Seventy Years a Showman

SEVENTY years a showman. Seventy years!

A long, long day is waning at last. Here in the peaceful shadows of the Garden of Life I pause awhile. I want to drink in the scene. I want to realize the full meaning of it all.

Rest—yes, I can rest now. The way has been long. It has often been weary. A showman’s life, my friends, is not all glory. Beneath the glitter and the tinsel is many a heartache. The open road is often strewn with thorns.

And now the journey is nearly ended. Far away in the west I see the setting sun. The garden is hushed in sleep. Ay! The showman’s day is gone. The shutters are up. The camp fire, long lighted, is dying away. In its glowing embers I see strange faces. They are the faces of the Past.

Tell us the showman’s tale, you say. And why not? The very thought of it brings back to my ears the jingle of bells. The dim figures before me turn into a thousand shapes and fancies. Tell you the showman’s tale? Ay, that I will. Once more I hear the blare of music and the sound of drums. I catch the laughter of merry children.

Walk up! Walk up! Walk up!

This way for one of the most singular stories ever told by living man!

This way for a tale of strange things, scenes, and adventures!