FAY OF THE RING

Waikato Times, Volume 113, Issue 18947, 17 May 1933, Page 4

FAY OF THE RING

By A. A. THOMSON.

SYNOPSIS.

Ben Lay lock ran as though Satan himself were at his heels. He must get away from the cruel face of Mr Chegger, who had come that morning to take Ben away to the Orphan Home. And-- then something swung out snakily towards him and colled Itself round his body.' He was lined high Into the air, to the accompaniment of a voice saying: “Daisy, Daisy, is this the way to treat a member of the public ? Put the young gentleman down at once.” * When Ben dared to open his eyes, the first thing he saw was the Imposing figure or Duke Marjoram, resplendent In a gorgeous ensemble that completely took the small boy’s breath away. Duke was the owner or Marjoram’s Unparalleled Travelling Circus, with Its many marvellous attractions.

The second thing Ben saw was an angel. He knew it was an angel, because she had an angel’s face, and a glowing halo of red-gold hair, and was dressed wholly in white. “What’s your name?” enquired the angel. “Mine’s Felicity Adelaide Marjoram. You can call me Fay if you like.”

And that was how Daisy, the elephant, swung young Ben Into a new world. Mr Chegger was summarily dealt with by Duke Marjoram, and Ben became a member of Marjoram’s Unparalleled, and was mothered by Madame Caterlna Marnl (neo Kitty Mahoney) the Strongest Woman In the World, and most assuredly the kindest.

The first time Ben saw Fay ride into the ring on her pony, he fell In love, and grubby, unkempt urchin that he was, knew that he would love Fay Marjoram, with heart and mind, body and soul, until ho died.

CHAPTER IV. (Continued.)

“And now, my dear,” said Tumpo, in an absurd squeaky parody of the showman’s voice, “will you have the goodness to tell us something we all want to know. You always tell the truth, don’t you, my dear? You have found the prettiest and the handsomest. Now we should like you to indicate the biggest rascal in the company? 1

Ambling quietly round the entire circumference of the ring, Blanohette came back and rubbed her nose against the sleeve of the horrorstricken Mr Marjoram. Tumpo pointed gaily to “the biggest rascal in the company.’’ “Nothing but the truth, ladies and .jellyspoons, / nothing but the truth 1" he squeaked. The trick was Blanohetteis masterpiece. Afterwards she gave the answers to sums, chalked up by Mr Marjoram on a blackboard, by beating her hoof on the edge of the ring fenoe. She even played “Home, Sweet Home,’’ upon a row of hand-bells, set in a wire frame-work. But her exposure of the showman as the biggest rascal in the company seemed to me her most dazzling trick* Wonder succeeded wonder as I sat,

enchanted, my chin cupped In my hands. I saw Sprinski, the Russian Giant, perform prodigious feats of strength with weights and bar-bells, a small pony carriage and a curious circular platform carying seven selected members of the audience. I joined in the "hysterical laughter whioh followed, when, after Sprinski had failed to lift a staggering-looking weight, plainly marked ONE TON, Tumpo nonchantly picked It up with one hand and ran off with it.

I watched Madame Caterlna Marnl perform her "Mightly Elephant Act.” I saw her stand, with massive arms folded, upon the broad curve of Daisy’s trunk, and lie perfectly still while Daisy walked over her prone body. I shut my eyes when Daisy raised her gigantic forefoot, but when 1 I opened them again kindly Madame Caterlna was still alive and smiling. Daisy ■ had walked as delicately as Agag, King of the Amalekites. Her footsteps, though I did not know it at the time, were as prim and particular as those of a spinster crossing a puddle. I have heard 'of shows in which the elephant-trainer carried a long nail hidden in his hand, ready to drive into the beast’s foot, should it come too close to him, but Madame Caterina would have scorned such a trick. She and “Her Little Friend” —as the show bill called Daisy—understood each other too well for that. After the bulkiest artist in the show, came its smallest and daintiest performers, the doves, canaries and lovebirds, trained by Graff, the Bird Man. A big gaily painted table was brought into the ring. At the end of it stood half-a-dozen small cages. “Our feathered friends. . . .” announced Duke Marjoram expansively. Our feathered friends hopped out, one by one, on to the little ebony stick which Graff carried in his hand, fired little cannons and waved little flags, and drew little carts and pushed little trucks. The act concluded with a court-martial In which a bird-soldier was shot by his comrades for desertion. There was a solemn funeral procession. The dead bird lay in its coffin, drawn forward upon a tiny hearse, which was followed by four intensely respectful mourners, and, at a still further distance, by a charming little widow in a black bonnet and veil. Before the audience had ceased applauding the dainty little window, her deceased husband popped out of his coffin and flew on to the top of the Bird Alan’s head. I saw Wat Wandle, the High Wire Wonder, ascend the rope ladder that took him to his dizzy perch high up in the roof of the great tent. The tall, thin figure in red tights paused for a second on his little platform, then slowly but confidently he made his way across the wire, which was stretched, high up, between the two king-poles. I held my breath. From the platform at the other end, he picked up a chair and' carrying it in front of him, set it down - diagonally In the middle of the wire. Then lie sat down crossed his legs-; and with ostentatious deliberation abstracted a cigar from the folds of his scarlet tunio and lit it. After a few puffs, lie appeared to become tired of a sitting posture, and, making another perilous jcurney to the further platform, relumed with a violin and how. With these Mr Wandle proceeded io play a delightful fantasia of popular 'airs which Included-—he told me (he names afterwards —“Two Little Girls in Blue, Lad," Handel’s “Largo," and “The Stephanie Gavotte," an exciting lime lo which Mr Wandle .actually danced, executing, as Me crossed the wire, a slow, stalely pas sen! with nllernate feet. 1 do not know which of these tunes I liked best. They all seemed incomparably beautiful to me. And now Duko Marjoram was once more bowing in the centre of the ring. “With vour kind and polite attention we will now introduce Lillie Fay, j the youngest circus rider in the world. . . The hush of expectancy was broken by a low, whispering murmur, that long-drawn sentimental sfigh of pleasure that comes spontaneously from a crowd of simple Eng-

William 4he Conqueror, Ten-Sixty-Six,

and ends rhythmically with Scawfell, Bowfell, . Penygant, Plinlimmon and The Peak in Derbyshire. .

(Author ofThe Lilac Maid,” “ Dorinda, Darling!” Etc., Etc., Etc.) 4 (An Enthralling Story of Circus Life.) }»{

lish folk, confronted by beauty which they feel but do not understand. And as Prince, the little white pony, cantered daintily Into the ring, I fell in love. On the tiny side-saddle sat Fellolty Adelaide, her small oval face crowned with its red-gold halo, in which glittered a single silver star. The little ballet frook might have been of thistledown, woven by elfin fingers under aiY enchanted moon. It seemed as if she floated towards us, fragile as a flower petal, white as the down upon a seabird’s breast. Right in front of me she passed, her brown eyes shining, her head held proudly ere'et. My small grubby hands trembled and a surge of hot tears welled up in my eyes. To each of us, man or boy, comes once in his" life the vision of eternal beauty. . It conies, maybe, in the pearled wonder of a mountain sunrise, in the lilt of a remembered song, in the hushed tones of a woman’s voice, but. ... it comes. On the hard wooden bench of that rickety gallery sat a freckled undersized country hoy in a shabby home-, spun suit and clumsy boots, but the high gods looked down upon him and chuckled softly.

Weave a circle -round him thrloe, And close your eyes tsvith holy dread, For he -on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise.

For, grubby, unkempt urchin that I was, I knew that I should love Fay Marjoram, with heart and mind, with body and soul, until I died. CHAPTER V. Some Aspects of a Liberal -Education. I left Friar’s Hollow Board School* at a critical stage In my educational progress and never saw Standard Five. I do not boast of this, as is the manner of self-made men. I merely set it down as a fact. From that modest seat of learning I carried away certain ossified' scraps of information concerning the kings and queens, the capes and bays; the rivers and mountains of England. To this day I retain, firmly fixed in my head, a curious sort of free ’ verse poem which begins: ..

It was not likely that knowledge of .this kind would be of much service to me in my new life. “But, dash my buttons,” said Duke Marjoram, “I will undertake that boy’s education." I had no further need of the blackboard and dog-eared primer of Friar’s Hollow Board School, 'Duke • r Marjorani’s tutelage 1 went out into the world. AIL England- beoame my geography book, for, year In, year out,'on sleepy summer mornings our caravan-wheels rolled along the white road. I have' travelled the road from Devon to Northumberland,®from the smoke-grey towns of the West Riding, where our wero bare and gritty as slagi??aps, to the pleasant meadows of Kent. Much have I seen and known .. . . . the deep-thatched cottages of my own country, the leafy glades of Warwick, the blossoming orchard lands of the West, the reek of pitvillages in Durham. I have seen sunrise over the Vale of Severn and camped knee-deep in grimy mud at Huddersfield. I will not say that lam a part of all that I have met. ... I did not travel ..guide-book in hand, sampling oalhedrals and “doing” the birthplaces of famous men. A town might be beautiful or famous, . but that meant iiothing to me. Perhaps I remember Salisbury, city of grey lanes and quiet closes, as the place where Daisy, always an elephant of delicate digestion, was smitten with .a violent attack of colic and almost perished. Stratford-on-Avon, too, has poigant memories for me, quite unconnected with the Bard of Avon. It was there that Bruce, our oldest lion, escaped, owing to the breaking of a hinge in the door of his cage, and set off, In his harmless friendly way, for a stroll round the neighbourhood. lie did no damage to life or property, and was finally re-captured by an indomitable old lady who lived on the outskirts of the town.

I remember her red flannel petticoat and her wrinkled, determined face with Intense vividness. She hit poor Bruce on the head with a lethal instrument locally known as a peggysiick —he had Interrupted her at the wash-tub- —and locked him In her coal-shed until Air Marjoram arrived to rescue him. She expressed indignation, I recollect, that the visitation should have occurred on her washingday. Bruce returned a sadder and wiser lion, to brood upon peggy-sticks in the safety of his cage. lie never strayed again. (To be continued.)