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XIII
THE AUTUMN CATTLE SHOW New England’s purely farming
districts the cattle show is the one event of the year that attains to genuine
greatness. It is in such districts you see it at its best — a rural picnic that
draws to it the people of all the countryside. The towns and villages roundabout are depopulated. I am not sure that the ministers
go, but the church elders are on hand with their fat cattle and all the varied
farm belongings in which they take pride; and so are their wives and daughters
and other members of the family, even to the hired man. The “Nigger” Target It is the social element which gives
the fair its most vital attraction. The people come not so much because of the
races, the exhibits, and the pleasure-making contrivances, as because of the
certainty of meeting all their friends and acquaintances. In the two days of
the show they pick up more news than they would in months of ordinary days. “I
ain’t seen you sence the cattle show last year,” you will hear one woman say to
another. “Why don’t you come and make me a call once in a while? It ain’t but
eight miles.” And when the preliminary whys and wherefores have been settled to
mutual satisfaction they fall to detailing the happenings of the past twelve
months, lingering with especial minuteness over the ravages of death and
disease. Perhaps there is no better place to
see the country fair than at Cummington, in western Massachusetts, a town that
possesses the double distinction of having the cattle-show grounds of the
district, and of being the birthplace of William Cullen Bryant. It lies among
the tumbled hills which abound in that part of the state, and is far from
railroads and large centres of population. The region for many miles around is
one of scattered farms and little villages. Probably no town tributary to the
fair contains much over one thousand inhabitants, and some fall a good deal
short of that number. The fair is held the last of September.
Autumn comes early on the hills. All the corn is cut and stacked in the fields.
Nature’s year’s work is about finished. Nearly all the banditti weeds and
flowering plants of field and wood are weighted with seeds, or the seeds have
flown and only empty husks remain. The road by which I approached the
fair-grounds led much of the way through the woodlands, orange and yellow with
turning leafage. Dwellings were few and far between, and it was nothing unusual
to drive for miles without seeing aught more closely related to a human
habitation than a lonely gray sugar-house in a patch of rock maples. Sometimes
a squirrel chattered at me, sometimes a crow flapped into view overhead, gave a
disturbed caw or two, and hastened away, and once I roused a partridge that
disappeared with a startled whir of wings. But as a whole the woods were very
quiet. The last few miles of the way I did not lack company. There were teams
before and teams behind — a long string of them climbing the final hill,
humping over the “thank-you-marms” and rattling across, one after the other,
the frequent little wooden bridges that spanned the rivulets the road
encountered. Most of them were family teams of two or three seats, but there
were many top buggies cleaned up for the occasion, each holding “a fellow and
his girl.” Then there were the confirmed old bachelors, who rode alone; and
there was the more pronounced jockey element represented by men who usually
brought along a single male companion. As I neared the grounds I began to see teams
hitched to the trees along the roadside. The owners were careful not to leave
anything of value in their vehicles, and every man who had a whip that was
worth stealing insured its safety by taking it along with him. Whenever and
wherever you met him later in the day you would find him with the whip in his
hands. The grounds with their one-third of
a mile racecourse lay in an elevated hollow of the hills that seemed to be the
only spot in the region sufficiently level to lay out such a track. Immediately
surrounding were either rough depressions or rocky ridges, and some of this
wild land was inside of the high board fence that engirdled the fair-grounds. By paying a little extra one was
privileged to drive his team through the entrance gate and keep it on the
grounds all day if he chose. A favorite resort of vehicles was a grassy hill
that rose within the circle of the race-course. Here the wagons were left while
the horses were led away to he hitched elsewhere. If you arrived after things got well
going, you struck pandemonium the moment you passed through the wide wooden
gates. “Fakirs” and travelling tradesmen had been coming by every road all the
day before, and the centre of the grounds was now full of booths and tents,
with an intermingling of peddling wagons and stands and amusement
paraphernalia. The place was a great human beehive. Those who had conic to make
money strove to attract trade by continual shouting, and a brass band played
enlivening strains at frequent intervals, while the crowd itself was in
constant motion, and there was a never ceasing undertone of voices talking,
calling, and laughing. It was a motley throng, including people of every age,
from babies and toddlers up to nonagenarians. Many of the folk were dressed
tastefully and in modern styles, but others, by reason of carelessness or
isolation or poverty, wore garments that were very antiquated. Then, too, there
seemed to be a curious difference of opinion as to whether winter or summer
apparel was the more appropriate. Children Sightseers Some of the attendants were
strange-looking people, suggestive of caricature — raw, long-haired boys,
gnarled men with quaintly trimmed beards, and faded women, the lines and
expressions of whose faces brought up before one visions of olden times: On the other
hand, there were present more or less city folk, to whom a rural jollification
of this sort was a very real pleasure. Another class of outsiders was that of
the gentry politicians of the county, who had come to pull wires in anticipation
of the approaching election, and to pose in the eyes of the public as genial
good fellows. Wherever the crowd gathered thickest
there hovered peddlers of pop-corn, peanuts, grapes, peaches, and five-cent
cigars — the standard price at cattle shows. There, too, you found the man with
the bunch of colored balloons. While in his hands they pulled jauntily skyward,
but once transferred to the children they were very apt to soon burst or droop
to earth. The itinerant hawker and distributor of happiness who seemed to be
most successful was one who carried little striped whips, and squeaky whistles
with rubber sacks on the end. “Catbags” was the expressive name of these
whistles. You blew and distended the rubber, then took it away from your mouth,
and the thing emitted a long, wailing piping quite enchanting to the ears of
childhood; but to older people the noise was rather distracting after it had
been heard continuously for a few hours. Not all the interest was confined to
the show grounds. Just outside, near the entrance, was a peculiar gathering of
men who were getting all the fun they could without going in. They were toughs
and ne’er-do-wells who drove rusty, ancient vehicles and abused-looking horses,
which they were always ready to swap or sell. Toward noon, when I went out for a
stroll, most of the gang were collected about an old negro. He was sitting in a
shaky buggy, and was trying to get an offer for his old white nag. “There ain’t
a blemish on him,” the negro declared, and he cantered his steed down the road
to show his paces. Without the Gate The dickering was long-drawn-out and
resultless, and finally the negro said he must go home and get something to
eat. As he started off, he remarked: “Well, I can’t sell you this horse,
gentlemen, an’ I can’t swap him. Nobody don’t want such a horse ‘cause he’s a
poor horse.” Cattle show gets its name from its
exhibit of farm creatures, and these, either in pens or tied to lines of
railing, occupied an acre or two on the inner borders of the race-course. About
them the men gathered in force to discuss the merits of the various animals.
Hence, in that vicinity you got a concentrated essence of Yankee smoking,
spitting, and dialect such as it would not be easy to match the world over. The Stage from the Neighboring Town The centre of interest for the women
was a large, barnlike, two-story hall, the most prominent structure on the grounds. In it were exhibited a thousand and one
products of housewifely art and of agricultural success. One section was
devoted to flowers from home flower-beds. Some were in pails, some in pots, and
some in cheese-hoops and soap-boxes, and, besides, there were cut flowers in
extraordinary bouquets — decorative erections that were certainly ingeniously
and fantastically contrived if they were not as beautiful as the designers and
constructors believed them to be. A few steps farther on and you were among the
fruits and vegetables. Here was a great concourse of plates with fine apples,
pears, peaches, or quinces on each. Then there were grapes, plums, strings of
onions, heaps of beets, carrots, cabbages, and such things, and a squash
calculated to make one gape with wonder at its immensity. Next in order was an
exhibit of butter and of cheeses, the latter brown and wrinkled and rather
unattractive outwardly, yet at the same time suggestive of a certain ripeness
and inner richness. There were pickles and cans of preserves and loaves of
bread, all hopeful of prize honors; and, set against the windows to show their
color and translucence, were bottles of maple syrup and tumblers of jelly. The display in the lower room of the
hall was distinctively of the fields and kitchen, while that of the room
upstairs was as decidedly an exhibition of the arts of the sitting room and
parlor. The array of fancy work was such as might rival the show-window of a
dry-goods store. Every inch of space on the long tables was full, and many
articles were tacked up on the walls or draped over lines as if hung up to dry
indoors after a rainy Monday’s wash. Patchwork quilts were favorites for
demonstrating a woman’s prowess with the needle and taste in making
combinations. Some of them contained so vast a number of tiny pieces it made
one weary just to look at them and think of the labor involved. Yet therein lay
their merit. Such a quilt is a monument to the patience and skilful industry of
the maker, and as such will be a source of pleasure to her as long as she
lives. Quite likely it may be laid away as too good for common use and be
handed down in the family as an heirloom. Besides its other excellences it has
the virtue of being a record of feminine garments worn by the family and by the
family fiends — everyday dresses, wedding dresses, baby dresses. The whole
gamut of human life is pictured in the texture of the coverlet, and the
constructor can probably recognize and give something of the history of each
dress and person there represented. Other favorite articles shown at the
cattle show were elaborate rag rugs, sofa pillows, home-knit mittens and
stockings, worsted slippers, delicate doilies, and quantities of crocheting.
“Mary Stevens done that,” said a woman, picking up some of the most intricate
of the embroidery and calling her husband’s attention to it. “Ain’t it remarkable
how she can do such a lot with her needle, and she a cripple that can’t put her
hand up to her head, and not even feed herself!” I thought the needlework showed a
distinct love of color and prettiness quite independent of utility and fitness;
for certainly a good deal of it would be hopelessly out of harmony in the
average home. A more satisfactory phase of the exhibit was the housewifely
thrift that was apparent in discovering possibilities in odds and ends of
waste. Here was the old wearing apparel rejuvenated in the form of rag carpets,
rugs, sofa pillows, etc., but the climax in this transformation of household
débris was reached in a pretty vase that had acorns, suspender buttons, nails,
iron nuts, and other hardware stuck into its yielding surface, and then the
whole had been gilded. It was an ingenious use of rubbish, but the result
looked like the product of some heathen nation of Africa or South America. Art pure and simple was represented
by a number of hand-painted plates and silk banners and several pictures in
oils, water-colors, and pastel. The subjects which the artists chose to depict
were usually either flowers or impossibly romantic landscapes. But, though the
pictures received their due share of admiration, they did not stir the hearts of
most as did the long-houred intricacy of the fancy needlework. One corner of the upper hall was
reserved for a children’s department, and here was a six-year-old’s loaf of
bread occupying a place of honor amid a whole table full of cookery and canned
fruits and jellies and pickles, the handiwork of other housekeepers of tender
years. The children showed, too, a collection of small hens’ eggs, several
plates of fruit, some very big cucumbers and some very little pumpkins, and
there were exhibited many child efforts at patchwork, splashers, cushions, and
a variety of pufferies and vanities in the needlework line, for which my
vocabulary has no names. The shining light among the boy exhibitors was one who
showed sixty different kinds of beans of his own raising. If he did not get a
half-dollar prize, I do not think the judges did their duty. The prize committees I saw at work
had the air of feeling a due sense of their responsibility, and I suppose they
worried out their decisions as fairly as they could, though these were sure to
be regarded with critical dissent by the owners of the goods that did not find
favor in their eyes. Still, the distinction of being one of the judges to some
degree compensated for the grumbling of the dissatisfied — and, besides, the
committees felt at liberty to sample freely the more toothsome things that fell
under their judicial care, so that in certain cases the things judged well-nigh
disappeared in the process of having their comparative merits settled. The exercises on the race-course
began at eleven o’clock with a “Grand Cavalcade of Oxen.” Oxen have largely
given way to horses on the New England farms, but there are still plenty of
them among the hills, and the cavalcade was impressively long and slow and
sedate, except for a couple of little steers at the end of the procession who
did not agree with the boy in charge of them as to where and how they should
go. They kept the lad in turmoil all through the march, and put him to shame
before the multitude. A touch of humor was given to the sober trail of the oxen
by a long-legged farmer who rode astride of one of the creatures. Another man,
known to every one as “Cephas,” furnished merriment by riding in one of the
ox-carts and playing a little organ with a crank. As Cephas was rigged up like
a true clown in an outlandish costume of all the colors of the rainbow, this
was a very popular feature of the parade. The Cavalcade of Oxen By the time the cavalcade of oxen
had gone the rounds it was noon, and thought turned dinnerward. Some resorted
to the eating tents, but the large majority went to their wagons and
resurrected from tinder the seats various boxes, baskets, tin cans, and
bottles, and made preparations for an open-air feast. The food was generous in
quantity, and it had a holiday flavor in that there was coffee for children and
all, and the cake had frosting on it. To be sure the coffee was cold, and one
drinking cup did for several of the picnickers, and the pie had caved in, but
accidents and shortcomings are null and void on such an occasion. Often
relatives who lived in different parts of the home town or the county got
together for dinner and the victuals of both parties were passed about
indiscriminately. This added to the interest, especially to the investigating
minds of the children. Even the grown people showed a joking preference for a
change from the home cooking. Immediately after dinner the folk
began to resort to the “grand stand.” This was just across the track from the
judges’ two-story pagoda, whence these dignitaries viewed the races. The only
thing grand about the stand was its name, for it was nothing but a few lines of
unplaned plank seats terraced up a hillside. The seats were soon filled, and
the overflow accommodated themselves on neighboring stones and hillocks. An old
gentleman with a blue sash over his shoulder was cantering up and down on a big
black horse, trying to keep the crowd off the race-course. This man was the
marshal. “All go across that want tew,” he would call out, “but we can’t have
yew blocking the track.” He and two young fellows who
assisted him made feints of riding down the crowd, but with all their efforts
they could not keep the course clear. Several pairs of oxen were making ready
to draw a load of stone on a stone-boat, and the crowd was bound to get close
up, even if they stopped the whole performance. On the Grounds In this they displayed their Yankee
independence, or, to use a term that more exactly describes it, their Yankee
hoggishness. The men who were the most obstreperous were those who had been
drinking. It was a no-license region, but it was not wholly parched for all
that, and rumor said you could get “crab-apple bitters” right on the grounds.
There was one man in particular whose uncertain step and swaggering manner and
sense of importance showed that he had found recent inspiration to great deeds
in the bottle. He would obey no orders, and once when an official’s horse
crowded on him he caught its bridle and called the rider a hard name. This
rider had red hair, and therefore, in the popular estimation, a temper, and he
instantly responded by raising a little whip he carried and striking the
drunken man square in the face. That made the latter furious, he dropped the
bridle, broke into oaths, and would have snatched the orderly out of the saddle
had not others restrained him. Gradually he subsided, but for some minutes
serious fighting seemed immanent. “What an ugly craowd there is here!”
remarked the man next to me. “They’re baon’ to git on the track. Some one ought
to send the band daown here an’ let ‘em blow them fellers aout! “I wisht they’d quit their foolin’
and begin,” the man continued, after a pause. “This stun I’m settin’ on ain’t
gettin’ any softer. If I don’t bring a seat with me tomorrer then I’m a liar.” TO BUY OR NOT TO BUY But now the oxen were drawing. They
only dragged the stone-boat a few feet, but it made the great creatures pant
and twist painfully. The contest was between two yokes, and after the first had
been successful in its effort the second tried it. They, too, succeeded, and
then more stone was added. So the trials wenton, and the stones were piled higher till one pair or the
other found the load beyond its strength to move. It seemed like cruel work, yet
the friend at my elbow, regarding the final struggles of the champion,
imperturbably said, “They handle it pretty good naow, but I don’t see haow any
farmer can work with cattle — they’re so blame slow. We ain’t had none on our
place sence I was a boy.” Some of the oxen were presently
attached to carts and driven about to show their training, and one of the
drivers got up in his cart and invited the lookers-on to ride with him. “Don’t
stan’ there star-gazin’,” he called out, “when you got a chance to ride with a
good-lookin’ man.” So a dozen chaffing young fellows clambered into the cart
and sat around on the edges, and took a turn or two up and down the track. Later in the afternoon there was an
exhibition of horses and colts, and the day ended with a bicycle race. The second day of the fair vas
distinguished from the first by being called “the horse show.” There were
frequent trotting matches on the race-course, both morning and afternoon, and
the crowd was even larger than on the day previous. All the fakirs were on
hand, and the uniformed brass band furnished enlivenment with its bursts of
music. In short, there was for the pleasure-seekers all the din and dust and
turmoil that contribute to make the occasion notable and interesting in its
strong contrast to the country quiet and repose of the rest of the year. The races were not professional, and
were the more attractive on that account. We were not watching a contest
between mere racing-machines, and every driver and horse had a readily
perceived character of their own. The two races which overtopped all others in
the interest aroused were the two which were most picturesque and amateurish.
In the first a woman drove in the class set down on the programme as “Carriage
Horses.” She was a pleasing, modest-looking little person, with a fur muffler
about her neck. The sympathies of the onlookers were hers from the beginning,
and she drove in such a steady, determined way that, though her horse was not
in first it never made a break, and she did the neatest driving of any of the
contestants. Everybody cheered when the judges fastened the blue card to her
horse that meant she had taken the first prize. The other race was open only to lads
under fifteen and misses under twenty, and was designed more to show the
deftness and capacities of the drivers than the mettle of their steeds. There
were three entries, a dark-haired girl, stout and tanned, her poverty evidenced
by a hat three or four years out of date; a light-haired girl much more
ladyfied and smartly dressed than the other; and a freckle-faced boy. None of them had much to boast of in
the way of a horse, but as it was to be an exhibition of skill rather than
speed, the looks of the animals did not much matter. They lined up before the
judges’ stand, and at a given signal they all jumped from their buggies,
hastily unhitched their horses and took off the harnesses. Then they as hastily
restored the harnesses and put the horses into the shafts again. All three were
nervous and excited, and their feelings were shared to a considerable extent by
the people intently watching them. Now the light-haired girl was
through and leaped into her buggy and was off. The boy was only an instant
behind, and it looked as if the dark-haired girl who started last had no chance.
Round the course they went, and on the second circuit, which was the final and
decisive one, it was seen that the dark-haired girl was gaining. Near the close
she was about to pass her rivals when they laid on their whips and their steeds
broke into a gallop and left her to come in belated and alone. The judges had
already descended from their elevated stand to look into the manner in which
the three had accomplished their harnessing. Only the dark-haired girl had done
this perfectly. The other two had slighted details in their haste, and on the
course they had not kept their horses in good control. The first prize escaped
them, and the light-haired girl, who had felt sure of it and had decided just
how she would spend the money, wept with the bitterness of the disappointment. The crowds looking on at the races
kept fluctuating — people were coming and people were going all the time, for
no one cared to spend a whole day on any single feature of the fair, however
fascinating. Everybody had brought a supply of spare cash, which must be spent,
and, particularly in the children’s case, this money burned in their pockets
until it was gone. “There was some regret at parting with the last of it, and
yet a certain satisfaction in having the matter settled and completed. For the hungry there were dining
tents set with long tables, and having at the rear improvised open-air
kitchens. Eating resorts of a humbler sort were the booths where you could get
a quick lunch of rolls and “Frankfort sausages — Coney Island style,” and walk
off with the repast in your hand. The “Coney Island style” was always
emphasized by the vendors, and it was clear they thought it added vastly to the
attraction. Then there were booths which made a
specialty of candies, fruits, and beautifully tinted cold drinks, set forth
seductively in large, clear glasses. Colored drinks apparently sold better than
uncolored. A man would perhaps not pay any more for pink lemonade than for
plain, but he would buy it quicker and feel he was getting more for his money. Cooking Apparatus at the Rear of the Eating Tent All the vendors
were shouters and spared no effort in vociferating the merits of their
very desirable wares, but the man who made the most noise was a whip merchant.
He stood in the tail of his wagon with his stock in trade in a rack at his
side, while down below was a post about which he was continually snapping the
whips to show how good they were. “There,” says he, “is a whip you
couldn’t buy in the stores for less ‘n a dollar and a quarter [snap, snap,
snap], and, gents, I’m goin’ to let you have it for seventy-five cents [snap,
snap]. There’s good timber in that whip. See — you can bend it like the old
Harry! Seventy-five cents! Gosh, it’s terrible, cuttin’ the price that way, but
I can’t be here doin’ nothin’, so I offer inducements [snap, snap]. Grandpa
[pointing to an elderly man who is fumbling in his trousers pocket], you’re
goin’ to take this whip, ain’t you?” The old man shakes his head, and
instead of money extracts a generous bandana handkerchief and blows his nose.
This was a disappointment to the whip man, but he promptly took up the thread
of his discourse and said: “Well, boys, now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Here’s
a little red bird [picks up a whip with a strip of red on the handle] and
here’s a little yellow bird. Now I’ll put them with the seventy-five center,
and one dollar takes ‘em all.” So he keeps on till some one buys,
and then he says he will make up a lot of six. “Here they be,” he calls out.
“No, there ain’t but five! I’m gettin’ cross-eyed so I can’t count. Well,
there’s another. Now I’m goin’ to let you have the whole six for a dollar. You
can’t afford to go out and cut a stick when you c’n buy ‘em like that;” and,
between his eloquence and the merits (somewhat uncertain) of his whips, he
found purchasers in plenty. There were several shooting
galleries on the grounds, and their popularity was attested by the constant pop
of rifles and by the ringing of bells which sounded automatically whenever a
bull’s-eye was hit. A still more popular amusement, and one that had an almost uninterrupted run of custom, was a merry-go-round. A
hand-organ furnished music, and two stout, sweating men provided power, and the
little painted horses spun around the circle very gayly. THE POUNDING-MACHINE Not far from the merry-go-round was
a pounding-machine. You gave a blow with a heavy wooden beetle, and a marker
slid up a tall pole to show the weight of your stroke. “Well, well,” shouts the
fellow in charge, “who’s the next man? Come, gents, try your strength. Well,
well, it’s fun — only costs you half a dime, and you find out just how much the
correct weight of every blow is. Have a try, gents. You’ll be sorry if you
don’t. You’ll go home and hear your comrades tell what they can do, but you
can’t tell what you can do without telling a lie. I’d tell one hundred lies for
a nickel, but I don’t believe you would.” One of the tents was a photograph
gallery, where you could get your tintype taken for twenty-five cents. “Right
this way,” the rowdy-looking proprietor was shouting from the door, “we’re on
earth big as life and twice as natural.” His next neighbor was expatiating on
the unparalleled charms of “Conkey’s Great Mechanical World — perfect working
figures — constantly in motion — free to all — we don’t ask for money — just
walk right in, ladies and gentlemen, and pay ten cents when you come out if you
are satisfied — if you are not satisfied don’t pay anything.” Such as succumbed to this enticement
found that the tent contained a platform on which were a number of miniature
buildings and people made to represent a real village, while for a background
there was a painted canvas depicting a fine assortment of blue cliffs,
waterfalls, green fields, villas, and distant towns. But one’s attention was
chiefly absorbed by the busy inhabitants of the hamlet. They seemed rather
rheumatic and stiff in the joints, yet there was nor a single idler in the
whole lot. The chief mansion of the place was undergoing repairs, and a
Lilliputian man sat on the peak of the roof shingling, a mason was
everlastingly putting the final bricks on the chimney, and a painter was at
work on a balcony. In the yard below was a man mixing mortar, and three
carpenters at a bench were nailing, sawing, and planing. A woman churning on
the piazza and another woman at the well drawing water represented the domestic
side of the home. In other parts of the village were a blacksmith’s shop,
before which a horse was being shod, a sawmill going full blast, and a railroad
station with the officials all attending to business. Every thirty seconds a
train rushed through the hamlet. It came from a hole at the left and
disappeared into a hole at the right, labelled “Hoosac Tunnel.” I paid ten
cents when I went out. Another chance for amusement was
furnished by a man with a blacked face and clothing stuffed out ponderously
with hay. He stood at the farther end of a little fenced-off space, and let any
man throw three balls at him who would pay five cents for the privilege. If you
hit him, you could have a cigar. One booth that was much patronized
was known as the “fish-pond.” In its open front was set a shallow tank of
water, wherein were floating many little slips of wood, or “fish,” each bearing
a concealed number. On the walls of the booth were all the articles it was
possible to draw numbered to correspond with the fish in the tank — and there
were no blanks, the proprietor said. Every one got his money’s worth and you
might draw the grand prize — a pistol or a gold watch. Most of the articles
were valueless trinkets, but among the rest hung the pistol and the gold watch,
with naught between you and possession save a lucky ten-cent piece, and many a
dime was staked fruitlessly on the will-o’-the-wisp chance. All things have an end, and cattle
show is no exception. As the afternoon of the second day waned and the
exercises on the race-course were drawing to a close a growing restiveness was
manifest in the crowd. The chill of the autumn evening was coming on and dispersion
began about four o’clock. The vendors of perishable fruits and eatables dropped
their prices, and the work of taking down the tents and booths and packing up
commenced, a tinge of forlornness and desolation crept into the scene and the
fun was over. People were in a hurry to depart, yet they were not in such haste
as to neglect to drive around the race-course before they went out the gate.
This spin on the track adds a final touch of completeness to the occasion, as
no man who has any pride in his team neglects to make the circuit at least
once. So ends the cattle show, though its
memories with the meeting of friends, the excitement, the half-dozen whips for
a dollar, the many circulars gathered free, and a colored advertising
yardstick, not to mention the children’s catbags, last a long way toward the
fair of next year. Five Cents a Throw at the Dolls |