was at the show and he went back in the dressing-room, and held
Little Arthur's hand. And the clown was crying, and the actors were
crying, for they all loved Little Arthur in their rude, untutored way.
And Little Arthur opened his large sensitive violet eyes, and saw the
man, and said off the text that the man taught him that afternoon.

And then he died. It was a sad story, but it made you wish it had been
you that happened to have a Bible in your pocket as you passed the
secluded, vine-clad nook only a few paces from the main tent, and had
heard Little Arthur sigh so pitifully. It was those sensitive eyes we
looked for in the sleeping-car windows, and all in vain. I think I saw
the wealth of clustering ringlets, or at least the makings of it. I
am almost positive I saw curl-papers as the curtain was drawn aside a
moment.

But whether a boy stands gazing at the sleepers, or runs over to the
lots, there is something pathetic about it, something almost terrible.
It is the death of an ideal. I can't conceive of a boy coming down to
the depot to see the circus train come in another time. Hitherto, the
show has been to him the ne plus ultra of romance. It comes in the night
from 'way off yonder; it goes in the night to 'way off yonder. It is all
splendor, all deeds of high emprise. It stands to reason then, that the
closer you get to it, the closer you get to pure romance. And it isn't
that way at all.

What gravels a boy the most of all is to have to do the same old thing
over and over again, day after day, week in, week out. Once he has seen
the circus come in, he cannot blind himself to the fact that everything
is marked and numbered; that all is system, and that everything is done
today exactly as it was done yesterday, and as it will be done tomorrow.

"What town is this?" he hears a man inquire of another.

"Blest if I know. What's the odds what town it is?"

Didn't know what town it was! Didn't care!

The keen morning air, or something, makes a fellow mighty unromantic,
too. Perhaps it was the thin blue wood-smoke from the field-stoves, and
the smell of the hot coffee and the victuals the waiters are carrying
about, some to the tent where the bare tables are for the canvasmen,
some to the table covered with a red and white table-cloth as befits
performers. These have no rosy cheeks. Their lithe limbs are not richly
decked with silken tights. Insensibly the upper lip curls. They're not
so much. They're only fo