The one great wish of the small boy's heart, as he stands at a respectful distance from the ticket wagon watching the huge canvas rise and sink—apparently with as much ease as the flag flies from the top of the centre-pole—is to get inside the tent before the band begins to play. He may not have a cent to pay the admission, but he has Micawberish hopes that far surpass any money value that might be placed upon a small boy, that something will turn up to gain him admission to the show. He knows that if the canvas-men give him a good chance he can crawl in under the cloth and make his way up through the seats. He has been told that if he is caught at such a trick the showmen will drag him to the dressing-tent and fill his hair full of powdered sawdust. The canvas-men are, however, vigilant; besides that, they are lazy and do not care to move around, so the small boy must be content to throw hand-springs in the sawdust-sprinkled lot, and keep on hoping until the show is out. In this respect the minute boy does not betray the same shrewdness credited to a Baltimore girl. She was on a visit to her brother's ranche near Austin, Texas, when a small circus came along. It is considered the acme of honesty to beat the circus in that region—in fact, paying is heartily deprecated. Although only a month in the place, the Baltimore belle was thoroughly imbued with the cowboy spirit, in as far as "beating" the circus was concerned, and when the show pitched its tents she made up her mind as to what she was going to do. At night, when the show was under headway, she calmly approached the circus tent on stilts, and viewed the first half of the performance through the opening between the canvas and the roof. One of the fighters of the show detecting something wrong, crept around with a club to "smash" the intruder, but received a kick in the eye from the fair stilt performer, and was so taken aback that the cowboys had time to rally to her support and raid the show while she at a safe distance applauded the conquering herders. The troupe left town that night in a sadly damaged condition.

Until late years circuses generally gave a balloon ascension before the afternoon performance took place, and sometimes a slack-wire performance was added. The latter free exhibition dropped out of sight a short time ago, and since 1876 there have been few circus balloon ascensions; they have been abandoned on account of the danger and frequency of accidents. Everybody remembers the fate of Donaldson and Greenwood, the former an Æronaut in the employ of Barnum at the time, the latter, a Chicago newspaper reporter. They left Chicago July 15, 1875, in a tattered old balloon. It was a remarkably fine day, and not the remotest shadow of danger fell across the sunshine. The balloon was carried out over the lake, disappeared from view, and the fate of the missing men was not known until a portion of the tattered balloon and the body of Greenwood, with his note-book and other articles that helped to identify him, were found on the Michigan shore of the great lake. The balloon had been wrecked and both men had perished in the waves. Donaldson's body was never recovered. An imaginary sketch of this fatal trip was written by John A. Wise, the Æronaut, who himself perished in Lake Michigan while attempting to complete a night ascension. He and George Burr started from St. Louis at dusk, and as the Ærial ship was vanishing into the clouds it was seen for the last time. For weeks nothing was heard of the missing men or the balloon. They were thought to be lost in the Michigan prairies. At last Burr's body was found on the east shore of Lake Michigan. Wise's remains were never recovered.

A lady balloonist met with a terrible death at Cuantla, Mexico, some time ago. A great crowd assembled to witness the balloon ascension of Senorita Catalina Georgio, a beautiful girl only seventeen years old. There was no car attached to the balloon, only the trapeze on which the girl performed. The balloon shot up amid the deafening cheers of the crowd which was present. Catalina, meanwhile, was seen clinging to the trapeze and performing daring feats of agility. When the balloon was three-quarters of a mile high it suddenly exploded and fell to the ground with the unfortunate girl. Her dead body was found horribly crushed and mangled beside the wrecked balloon. The remains were tenderly cared for by the natives.

A frightful balloon accident occurred lately at Courbevoie, near Paris. A large crowd had assembled to witness the novel and perilous ascent of a gymnast called August Navarre, who had volunteered to perform a number of athletic feats on a trapeze suspended from a Montgolfier balloon named the Vidouvillaise. Rejecting the advice of bystanders, Navarre refused to allow himself to be tied to the trapeze. There was no car attached to the balloon. At about five o'clock the Vidouvillaise was let loose from its moorings and rose majestically in the air. Navarre, hanging on to the trapeze, appeared quite confident, and repeatedly saluted the spectators. When, however, the balloon had reached a height of nearly one thousand yards the crowd was horrified to see him suddenly let go the bar and fall. The descent was watched in breathless excitement. At last the body reached the ground, striking with such force that it made a hole in the earth two feet deep, and rebounded four yards. It was crushed and mangled almost beyond recognition. Meanwhile the balloon, freed from its human ballast, shot up with lightning speed, and soon disappeared from view. Late in the evening it burst and fell at Menilmontant, much to the consternation of the inhabitants of that busy Parisian quarter.

The day after Donaldson's fatal ascension, Dave D. Thomas, then press agent for Barnum, and filling the same place still, made a successful ascension. Mr. Thomas is familiar with ballooning, and often laments that the days of Ærial ascensions as circus advertisements are past. While waiting for the performance to begin let us drop into the dressing-tent. It is divided in the middle by a strip of canvas about seven feet wide, and this half space is again divided into dressing-rooms, one for the men, the other for the women. The large space is the green-room of the circus. It is not only that, but it is the property-room. The performers are preparing for the grand entree. Helmets are lying around loose, and wardrobes appear to be in a state of great confusion. Cheap velvet gaily bespangled is quite plentiful. It looks best at a distance. Quantities of white chalk are brought into use, each man's face being highly powdered, his eyebrows blackened, etc. The dressing-room is small and there is apparently much confusion while the performers are donning their respective costumes. But each knows what his duty is, and does it accordingly, without really interfering with anyone else. On the other side is the ladies' room; into this we are not permitted to cast our profane peepers, but we know from exterior knowledge that paint and powder, short dresses and flesh tights are rapidly converting ordinary women into equestrienne angels. Outside of the dressing-rooms are the horses, ranged in regular order. At a given signal the riders appear, mount and enter the ring. As they are dashing about in apparent recklessness let us look more clearly at them. They all look young and fresh, but there are old men in the party who for twenty-five or thirty years have figured in the sawdust ring. Chalk hides their wrinkles, dyestuffs their gray hairs, and skull caps their baldness. Yonder lady who sits her steed gracefully, and who looks as blooming as a rose on a June morning, is not only a mother, but a grandmother. And there is George who was engaged last winter to do "nothing, you know." He finds his duties embrace riding, leaping, tumbling, object-holding, and occasionally in short times drive a team on the road. There is one rider who was formerly a manager himself. He had a big fortune once, but a few bad seasons swamped it, and he is now glad to take his place as a performer on a moderate salary. Returning to the dressing-room after the entree, we find the clown engaged in putting the finishing touches to his make-up. We must look closely at him to recognize him. He does not seem to be the same fellow we met at the breakfast table, in stylish clothes and a shirt-front ornamented with a California diamond. He has given himself an impossible moustache with charcoal, and has painted bright red spots on his cheeks. You think him a mere boy as he springs into the ring, but he has been a mere boy for many a long year, and his bones are getting stiff and his joints ache in spite of his assumed agility. The "gags" that he repeats and the songs that make you laugh are not funny to him, for he has repeated them in precisely the same inflection for an indefinite number of nights. He comes out to play for the principal act of horsemanship. Meantime in the dressing-room, if it is damp or chilly, the performers are wrapping themselves in blankets or moving about to keep warm. When the bareback rider returns from the ring he usually disrobes, takes a bath and dons his ordinary attire; but the less important performers must keep themselves in readiness to render any assistance which they may be called upon to perform.

There is but little repose for the weary circus people during a season. Frequently they stay but one day in a place, and the next town is fifteen or twenty miles distant. All the properties must be packed up, the helmets and cheap velvet, the tights and the tunics must be stowed away and the journey made by night. The following day brings a recurrence of the dangers and toil of circus life.

A clown who was importuned by some young ladies of Mill City, Iowa, as they passed the dressing-tent, to let them in, said he'd do it for a kiss from each. There were four in the party and they held a brief consultation when they came back and wanted to know if one kiss wouldn't do.

"Yes, one each," said Mr. Merryman, who had his paint on and looked anything but pretty.

Again they consulted, and at last agreed. They were respectable young ladies and were slow to do anything that might compromise them, still they kissed the clown, who lifted a flap of the tent and passed in each as she paid the osculatory fee. The kisses did his old heart good, and when he went into the ring so fresh and happy did he feel that he actually got off a new and good joke, which is an extraordinary thing for a clown. The clown is pretty much the whole show to the little folks, and there are many grown people who cherish fondly the childish admiration they had had for the retailer of old jokes and singer of poor comic songs. He talks and jumps around as lightly as if he were a young man; but often if the reader could be around when the chalk and the streaks of black and red have been washed off he would see that the light-hearted laugh-provoker is an old man wrinkled and gray, and that he is to be pardoned for not being able to say anything funny that would be new at his time of life. I like everything about a clown, his clothes, his comical hat, his old jokes, his poor voice and his worse songs. He tries to amuse other people's children, and therefore I am glad when I hear he has children of his own, as the following touching story told in verse has something to say about:—

THE CLOWN'S BABY.

The public at large has but a very vague idea of how a circus is run, and the people, besides the managers and regular employees, who make a living by it. When the tenting season is about to open, a class of people, who in the winter hang about the saloons, variety theatres and gambling hells of the large cities, start for the circuses to bid for what are known as the "privileges," which are, as a rule, understood to embrace not only the candy and lemonade-stands and the side-shows, but all sorts of gambling devices by which the unsuspecting countryman is fleeced out of his earnings, or borrowings, as the case may be. Monte men, thimble-riggers, sweat-cloth dealers, and all classes of gamblers and thieves who have not yet risen to the dignity of "working" the watering-places and summer resorts, look upon the route of a circus as their legitimate field of operation. The circus proprietor who rents the lot upon which his tent or tents are pitched has the right to sublet such portions of the ground as he does not use, for such purposes as he deems proper, and which will not make him personally amenable to the laws for whatever crimes may be committed there. It has been shown that in many cases the managers not only sell to gamblers the privilege of locating on the ground and robbing the patrons of the circus, but also receive a share of the ill-gotten wealth.

"There are," said Mr. Coup, the circus owner, to an interviewer, "lots of shows with big bank accounts who have made their money by actually robbing their patrons. They used to swindle on the seats, but that is done away with now entirely, or nearly so. Of course, I am not at liberty to mention names, but I could astonish you by designating shows the managers of which have made the greater portion of their money in this way. But a great trick which is being practised is this: A man is sent ahead of the show who is not known to have any connection whatever with it. In fact, he denies that he has anything to do with it, and yet he is really employed by the managers. This man canvasses the town and finds some man who has a big bank account and who is gullible enough to confide in strangers. The agent makes his acquaintance, gets into his confidence, and then with a great show of secrecy informs him how he can make a pile of money when the circus comes along. The innocent citizen bites at the bait and is steered against a gambling scheme either inside or outside of the tent, and loses often large sums of money. Perhaps he is a man whose social standing prevents him from making his loss known, or, more frequently, he fails to suspect the agent, who blusters around and declares that he, too, has lost money on the scheme. And thus the show goes from town to town, making almost as much by stealing from its patrons as it does at the ticket wagon. There are shows which make from $30,000 to $40,000 a season in this way and that goes a good way toward paying for their printing, and is quite an item. I have made war on these fellows for years and am determined to keep it up. If I cannot run a show without having a lot of gambling schemes attached to it, why then I'll stop running a show. I abolished everything of the kind last season, even down to the selling of lemonade in the seats. I allow lemonade to be sold now, but the men are watched carefully and the first one caught swindling my patrons, off goes his head."

"Do you not find it difficult to keep gamblers and confidence men away from your show?"

"I did at first, but it is now known among them that I will not allow it and they keep away. My life has been threatened several times just on account of this, but I still live and still propose to keep up the fight. I have been offered as high as $1,000 a week for the privilege to rob my patrons by camp-followers, so you can see that the privilege is worth something. In Georgia a gang threatened publicly to kill me on sight for refusing to let them hang around my tents, but some of my men went for them and cleaned them out very effectually. The side-show privileges are sold only on condition that no gambling shall be carried on in the tents and that the patrons shall not be swindled in any way. The side-shows can be made to pay without robbery. Last season the side-shows that traveled with my show, made $75,000, which was more than I made."