Imagine a
temple-like construction all composed of odorous pine, with an arched
portal on either hand, and then every line and curve, every niche and
pillar and balustrade, defined with glowing fruit. It was looped in
festoons and hung in tassels of red and white and gold: the arms of
Wuertemberg even were traced in yellow corn, while above it all rose
a graceful column, a mosaic from base to summit of every fruit that
autumn can bring to perfection.

That was the great show: after that, mammoth cucumbers and carrots or
rows of agricultural implements did not detain us long. The next best
thing was to see the booths and the crowd on the outskirts of the
exhibition. There the circus was in full blast, and triumphant,
brazen-throated opposition to all smaller attractions that had
ventured into that neighborhood. The performing dogs in red petticoats
were reduced to making an appearance before their tent to entice
spectators, and Harlequin and Columbine had to shout themselves hoarse
inviting people to come in and split with laughter for sixpence. Those
who did not aspire to a seat under painted canvas gathered round a
melancholy bear dancing a _pas seul_ on the grass with heartbroken
gravity. Then came the _Schuetzhallen_, where the marksmen stationed
themselves three feet from the target and cracked away at it with no
other visible effect than that produced on a monkey doing its tricks
close by: at every shot the poor little creature stopped fiddling and
looked over its shoulder with a distressed air of "If I'm not hit this
time!" Hand-organs, penny trumpets and rattles quite drowned the voice
of a street-songstress with a large assortment of vocal music before
her, from which she was giving the public a selection. Whether the
songs had any reference to the pictures that formed her background we
did not discover, but, at all events, the latter were tragic in the
extreme. "The twenty-four-year-old murderer of his mother and six
brothers and sisters" was there portrayed in a neat suit of black,
with a hatchet in his hand and a very irresolute expression of
countenance, while the various members of his family, seen through
the open bedroom doors, awaited their fate in peaceful slumber. The
booths, with toys, gingerbread, sausages, cheese and light literature
tastefully intermingled, went on and on like the restaurants that
lined each side of the long avenue. Around primitive tables family
parties clinked foaming glasses an