ily take part also with her, the
ring-mistress, a woman of possibly forty, acting as host, looking
exceptionally well, handsome indeed, in grey and silver evening dress,
with fine dark eyes and an older sister who opens the performance with
some good work. This seems to me to be the modern touch, for there was
a time when it was always the very well groomed ringmaster, with top
hat and monocle, who acted as host of the ring.

It will likewise be remembered by those who saw the Hannafords at the
circus, that they were also possessed of a very handsome
ring-mistress, elegantly gowned, both of these older ladies lending
great distinction, by their presence, to already brilliant
performances. I would be very pleased to make myself historian for
these fine artists, these esthetes of muscular melody. I should like
very much to be spokesman for them, and point out to an enforcedly
ignorant public, the beauties of this line of artistic expression, and
to give historical account of the development of these various
picturesque athletic arts. Alas, that is not possible, for it must
remain forever in the limbo of tradition.

We shall have to be grateful beyond expression for the beautiful art
of May Wirth, and devote less enthusiasm to asking of when and how it
came about. To have established one's art at the perfect point in
one's girlhood, is it not achievement, is it not genius itself?
Charming little May Wirth, first equestrienne of the world, I
congratulate you for your beautiful presentation, for the excellence
of its technique, and for the grace and fascination contained therein.
Triumph in youth, victory in the heroic period of life, that surely is
sufficient. Let the bays fall upon her young head gleefully, for she
earned them with patience, devotion, intelligence, and very hard
labours. Salutations, little lady of the white horse! How charming,
how simple she was, the little equestrienne as she rode away from the
door of the huge theatre, in her pale blue touring car. "I love the
audiences here in this great theatre, but O, I love the circus so much
more!" These were the sentiments of the little performer as she rode
away. She is now touring, performing under the huge canvases in the
open areas of the middle West, and the little traveling circus is on
its way over the mountains. Fascinating people, and a fascinating life
for whom there is not, and probably never will be, a written history;
the story of whose origin lies