On Saturday, Philip had heard that for five dollars he could secure permission to use his kodak for a week, and by going to the office of the official photographer on that day and paying the necessary amount, he was able to dismiss from his mind any anxiety about carrying his camera. So on Monday the two boys and Mr. Douglass entered the grounds, fully equipped with note-book, sketch-book, and camera.
Hitherto Philip had been asked but once to exhibit the license, but this time he was challenged by one of the ticket-takers, who shouted to another, “Hi, Jack, here’s a kodak!” But, as it turned out, neither ticket-taker cared to examine the card, and Philip merely waved it, saying, “It’s all right.”
The day was too rainy to risk taking snap-shots, and Philip carried the camera during the forenoon only, and was glad to leave it behind at the hotel when he returned to lunch.
They had down on the list for this day a trip to Chicago; but had asked to have the date of their tickets for the coach changed when they saw the sky was gloomy and overcast. Instead of going into the city, therefore, they resolved to give their morning to the Agricultural and the Machinery Buildings. They walked first to the Manufactures Building to get letters, and took a launch back again. While waiting for the boat they had some conversation with the man at the landing, and were surprised to learn that each of the launches cost more than three thousand dollars—the high price being paid mainly for the machinery.
Landing at the Agricultural Building, they were glad to escape the rain—a thunderstorm—by entering at the main door. The exhibits seemed to be arranged according to nationalities, the first one they came upon being that of Porto Rico; and the boys were really surprised, upon exploring their minds, to find out how little they knew about Porto Rico. Mr. Douglass knew a little more: he told them it was an island—one of the Greater Antilles—and belonged to Spain; but there he came to a sudden stop, and directed the boys’ attention to a miniature fort in which bottles of wine served as guns. Having to that extent improved their knowledge of Porto Rico, they moved on a few steps, and seemed to have walked into a cigar-box. The odor was explained when they saw before them Cuba’s display, which was not unlike that of a prosperous tobacconist. British Guiana did not repel them, though a woman cried out, “Oh, alligators and snakes!” as she turned hastily away. She was followed by two more of the less timid sort, one of whom said resolutely, “Come in. I want to see this alligator. I never saw one in my life”; to which her companion replied, “Well, gaze on him; there he is!”
“You might think, boys,” said Mr. Douglass, as the boys smiled at this dialogue, “that such people got no good from coming to the Fair. But I think such a conclusion would be a mistake. The foolish chatter we hear has little to do with what people are really thinking. They cannot help picking up clearer ideas of the world and its inhabitants as they go through these buildings. Where one sees fruits and grains, it means that this or the other country has orchards and farms. We thus get rid of many a foolish mental picture. We cease to imagine that all the Chinese are continually flying kites and smoking opium, or that all Spaniards are eternally strumming guitars in the sunshine. You may not think you have such foolish ideas, but you will probably find yourself entertaining notions quite as absurd. I only say this because we hear so much trivial chatter that you might be misled by it.”
“Well, Mr. Douglass,” Harry answered, “I have seen plenty of men, and women too, who are taking the Fair almost too seriously. And even the most foolish must find a great deal that makes him think. I know I do. Now, for instance, look at that figure”; and Harry pointed to the model of a negro workman that made part of the exhibit labeled “British Guiana.”
“I saw him,” said Mr. Douglass, “and I noticed how his leather sandals have absurd twirls and coils of leather thongs about them. The rest of his dress is very ordinary.”
“Those are just what I mean,” said Harry. “I said to myself, at first glance, that those twisted rolls of leather were silly ornaments, and showed that the man was a savage in civilized clothes. Then I wondered whether they hadn’t some use, and—”
“I see,” said Mr. Douglass, interrupting.
“Well, I don’t,” Philip declared.
“Suppose he should break a sandal-string,” said Harry, eagerly; “don’t you understand that he could just untwist one of those coils, just as a violin-player unwinds a little more of his E string?”
“Yes, of course,” Philip said; “and that is the most convenient way for him to carry the strings.”
“I have little doubt that the coils came from that necessity for mending,” Mr. Douglass remarked; “but probably the dandies exaggerated the coils. This idea of yours, Harry, reminds me of an article by Remington, the artist. It was written to show that good sense dictated the whole costume of the Western cowboy. I kept it, and will show it to you.”
Liberia displayed various native products, and fine works in metal and straw and leather, but the party did not see anything to warrant a long stay; Mexico had so arranged her exhibits that they reminded one of a grocery kept by a neat but eccentric grocer; but wherever the flag of Japan was displayed, the boys never grudged time for examination. That artistic little nation can always teach a lesson to natives of the young Occident. Even in their display of food-stuffs, the boys found the pickle-jars, saké-kegs, and some boxes worth looking at. In fact, Harry was so pleased with these artistic groceries that his sketch-book came out at once. The pickle-jar was covered with white paper draped in graceful lines and tied down with a twisted purple cord and tassels! The saké-keg and the box also showed the same wish to please the eye and satisfy the needs of each article; and as for some larger jars, they were dressed as richly as a ball-room belle. They left the domains of the white flag and red disk with some instruction in the art of “framing” groceries.
Whenever the party first entered one of the exhibition buildings, they examined the earlier booths somewhat carefully; but a sense of losing time soon made them hurry on. So it was then. They walked on by many a fine arrangement of food-products—notably those of the Western grain-producing States. They admired the taste and skill that had utilized glass tubes full of grains as columns, and corn on the cob as a building material. Mr. Douglass said that much foolish criticism had been evoked by these booths, but that a sight of the structures themselves called for approval rather than fault-finding. They particularly admired the displays of Wisconsin, Nebraska, Iowa, and Ohio, in which both the general effect and the bits of color decoration showed good taste and much constructive skill.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Harry, “to come upon a Greek temple built exclusively of old shoes.”
Here they were stopped by a bit of fun. A bright-faced young woman was throwing little tin forks out among the crowd; these tin forks advertised a brand of sardines, and were made in the shape of a little fish, the tail reaching to the tines of the fork. Picking up the forks, the boys naturally went to see the exhibit, and were invited to take a sardine, free, from an open box. They declined, but others were not so lucky. One old man eagerly plunged his fork into the box only to discover that the fish were painted tin. He fled into the crowd while the bystanders laughed at him. This device certainly attracted plenty of attention, but whether it was wise was doubtful.
They finished the aisle they were in, and crossed to another, which they walked down, having gone up the first.
In the Greek exhibit they saw some tobacco labeled as from Thermopylæ, which at the moment seemed incongruous; but reflection showed that Thermopylæ must be something beside a battle-field. Louisiana had built herself an Egyptian temple of sugar-cane, and again Harry made a sketch, for he found the effect very pleasing. Passing a number of other booths, they at last came to the agricultural implements, and found that there was more to know than shovel, spade, and hoe, or even plow and harrow. They frankly confessed ignorance of the mechanism and purpose of most of the nickel-plated apparatus, and concluded that in their present state of ignorance time spent here would be wasted. They did smile, however, at seeing a harvesting-machine labeled: “The judges ordered this harvester to be tried in a field of standing grain. It is a little disfigured, but still in the ring.”
A sign revealing the location of the “Sandwich Manufacturing Co.” somehow reminded them that they must see something of Machinery Hall before lunch, and they started toward that building, passing on their way a “prairie-breaking plow”—a rude but enormous implement that had been used with a team of six or eight oxen in first turning up the new Western soil.
As they were coming out, they paused, even in the rain, to admire the fine proportions of the Agricultural Building; its dignified portico, the fine groups and single statues that adorned its principal features,—such as Martiny’s “Abundance,” for example, and the signs of the zodiac, and the great corridors that unite Agricultural and Machinery Halls.
Upon entering Machinery Hall, and finding that they could not give anything like adequate time to it, they went at once to the gallery and waited for the traveling-crane. There are three of these, each originally used for putting in place the heavy exhibits; they run upon great girders supported from the floor upon uprights similar to those upholding an elevated railroad. Moved by electricity, they traverse the whole length of the building and then return, carrying passengers twenty or thirty feet above the crowded floors and at an excellent height to permit of overlooking the show.
They had to wait a little while, but soon the great floating beam of iron came against the edge of the gallery, almost as lightly as a bit of thistle-down, and they entered at one end and sat down upon chairs ranged along the front edge. The crane carried them to the other end and back again for ten cents, and without effort they had at least a glance at all the exhibits in that part of the Hall—thus obtaining, no doubt, a better idea of what there was in the building than could have been secured in a long walk below.
In order to show how bewildering were the displays, here is a list that Philip made while Waiting for the crane to move. It shows only what he could easily make out from the extreme end of the hall. There were machines relating to hot baths, candy, lubrication, ice-cream, smokeless furnaces, rock-drills, galvanizing, window-washing, and baking.
They found the ride cooling and breezy, and saw enough to greatly interest them on all parts of the floor. The enormous printing-presses were especially “impressive,” as Harry put it, and one press was printing colored illustrations of the World’s Fair buildings. Besides, they noticed many looms, sewing-machines, a spool-cotton exhibit, dyeing works, glove-making- and washing-machines—each something novel or interesting. They attempted to see all they could, and keep eyes and brains active; but Harry said it reminded him of the small darkey who “slipped back two steps for every one he took forward”; for they missed two exhibits by pausing to examine any one. They had meant to take a ride upon the other crane; but when they saw there were three, they agreed, as usual, to be content with a half-seen show, and departed from the grounds, going back to their hotel for lunch.
The dining-room, so crowded at breakfast- and dinner-time, was almost deserted at noon; and they found they could talk over their plans with perfect freedom.
Mr. Douglass and Philip made several proposals: the Art Galleries; another visit to Machinery Hall; more State buildings; the Anthropological Building—an inexhaustible resource. But Harry shook his head at each suggestion, until at last Philip said:
“It’s plain that you have a plan of your own, and I’ve a good mind to veto it anyway. What is it?”
“I have wasted my time very patiently with you this morning,” Harry said gravely, “because I suppose we ought to ‘do’ the Fair. But I remember that the English poet said, ‘The correct thing for man to study is man.’ See? Now, we have been looking at staff and iron and steel and corn and wheat and bottles and strings and other precious metals all these hours. I have gone through it, though the buzzing and rattling and thumping and worrying were decidedly unpleasant. Now I want to study man. There is near this hotel, I have learned by careful study of bill-posters’ literature, a gentleman who was a member of the legislature, etc., etc.,—but who is known among us boys by the name of Bison William.”
“I have heard of him,” said Mr. Douglass, with a grave face.
“Who has not?” said Harry, enthusiastically.
“He is now conducting an educational exhibit near here, where one may see various nations at their sports and pastimes. And, gentlemen of the jury, what I say is: Let the machinery whirl, and let us devote ourselves to the Wild West Show. What do you say?”
“I’d like to go,” said Philip; “but I wish it was a better day for taking pictures.”
“I’m willing,” said Mr. Douglass. “I saw the show some years ago in New York, and it was well worth seeing. I am not sure that a whole day of systematic sight-seeing at the Fair is not a little too much when one is busy at it for a week or two at a time. Where is it?”
“Just around the corner,” Harry answered. “And Phinney says it is twice as good as it used to be.”
A short walk from the hotel brought them to the grounds, a great square open space around which were seats like those upon base-ball grounds. They bought tickets for the grand stand, and gazed expectant upon a sea of mud. The sign said “Rain or Shine,” and rain it was: no drizzle, but a pelting downpour that roared upon the roofs overhead. Boys walked to and fro, one crying, “Sour crystallized lemonade-drops—souvenir in every package,” and the other, “Peanuts!—are five cents!”
The rain plashed in the puddles upon the arena, and the boys were not sorry; it was a new sensation to see a performance in the rain. A band played loud enough to be heard nearly to the Rocky Mountains, a man in a very broad-brimmed felt hat mounted a rostrum imitating a boulder, put on a rubber coat, and, when the band was hushed, began a speech at the top of his lungs,—so loud that he hadn’t breath for more than a word or two at a time. He said, “Ladies—and—gentlemen:—From time—to—time, I shall—announce—the nature—of the—display,” and so on. One seldom hears so forcible an oration.
He announced one by one the bands of Indians, their chiefs, the white men, their captains or leaders, and each of the items upon the program. But his shouts can be omitted with the assurance that he did his level best. One example will be enough.
“The Arapahoes!”
A gate is unbarred, yells break through, and helter-skelter come a troop of almost naked savages painted and bedecked, riding their ponies at a run. They draw up before the grand stand.
“Their chief!”
A single Indian comes flying across the field lashing his running pony, and draws up before his band.
Then, in order, come other tribes until a motley, bright-colored rank of mounted warriors are ranged all along the front of the field. Then French cavalry ride in with similar heralding, except that the color-bearer is announced separately and the band plays the Marseillaise. German lancers follow to the tune of “Die Wacht am Rhine,” and after them, Mexicans, American cowboys, British Lancers, and Cossacks perched on high saddles. The Indians are holding their shields above their heads to protect themselves from the rain. Now Arabs come, and two women riders; an old guide, gray-bearded and dressed in fringed buckskins; United States cavalrymen, riding upon gray horses; and at last, cheered even more than the Stars and Stripes, there gallops to the head of that great array an honorable gentleman, of whom Harry remarks: “That is Biffalo Bull himself—and a fine-looking man he is!”
At a signal from the scout the whole cavalcade springs into life and rapid motion. The plain is dotted with horsemen dressed in gay uniforms; and just then the sun breaks out to brighten the scene, and a rainbow is seen above the right-hand portion of the grounds as the riders follow one another out. It was certainly a brilliant and cheerful pageant.
A well-known markswoman runs over the liquid mud, making swimming motions with her arms, and taking up a gun breaks clay pigeons and glass balls as fast as they can be supplied by the attendants. Fancy shooting follows, and, making a miss, the woman walks around the table where the guns are resting. This whimsical performance makes the people laugh.
Several usual features follow. A race between riders of different nations; the “pony express,” an exhibition of rapid shifting from one horse to another; an emigrant-train attacked by Indians, but saved by the blank cartridges of the Hon. Mr. Cody and his rough-riding friends; and then come Syrians and Arabians in wonderful feats of balancing, juggling, and pyramid-grouping. In this last act one of the men supported nine others in the air—a weight of perhaps twelve hundred pounds.
“And yet,” Harry remarked, “some men find it hard to support a small family.”
Always interesting, the thick mud made the show funny as well. It was hard for men and horses to secure a foothold: Syrian acrobats stopped to wash their muddy hands in almost equally muddy water; some of the fierce horses were compelled to drop almost into a walk instead of running madly across the arena; when a marksman wished to lie down in order to shoot from that position, it required careful search to find firm ground for his blanket; the men who built themselves into pyramids bedaubed one another until their dresses were mud-color instead of crimson; and all through the long, delightful program the sticky mud took a prominent part in amusing the spectators.
When “Old John Nelson” rode up near where the boys sat, and delivered the mail from the old original Deadwood coach, he hurled it off with the regulation speech, “Here’s the Deadwood mail,” and then added, winking to Harry, “A little damp, too; but never mind!” The same genial old guide, who was lying lazily across the coach roof, raised himself coolly as the scouts cried, “Indians! Indians!” and again grinning at the boys, remarked in a low tone, “Going to be Indians, eh? Then I’ll get up!”
This by-play delighted the boys; but best of all was “Custer’s Last Charge.”
First came the Indians, and encamped far away across the plain. A scout followed; discovered them with plenty of gestures to let the audience into the secret; reconnoitered them over the imitation rock; rode off to tell “Custer” and his staff—mainly buglers—of the great find; brought back the general, who gazed meaningly at the red villains through a warlike night-glass, and then all the white men retired for reinforcements.
Coming back, the cavalrymen charged fiercely on the Indians, fired off several dollars’ worth of gunpowder, and disappeared behind a curtain. Mournful music indicated the terrible fate of the cavalrymen.
During the whole afternoon the boys sat beside a boy from Chicago who told them many particulars about the show and the riders. He said he had seen the performance four or five times, but seemed nevertheless to enjoy it. Harry learned that the young Chicagoan sometimes came to New York city, and gave the boy his address, inviting him to call.
It began to rain again as they went home, but it was only a short distance to the hotel, and they went straight to that goal in spite of a most pressing invitation to “Take supper here now for twenty-five cents, and go home by the light of the moon!”
Harry was rather silent on the way home, but showed the course of his thoughts by remarking: “I think perhaps I will give up being anything too civilized; I’m going to ask my father to buy me a ranch far out West.”
“I wonder,” said Mr. Douglass, “whether the young Indians who come to the Fair with the Indian schools ever go to see the Wild West Show?”