Some coachmen, challenging each other to feats of agility, break into a dance. The crowd stays to watch them, paying but little attention to the frequent appeals for patronage of an old man stationed on the top of a booth, who beseeches consideration of his astonishingly lengthy beard. More likely to attract the eye are the pair of handsome gipsy girls who join him on his elevated platform. But it is not until the coachmen pause for breath in their vigorous saltations that the sirens overhead succeed in fastening their allurements upon a festive and inebriated merchant who has pushed his way, with uncertain gait, to the front. The sudden beating of a tattoo by a couple of drummers, clad in gay livery, summons the crowd to a long booth standing in the background, of which the curtains have hitherto remained drawn. The people press forward with such eager curiosity that the drummers have some ado to keep them at a sufficient distance; but the apparition of a strange, antique head, which is suddenly thrust through an opening in the curtains of the booth, arrests the attention of all. The head looks quaintly right and left: then the curtains are parted, and the figure of its owner is revealed. It is no ordinary showman or cheap-jack who steps forward and salutes the ring of attentive spectators. The cabalistic signs upon the long robe in which his lean figure is swathed, his cap of curious shape, his flowing beard and yellow parchment skin--these are all attributes which belong rather to a wise magician of the East than to a peripatetic showman. The spectators are evidently interested; there is a something about this queer personage which fascinates and holds them. When, after courtly obeisances, he puts to his lips the flute that he holds in his hand, they press forward with undisguised curiosity. With gestures odd and unexpected the strange old man pipes forth a tune upon his flute--a jerky little air to which he jerkily sways and twists his lank body. The gaping onlookers follow his antics with half-mesmerised gaze, and when presently he takes the flute from his lips and steps down to the front of the booth they are all agog to learn what sequel to this prelude the drawn curtains will reveal. When drawn at length the curtains are, an engaging spectacle greets the eye. Propped in a row upon slender rods are three life-size puppet figures. In the middle is the Dancer, most radiant of dolls, with the pinkest of waxen cheeks and the glassiest of stares, elegantly arrayed in a striped jacket and pantaloons. On one side of her is the Blackamoor, a fierce and swarthy fellow, resplendent in green and gold, with gorgeous turban on his head; on the other, poor Pétrouchka, a grotesque figure of fun tricked out in glaring and fantastic motley.