The panorama man kept no booth. He was above it. His entire outfit consisted of a sheet of canvas hung upon a pole and painted all over with the scenes he sang about. For he was a singer, the nineteenth-century descendant of the Skjald of our forefathers; far descended, alas! his song was ever about murder and horror on sea and land. He was the real precursor of the yellow press--pictures, songs, and all. Whether he made the latter up himself, or merely sang the ballad of the day, I do not know. If it was not about a man who took his girl to a dance and, getting her aside, [Music: He took his knife from his pocket And opened it up,] preparatory to stabbing her with great detail and deliberation, then it dealt with the latest world horror, the full circumstances of which were set forth in lurid words, and even more lurid paint, on the canvas. Thus, for instance, the burning of the emigrant steamer _Austria_ in mid-ocean. I can see him now, slapping the canvas with his rattan, and hear every inflection of his strident voice as he drew attention to the picture of it steaming peacefully along, and sang: [Music: Proudly o’er the ocean waves Sped the steamer Austria. Passengers it had in numbers Going to America. To the captain who commanded Never dream came of the blow Which fate for him upon this voyage Unluckily prepared has.] Then the fire and the horror, the women throwing the children overboard and being swallowed up by yellow and crimson flames that sent grewsome thrills up and down our backbones--and then the hat passed around for the troubadour. His was the _pièce de résistance_ of the Fair, and we went home, when we had heard him through, impressed that we had heard the heart of the great world throb. [Illustration: THE GIRL MARKET.]