The youths of Anaheim who were enamored by the Misses Bimpa were
skeptical of this, and affirmed that it was a "humbug," but this
question will be settled in the evening. Meanwhile, the commotion
around the circus is increasing each moment. From among the long, low
wooden buildings surrounding the canvas circus there comes the roar of
the lions and elephant; the parrots, fastened to rings hanging to the
huts, fill the air with their cries and whistles; the monkeys swing
suspended by their tails or mock the public, who are kept at a
distance by a rope fence. At last, from the main inclosure the
procession emerges for the purpose of whetting and astonishing the
curiosity of the public to a greater extent. The procession is headed
by a gaudy band-wagon, drawn by six prancing horses with fine harness,
and feathers on their heads. The riders on the saddles are in the
costume of French postilions. On the other wagons come cages of lions,
and in every cage is seated a lady with an olive branch in her hand.
Then follows an elephant, covered with a carpet, and a tower on its
back, which contains several men arrayed as East Indian hunters. The
band is playing, the drums are beating, the lions are roaring, the
whips are cracking; in a word, this cavalcade moves forward with great
noise and uproar. But this is not all: behind the elephant there
follows a machine on wheels, with a locomotive pipe, somewhat
resembling an organ, which, blown by steam, emits the most discordant
yells and whistles intended for the national "Yankee Doodle." The
Americans cry "Hurrah!" the Germans, "Hoch!" the Mexicans, "E viva!"
and the Cahuillas howl for joy.
The crowds follow the procession, the place around the circus becomes
deserted, the parrots cease their chatter, and the monkeys their
gymnastics. But "the greatest attractions" do not take part in the
procession. The "incomparable artist of the whip," the manager, the
"unconquerable Orso," and the "Aerial Angel, Jenny," are all absent.
All this is preserved for the evening so as to attract the crowds.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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