To hear some of these plans I started toward the Carters', and fell in with Ed Mason on the way. In his garden we found Charley Carter, who told us of his own and other boys' projects. Rob Currier would rise, it seemed, before three o'clock on the morrow, and go with his father to watch the unloading of the circus. Our desire to join in this expedition subsided when Charley related his adventures at a similar treat the year before. It was true that he had observed the dim but mountainous forms of elephants and camels outlined against the dawn, but he had also slipped on the car track and so sprained his ankle that he had to forego, not only the great street parade at 10 A.M., but the show itself in the afternoon. The possibility of any such tragic occurrence made Ed Mason and me decide to let the circus unload as best it could without our assistance. But on this, the very day before the circus would exhibit, we were smitten by an unexpected grief. Charley Carter started the ball of trouble rolling. "Are you fellers goin' to the side-show?" he asked. And he added, complacently, "_I_ am." We had not considered the matter. We supposed we were going. The pictures representing the attractions of the side-show recurred to us, and straightway it became an imperative necessity that we find out if we were going to see these wonders. We repaired to our respective homes, but were soon back at the place of meeting with dolorous faces. The parental mind in the House of Edwards was at one with that in the House of Mason. The street parade in the morning we should see, and we should be suitably provided with red or green balloons for the more complete enjoyment of the spectacle. To the afternoon performance we should go, pockets filled with the peanuts of Mr. Mazzoni, who sold much better peanuts than the half-baked things supplied by the circus venders. These we might share, if we felt so disposed, with the elephants. Pink lemonade we should _not_ imbibe, as it was "miserable stuff." And the side-show we should not enter, as it was "vulgar." Such were the terms of the ultimatum. To article one, concerning the street parade and the balloons, we signified our assent. To the second article, concerning peanuts, we also assented. Article three, which forbade pink lemonade, was accepted with the understanding that we yielded to superior force. But to the final article, prohibiting the side-show, we entered an indignant protest. It was promptly overruled. Can one conceive a more irrational position? What was this thing, vulgarity, which before now had stood in our path? Had the extra cost of admission to the side-show been the cause for the refusal, we could have understood, even while regretting, the parental attitude. But vulgarity--what was it?