he could say the Javanese for “Jack Robinson.” The man opened his blinking eyes at the click of the shutter, but only smiled indulgently, and resumed his basking, like a frog on a log.

Leaving the Javanese village, and ignoring upon their way the appeals of a vender of Java cigarettes—“Ver’ sheap! two for five!”—they settled back in their chairs and plunged again into the outside thoroughfare.

Mr. Douglass, looking up a little absent-mindedly, saw a sign which he read thus, “Dancing-girl of Damascus now dancing—600 years old.” Startled by this marvel, even in that land of enchantment, he turned his head and found that the 600 years referred to the city rather than to the dancer.

“Where would you like to stop now, sir?” asked the guide.

“Suppose we go to Cairo Street, Philip?” said Mr. Douglass. “We can see camels and donkeys and queer buildings without number; and it is said to be a very interesting, genuine exhibit.”

They entered the long narrow passage, leaving their chairs outside. Philip’s camera was again declared contraband of war, and held in bondage while he “interviewed” the official photographer of the street. He soon returned with the “open sesame” (price $1.00)—another ticket to tie to the camera handle; and they all went forward to view the glories of Cairo.

It was the liveliest, jolliest place they had yet entered. Donkeys ridden by little boys or little girls came bumping along amid the laughter of the scattering crowd; sneering camels lurched in zigzag courses, carrying giggling girls or grinning men. The camel-riders had the effect of bowing graciously to the crowd, and hung on desperately to the loops of the saddles, as if they were upon bucking broncos. But the most amusing part of camel-riding was the dismounting. The camels went down bows-on at first, and then lowered the hind legs. This process was always sure to bring out little shrieks of dismay from the women, and a burst of laughter from the onlookers.

Philip’s camera was agog with eagerness. He captured a view or two of the picturesque “donkey-boys”—who were stalwart grown men; but when he saw the great nodding camels docilely following their tiny boy-leaders, he made up his mind that the camel was his favorite subject.

He particularly desired to secure a view of the dismounting. Seeing a flight of steps that would enable him to overlook this scene, he put his camera under his arm and wormed his way through the crowd until he had secured an excellent place on an upper step.

From here, by raising the camera high in air, he took a picture over the heads of the spectators, and then rejoined Mr. Douglass and Harry, who were waiting for him across the street near some of the bazaars for the sale of curiosities.

Harry, while waiting, had produced his sketch-book, and made a hasty outline of a street-sweeper who, in turban and baggy trousers, was plying a most prosaic broom and dust-pan.

Just above their heads they read a sign advertising an Arab card-writer, and when Philip returned they began a search for this gentleman, who promised a card in English and Arabic for five cents. It proved to be a difficult matter to find him. Inquiring upon one side of the street, they were directed to the other; and, repeating the question there, were politely sent back again; but soon they caught sight of a ring of people near the middle of the street, gazing down toward the pavement, and there, within, sat the writer.

Philip pressed forward with a slip torn from his note-book, on which he had written plainly, “Philip Rodman,” putting below, “Please write this name in English and Arabic.”

When his turn came, the sharp-featured little writer raised his fezzed head from gazing down upon the inlaid box which served him as a desk, and said:

“You want-a me to write for you—yes?”

“Yes, please,” Philip answered.

So the scribe began, like a school-boy reciting his lesson:

“Pheelipe. P, h, i, l, i, and p. Pheelipe. Rodermahn—I write him pretty, in Engleesh, yes; and I vill shade him, yes. R, a capeetal R, o, d, m, a, n. Pheelipe Rodermahn. There. Now, what ceety?”

“Now write it in Arabic, please,” said Philip, a little embarrassed by the crowd.

“Pretty soon; in a meenute. You vait. First, what ceety,—vere you leeve?”

“New York,” Philip answered.

“All right, all right; I make him ver’ preety. N, big N, e, w; Y, a big Y, o, and r, and k. There. Now I write you my own beautiful name. See!” and he added his own name with rapid strokes.

“Très bien!” said Harry, jokingly.

“Aha, vous parlez Français, eh? Et moi, aussi! Où apprenez-vous le Français?”

“À Paris,” said Harry, a little taken aback. “Je le parle un peu, mais je le comprend.”

“Ah, ça va bien! Regardez; voici l’Arabique.”

Turning the card over, the accomplished scribe traced the graceful curves, and handed Philip the card, saying, “I can write heem as well in four language.”

Philip put down two nickels, and waved his hand when the man looked up in surprise.

“Ah, merci, m’sieu! Je vous remercie, et—au revoir!”

“Au revoir!” said Harry; and the three moved away with very kindly feelings toward the clever card-writer.

As they turned toward the further end of the street, an elderly Arab passed them with a stony glare, repeating aloud over and over, “Hello! How-de-do! Good-morning! Hello! How-de-do! Good-morning!” but paying no attention whatever to any one in particular.

“Now Philip says he’d like to go into the Soudanese Exhibit,” said Mr. Douglass, looking at a little plan of the Plaisance. He was a systematic traveler, and always secured a map or plan of each place he visited. They turned into a small inclosure, after buying tickets and seeing them dropped into a battered black tin box (the regular preliminary to all the shows), and found themselves the only visitors in a canvas tent that sheltered a board platform raised a little above the ground. On the platform sat two men and a woman; and about the tent was playing a lively little Soudanese baby—advertised outside as the “Dancing-baby only eighteen months old!”

It was to photograph the baby that Philip had come in. But no sooner did the awful black box appear than there was a hubbub.

“No, no!” shrieked the mother, fiercely.

“Nah, nah!” cried the men; and Philip, supposing that he had threatened to interfere with some of their religious scruples, dejectedly lowered his box. But, as they turned away, our innocent travelers quickly had their eyes opened to the true situation.

“One dollar, one dollar!” cried one of the men, following them up. He was tastefully attired in a fez, a long white burnoose (a garment exactly like a nightgown), and red slippers.

Then Harry, who had traveled abroad, felt equal to the situation. He wheeled around with a look of grieved surprise.

“One dollar?” he exclaimed. “Oh, no, no. Twenty-five cents. One quarter.”

“No, no. One dollar!” spoke the Soudanese.

“One quarter,” insisted the American boy, “or fifty cents for the whole family”; and he waved his arms as if amazed at his own lavish generosity.

“No. Fifty cent for the baby,” suggested the dark dickerer.

“Twenty-five in here, fifty if you will take her into the sunshine. Come along,” said Harry, starting for the door.

“All-a right!” and the Soudanese made the bargain. For the half-dollar, he conducted the baby to a good light, and let her be taken.

This little tot was as bright as a new cowrie-shell; she had around her waist a dozen rows of tiny dry hoofs taken from some small animal, and these gave her great delight. She crowed and jumped, and rattled at every motion.

“Why, a rattlesnake would be scared to death at such a baby!” said Harry; “and her mother couldn’t lose her if she tried. But she couldn’t go to church with that thing on—not if she was restless!”

After taking one more picture, the portrait of an Egyptian flower-girl who wandered into the tent, and whose costume, if not her face, was her fortune (at a quarter for every photograph), the explorers waved a final good-by to the rattling baby and turned again into Cairo Street.

Before an attentive circle, just outside the inclosure, an Arab was beginning a performance of trained animals—at least he had a kid poised on a pedestal, and a monkey making ready to ride.

Philip pressed forward to the inner edge of the ring, and leveled the box. He snapped the shutter. Catching the noise, the animal-trainer pulled the kid suddenly down and shook his head with a triumphant grin. Philip moved away, while the bystanders laughed.

“‘He laughs best who laughs last,’” thought Philip to himself, as he wound up the exposed film and rejoined his companions.