peanuts that ever were.

As far as I can see, the animal part of the show is just the same as it
always was. The people that take you to the show always pretend to be
interested in them, but it's my belief they stop and look only to tease
you. Away, 'way back in ancient times, there used to be a man that took
the folks around and told them what was in each cage, and where it came
from, and how much it cost, and what useful purpose it served in the
wise economy of nature, and all about it. That was before my time. But
I can recollect something they had that they don't have any more. I can
remember when Mr. Barnum first brought his show to our town. It didn't
take much teasing to get to go to that, because in those days Mr. Barnum
was a "biger man than old Grant." "The Life of P. T. Barnum, Written by
Himself" was on everybody's marble-topped centertable, just the same as
"The History of the Great Rebellion." You show some elderly person from
out of town the church across the street from the Astor House, and
say: "That's St. Paul's Chapel. General Montgomery's monument is in the
chancel window. George Washington went to meeting there the day he was
inaugurated president," and your friend will say: "M-hm." But you tell
him that right across Broadway is where Barnum's Museum used to be, and
he'll brighten right up and remember all about how Barnum strung a
flag across to St. Paul's steeple and what a fuss the vestry of Trinity
Parish made. That's something he knows about, that's part of the history
of our country.

Well, when Mr. Barnum first came to our town, all around one tent were
vans full of the very identical Moral Waxworks that we had read about,
and had given up all hopes of ever seeing because New York was so far
away. There was the Dying Zouave. Oh, that was a beauty! The Advance
Courier said that "the crimson torrent of his heart's blood spouted in
rhythmic jets as the tide of life ebbed silently away;" but I guess by
the time they got to our town they must have run all out of pokeberry
juice, for the "crimson torrent" didn't spout at all. But his bosom
heaved every so often, and he rolled up his eyes something grand! I
liked it, but my mother said it was horrid. That's the way with women.
They don't like anything that anybody else does. There's no pleasing
'em. And she thought the Drunkard's Family was "kind o' low." It wasn't
either. It was fine, and taught a great moral lesson. I told her so, but
she said i