Circus

A long train chugs into a little station on the outskirts of the Big City. It comes to a stop, comes to life. Men pop out of its doors. In a moment there is amazing activity. Torches held in brawny hands provide light. Neighing horses are driven in dozens down shadowy ramps. Behind them come lumbering elephants, single file. Men lift down great, gaudy cages. A flickering light reveals the prisoners--lions, bears, monkeys, the population of the Ark itself. And men and women--tiny men and tiny women, tall men and tall women, thin men and fat women, tattooed men and bearded women, ordinary men and ordinary women. The train has come from Sarasota, Fla., where all winter the Circus has hibernated like the strange animal it is. It has arrived in The Bronx, northernmost borough of New York. A day or two later it is quartered in a huge new coliseum. The crowd has gathered. The boys are selling pink drink. There is a hush. Alfred Emanuel Smith mounts a chair, blows a gold whistle. All the men and women who have piled off the train in the dusk parade, but are now transformed. They wear gay colors and spangles. They mince and prance and stick out their bosoms. The acrobats look flatfooted, the equestrians are bowlegged, the clowns act drunk. It is, of course, the circus, the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus-- never changing, except to become, as Press Agent Dexter Fellowes must repeat in his sleep, "bigger and better." This year many old favorites are back including Lillian Leitzel, pretty enough for Mr. Ziegfeld to glorify, who twists and turns on a rope; and Goliath, the sea elephant, who has gained exactly one ton since last seen by his adoring public. This year there are many new acts, not the least astounding of which is that in which a man is shot from a cannon into a net more than 200 ft. away. He is Ugo Zacchini. He and his brother served in the Italian artillery during the War. They wondered then whether a man could be hurled as a projectile. There was no time to find out. Back on their farm in north ern Italy after the Armistice, they experimented with six-ton cannon. One day six years ago Ugo crawled into the gun's muzzle. The brother "fired" it, a blast of compressed air plus a puff of gunpowder smoke to make it realistic. Ugo hurtled out and landed, unhurt, in a haystack. Now they have perfected the trick. The "gunner" brother takes care of the mechanism, guards it jealously. At each performance Ugo climbs into the barrel. Much depends on his brother's aim, but not all. Ugo has found that by beating his arms he can retard his speed and by shooting out his legs he can increase it. He has learned, too, that a twist of his shoulder will change his course. It is ideal circus stuff.