I've got a cold that makes me mad-- What kind of a cold have you? That makes me reticent and sad, That puts me plainly to the bad, The worstest cold I ever had-- What kind of a cold have you? I suppose you know I was on a tour in Florida and other parts of the Sunny South last winter? There is a tradition down there that if a mule kicks a darky on the head the wretched mule is sure to go lame. When I was down there I happened to notice a little colored girl limping along the street, her feet done up in immense bandages of sacking. [Illustration] "What's the matter with your feet?" was my natural inquiry. "My fadder done hit me on de haid while I was standin' on an iron cellar door," was the response. When I got to Charleston there was a circus in town, and after doing my matinee stunt at the local theatre, I got around to the circus. There was a pretty fair menagerie along with the show, and it was a treat to me to stand around and hear the original and quaint remarks of the negroes, many of whom had never before in their lives seen lions and elephants. One big ugly gorilla seemed to attract them above all other living curiosities, and he was a fierce sight, I assure you. I saw an old wizened-up aunty stand in front of his cage a long time, speechless with awe, and finally heard her vent her feelings in the words: "Foah massa sakes alibe, if he ain't jest like de ole-time culled folks." Another queer old chap tried to make the acquaintance of the uncouth and hairy monster. "How is you?" said the old black man, bowing before the monstrous ape. No answer. "How is you?" Eph repeated, with another profound bow, and still no answer. Then, after a long pause, Eph exclaimed: "You's right, ole man; keep yo' mouf shet or dey'll put a hoe in yo' hand and make yo' raise cotton." The menagerie always fascinates me. Why, I'm just like a boy again when I get among the animals, and catch that well-remembered odor always connected with a show. I've even dreamed about 'em, and strange as it may appear, they always seem to be passing before me in a great hurry, just as though on a wager. As I say, I was kind of fascinated and thinking of boyhood's days and all that sort of thing, you know, when some one spotted me. "By de great horn spoon, if dar ain't George Niblo!" I tried to look shy and turned on my best blush. Then the manager turned to me politely, gave me the glad hand and asked if I wouldn't sing a little song. I said "sure"; and I did. Here's the song I sung: