

BRASS BANDS AND

SNAKE OIL STANDS

Colorful Glimpses of America's

Early Entertainment

by

Dennis Goodwin

Cover illustrations by the author

Revised 2020

Copyright  1995

by Dennis Goodwin

dennisgoodwin1947@gmail.com

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 93-90384

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION

To my wife, Joan, for her constant support and endless bowls

of ice cream as I slaved over a hot word processor

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Kickapoo Cures and Wizard Oils (Medicine Shows)

From "Cat Pianos" to "Human Fish" (vaudeville)

When the Air Began to Talk (the origin of radio)

Heroes, Hisses and Jolly Della's Deflating Bosom (tent shows)

When Wild Really Meant Wild (Wild West shows)

From British Blondes to Shimmy Shakers (Burlesque)

Hayrides, Oprys and Jubilees (radio barn dances)

The Most American Thing in America (Chautauqua)

Gargoyles, Griffins and Glistening Glamour (circus parades)

The Pounding of the Sheepskin and the Rattling of the Bones (minstrel shows)

Miracles, Midways and Mouse Ears (amusement parks)

Mystic Mermaids and the "Marvelous Cherrie Burnham" (museums)

The Greatest "Mud Show" on EarthTheGreatestMudShow (the early circus)

When Voices Grew Faces (vintage television)

The "Talkies" First Words (the first talking pictures)

Other Books by the author

Out of the West

Fate, Flukes & Fame in Country & Bluegrass Music

The Activity Director's Bag of Tricks

Ten-minute Tales

More Ten-minute Tales

Lives and Times
INTRODUCTION

What a multi-colored stream of one-of-a-kind characters flowed across the recreational landscape of early America! Where else would you find Blatz the "Human Fish," "Dinner Pail McNutt" or "Big-eared Zip?" And where else could you find the vivid scene of "Sparrow," a vaudeville performer who would catch pumpkins with his face. Or a fast-talking medicine showman "curing" corns right through a country bumpkin's shoes with a secret ingredient - gasoline!

From the gleaming gold and silver stream of the great circus street parades, to the pounding of the tambourines of the raucous minstrel shows, the sights and sounds of our country's early entertainment are filled to the brim with a restless energy. Annie Oakley, the Christy Minstrels, the "Boston Bird Man," "Slick and Sleepy" and all the rest, rise from the dusty pages of history and live again for a few golden moments. Like true entertainers of all ages, they smiled and bowed through hard times and lean years, with a whole-hearted rough-edged gusto.

Some of the greatest men and women of our time stepped into our view on the platforms and stages that our country built to amuse itself. Carrie Nation, Booker T. Washington, and Presidents Grant, Garfield, Hayes, McKinley and Taft, all strode proudly across the Chautauqua stage. Each one left footprints that would lead thousands of Americans toward new frontiers of thought. Buffalo Bill Cody, William Jennings Bryan, Oliver Wendell Holmes and a legion of other famous people, turned their efforts toward entertaining their fellow countrymen.

Mixed in among these great names are those of the entertainers who didn't exactly carve a deep notch in history. Like "Fleury," for example, the vaudeville showman who painted a face on his stomach. At the end of his act, he would flip up his costume and make faces at the audience. Or Silk Hat Harry, the medicine showman who would eat his own soap in order to prove its purity.

As the greats and the not-so-greats walked in and out of the spotlight, they left behind stories that simply have to be told and retold. They may not always have had the sophistication of many of the entertainers who followed in their footsteps. But when Sparrow took his stately bow, as the pumpkin pieces dripped from his chin...and when Fleury's stomach was at just the right position for his navel to "pout" at the audience, there was no doubt about it, this was entertainment at its purest.

If only we could transport ourselves back to those days, what a show we would see! The airwaves would once again tingle with excitement as The Shadow and The Green Hornet filled our imaginations and our living rooms with "mind pictures" of their crime-fighting adventures. The circus tents would once more host the forerunners of today's glittering spectacles as "Old Bet" the elephant and the donkey named "Zebra" performed for us. And the tent shows would again bring to life the rough-edged adventures of Deadwood Dick and Roarin' Ralph, the Ring-tailed Screamer.

From the shimmy shakers of the burlesque shows, to the mystic mermaids of the early museums, we could witness entertainment that wasn't exactly highly refined. We could savor the unpolished glittering fragments of amusement that were often as raw and uncultivated as many of the people who gathered to watch them. As we sat among the tobacco-spitting audience members, we would hear them shout out song requests during the theatrical performances. Then, when we returned to the present, we could relate colorful tales about the flurries of rotten eggs and insults that vividly expressed the viewer's discontentment.

Also, we would bring back stories of the poison pens of the early theater's uninhibited critics. We could tell about the reporter who reviewed the play "The Battle of Eutaw Springs." He conceded that it wasn't such a bad play, considering "the author must have had his brains blown out at the same battle!" And we could watch the poor sweltering performers of the pioneer television broadcasts. As they faced the blazing studio lights, they had to wear black lipstick so the viewers of the snowy little screens could even see their lips move.

As we strolled around America's early amusement parks, moon maidens would offer us green cheese, and three hundred midgets would welcome us to their "Lilliputian Village." And we could sit back and enjoy the fabulous talkies, smiling as the sound and picture synchronization problems of the early cowboy movies often showed us "talking horses."

Yes, someone may someday invent a way to drift back through the mists of time! Then we can come face-to-face with the one-of-a-kind characters that painted these unique images on our country's amusement landscape. But until then, please sit back and enjoy a word trip back to the glorious days of Brass Bands and Snake Oil Stands.

KICKAPOO CURES AND WIZARD OILS

The Silver-tongued Masters of the Medicine Shows

"My friends, do you suffer from that most dreaded of all diseases, rheumatism? If you do, take a bottle of my bitters, and if it doesn't cure you..." The medicine showman paused dramatically as the wide-eyed crowd stared through the flickering light of the kerosene pan torch. "If it doesn't cure you..." he repeated, perched majestically on the runway of his wagon, staring intently into the quivering mass of country bumpkins," then prepare to meet your God, for you've got to die."

Modern-day high-pressure salesmen with their neon striped jackets and florescent smiles, didn't invent hard-sell salesmanship. Oh, no! They are no match for the old medicine showmen. Silk Hat Harry for example, would prove the purity of his product by eating his own soap right there in front of you. Milton Bartok would catch your attention by apparently setting himself on fire with a blowtorch. That's hard-sell salesmanship!

The "doctors" and "professors" and all the other characters of the old medicine shows were some of the most colorful salesmen the world has ever seen. They peddled everything from Doctor William's Pink Pills for Pale People, to the Little Wonder Electric Tibetan Rheumatism Ring. The rare formulas they discovered from far-off Indian tribes and brilliant German scientists were often concocted in such exotic environments as their hotel bathtub, the night before the show. They quoted statistics never to be found in medical journals, and promised cures that would top the miracles of the ages. For years, a steady stream of fast-talking "German Doctors" and "Indian Chiefs" sold relief for everything from biliousness to a "loss of manly powers," in twenty-five and fifty-cent bottles.

During their "golden age," before and after the turn-of-the century, they crossed and re-crossed the country by the hundreds, leaving salves, bitters, tonics, and well-entertained country folk along the way. The little country towns were the favorite picking grounds of the medicine showmen, especially the small towns in the mid-west and the south. For years after the city folk had become too sophisticated and suspicious for Kickapoo cures and Wizard Oils, the country yokels were happy to see the shows arrive, and eager to buy their magical remedies.

Not just everyone shared the friendly enthusiasm of the rural mid-west and south, however. Some stops along the circuit were definitely anti-medicine show towns. These hostile environments would either charge outrageous fees for a license, or simply tell the showmen there was no place available. Sometimes, even in a previously friendly town, a new sheriff might decide the town didn't need any "Kickapoo chiefs," or "German physicians" peddling their miracles.

This unfriendly attitude was something most medicine showmen expected occasionally. After all, the medicine shows developed from the early pitchmen, who were not always the most welcome guests in town. These hard-sell specialists traveled alone, or sometimes with one or two entertainers. Until World War I, they traveled in wagons, on freight cars, or on foot with their supplies on pack burros. Following the war, many pitchmen adapted a truck with a tailgate that dropped down to form a small stage like the earlier wagons. The stage was often lit at night by alcohol torches made from old cans, or by a more expensive gasoline or kerosene pan torch made by a blacksmith.

Most pitchmen developed a spiel and stuck to it, sometimes for years. One of the exceptions to this was pitchman Curly Thurber. One time he would be "Chief High Eagle," peddling a mystical Indian remedy, and at the next stop, he might be dressed as a swami. No matter how he was dressed, his silver tongue was always in prime condition. "Buy this medicine," he would advise people walking by the sidewalk. "Don't go to the doctors. What do they do when you go them?" he asked. As the stunned bystander waited for the answer, he continued. "I'll tell you what they do. They cut open your umbilicus and take out your tweedium." Upon hearing that horrid news, buying a bottle or tin of whatever Curly might be selling at the time, seemed like a small price to pay to avoid loosing your tweedium!

Soap pitchmen were a common sight, peddling a variety of perfumed and "medicinal" soaps. Their demonstrations were eye-catching as they took a bar of their soap, rubbed their hands together, and instantly produced mounds of foaming lather. Unfortunately, the customer had a little trouble creating the same bubbles at home; since usually the soap pitchman had either secretly palmed a soap-filled sponge or had previously dipped his hands in liquid soap. One of the best-known soap pitchmen, Silk Hat Harry would not only eat his soap to impress you but like Curly, he could reach out and "reel in" the yokels with his spiel.

"People come forward every day, my friends, and tell me how this soap has cured them of skin diseases," he would say. Then he would describe some poor wretched customer who once had scabs and sores all over his face, and of course...bought a few cakes of his wonderful soap. That same poor soul, he would relate, saw him later, looking handsome and clear faced, and introduced his wife and his new twin babies. "That's what this soap has done for me," he gratefully told Harry. "But gentlemen," Harry would say, with a twinkle in his eye, "I do not guarantee this same result for everyone who buys my soap."

Mineral salts became a favorite product for a lot of medicine pitchmen. The pitchman would often use graphic charts or models to illustrate the body's organs, and catch the eye of the bystander. One of the standard mineral salt pitches told the audience that the precious healing mineral waters were the "gift of the Great and Wise Creator. He makes those treatments way down deep in the bowels of the earth, in a laboratory far greater than man could devise, and forces them to the surface in the form of mineral water, and gives them to us."

The rich people, the pitchman explained, had discovered the healing value, bought the springs up, and built immense hotels over them. The mineral salts being sold were the same exact ingredients as the curative ingredients in the mineral waters. During a lengthy dissertation, the listener learned that hardening of the arteries "helps kill ninety-nine out of every one hundred working men and women in America today..." Fortunately, however, they found that regular doses of the mineral salts would take them off the endangered list. It also took care of rheumatism, malaria chills, weak bladders, kidney stones, constipation, and a nearly endless list of ills. For fifty cents a package, it seemed like a pretty good bargain. Fortunately, after the spiel, they were told that anyone who would like to have "lasting good health, that great gift of God and Nature, may now obtain it."

Herbs were another pitchman's standby. Violet McNeal, a "pitch-lady" remembered her days peddling herbs. The men who worked for her, she recalled, claimed the herbs could cure "anything from hangnails to leprosy." One of her pitches involved two X-rays that had been taken of her when she had a series of operations. She fixed a rack with a light in back of the X-rays, so "the yokels could get the full dramatic benefit of them." She then offered a thousand dollars to anyone who could prove the X-rays were not of her body. As she flashed the light on and she began to point out the various vital organs, the crowd surged forward. "The natives stood there with their mouths open so wide," she remembered, "I could have thrown marbles down their throats."

She had a vivid recollection of one particular day when one of the bystanders asked her if exercise is good for a person when they are taking the herbs. She had always been able to touch her palms to the floor without bending her knees, so she thought this might make an interesting demonstration. "Yes, brother," she replied, "I'll show you what a woman my age who takes these herbs regularly can do." With that, she quickly bent down to touch her palms on the ground. She had forgotten, however, that just prior to the demonstration, she had enjoyed a full meal with some friends in town. As she straightened up, she produced "a resounding belch." Mortified at the incident, she quickly thought and after regaining her composure stated, "As you see, gentle exercise and the herbs will expel all the gas from your stomach."

As interesting as Curly, Silk Hat Harry, and Violet were, most of the pitchmen and women realized they could draw in more people if they included entertainment with their pitches. Through the years, they tried nearly every type of act imaginable. Ventriloquists, comedians, banjo players, magicians, and singers took their place among the boxes and bottles of tonics and salves. In addition to the human entertainers, snakes, lizards, alligators, and monkeys also took their turns at drawing in the crowds.

After the singers sang and before the monkey danced, the pitches would fill the air. Interspersed among tapping feet and strumming banjos, came the silver-tongued pleas to prevent the "ills of mankind and the woes of the world." Wide-eyed farmers learned that tonics and bitters could unleash the hidden powers of roots and herbs to cure everything from spots before the eyes to ague.

The demonstrations were sometimes more interesting than the entertainment. Old Doc Ruckner, for example, would not only cure corns right there on the stage, but he would cure them right through your shoes! The enthusiastic patient wasn't aware that the soothing coolness was created by the secret ingredient - gasoline!

Liver pads also gave instant relief right there on the spot. When the magical pad was put in place, a warm glow settled over the area. This "instant health" actually came from the red pepper mixed in with the other ingredients. As technology entered the picture, electric or galvanic belts became the new miracle cures. The belts were usually sold to cure sciatica and backaches. They also often used red pepper to deliver their "electric" tingle. One of the classiest models was hawked by a pitchman named Big Foot Wallace. Covered in purple satin, it used zinc disks soaked in vinegar to give the tingle.

The wonders came in all sizes. Thousands of customers slowly examined their aching knuckles to see if their Little Wonder Tibetan Rheumatism Rings had begun to start working. Along with the new miracles came, free of charge, an education about the mysterious world of medical science. It didn't matter much that this information couldn't be found in the more traditional medical books of the day. If a German High Doctor or Kickapoo Indian Chief provided the information, it was obviously too new and innovative to have been recorded yet in those stale old medical journals.

Illnesses thought previously to have complex causes, were simplified into easy-to-remember categories. Imperfect skin, the audience learned, was always the sign of bad blood, and could easily be corrected by a one-dollar quart bottle of Johnson's Sarsaparilla. They found that by using S.S.S., The Real Blood Medicine, they could cure themselves "inside and out." Skin diseases, it turned out, were actually blood diseases in disguise. In fact, if the blood was in a pure and healthy condition, no poisonous elements could reach the skin. As fascinating as the individual pitchmen were, the medicine shows were usually more enjoyable because, in addition to the pitches, the shows were packed with entertainment. Like most other forms of traveling shows, they would set up in schoolhouses, vacant stores, barns, or whatever was available. No matter where they set up, the public would come, and they usually didn't even mind their far-fetched claims. After all, the medicine show might be the only live entertainment they would see that year.

Some showmen only sold one particular medicine right around their hometown. They were often called the "forty-milers" or the "home guard," because of their limited travel. In the late eighteen hundreds, however, some medicine shows grew large enough to hire as many as forty performers. When these huge extravaganzas hit town, they would usually set up shop on a circus lot or some other wide-open space. They moved indoors if the weather was bad, into an opera house or some other large building. Most "opera houses" incidentally, never saw an opera during their lifetime. The name just seemed to imply a certain social prestige.

Most medicine showmen preferred the outdoor bookings since they could accommodate a larger crowd. And crowds were the name of the game - the more people in the audience, the more potential customers. Some of these huge shows began to resemble small circuses. The Big Sensation Medicine Company, for example, could seat up to 1,500 people under its 60 by 120-foot canvas. The entertainers even had the luxury of using dressing rooms set up behind the huge 40-foot stage. The show packed in a lot of entertainment (and money). On Wednesday nights, like many medicine shows, they would host a "double show" that featured more entertainment and shorter lectures.

While these huge shows would hit the cities, the smaller shows would tour the towns too small to draw real theater, nickelodeons, or Chautauqua. The smaller shows were often performed from the back of a specially modified wagon or inside a small tent. Some of them even used a "roofless tent." These were easy to erect, but obviously not much protection from the elements. Regardless of the type stage they used, the people came. Showman T. P. Kelley remembered looking out from the medicine show stage at crowds of six to eight thousand people holding up their money to buy his medicine. "...From the stage," he reflected, "it would appear like a waving sea of currency was before me. It was a beautiful sight." In addition to gaudy posters and banners, word of mouth would increase the crowds after the show hit town. Milton Bartok remembered the show as being the town's gathering place. "The first night we would have a fair crowd; the next night that crowd should double."

Anna Mae Noell's parents ran a small show named the Jack Roach Indian Medicine Show. She recalled that country people, especially in the small towns, were simply entertainment starved. "They loved it," she said, "and out of gratitude they bought whatever my father and mother sold them." Some showmen also had their favorite states. Harry Leon Wilson, who played a character named "Sooner Jackson," chose Iowa. "Give me Iowa," he would say, "where the boobs...simply come up and ask to be had...and I wouldn't crave another state out of our whole glorious union."

The entertainment of the medicine shows was probably as varied a mixture as any entertainment form in history. The showmen borrowed ideas from vaudeville, minstrel shows, circuses, burlesque, Chautauqua, magic shows and any other entertainment that would draw a crowd. It was, after all, the crowd that mattered. It simply didn't make much difference if the "yokels" had been drawn in by a high-toned orator or a dancing monkey. When the spiels began and the miraculous tonics or healing herbs were offered, the coins and bills appeared. Anything and everything became "medicine show entertainment." Magic tricks, burlesque acts, vaudeville skits, pantomime and pie-eating contests were used. Punch and Judy shows, musical comedy acts, dog and pony shows and even early motion pictures all found their way onto the medicine show platform.

The entertainment wasn't the only thing that pulled in the audiences. Another big draw was the prize candy. Some large shows would take in several hundred dollars a night in candy sales. Usually prize candy was sold at the first of the show to start the cash flowing. Sometimes however, it was saved for the finale because of the showy prizes that could be won. When the audience bought the little boxes of inexpensive candy, they would find either a small Cracker Jacks-type of prize inside or a slip of paper that would allow them to claim a larger prize displayed on the stage. These ranged from dishes or vanity sets for the ladies, to French dolls and giant stuffed pandas for the children. The display of these colorful gifts made a flashy backdrop for the show, and lured the potential winners into digging deeper into their pockets for coins.

Along with the entertainment and the prize candy, the audience could usually count on hearing pitches for herb tonics, liniments, salves, catarrh cures, corn remedies, and perfumed soaps. A lot of the shows prepared their own medicines. As the supply of "snake oils" or "Indian" remedies got low, they could simply haul out a washtub from underneath the platform, and whip up some more of the exotic cures. It didn't matter much that there wasn't always any snake in the snake oil or that likely no Indian had ever used the Kickapoo Cure. This was, after all, "show business."

Snake Oil, incidentally, did originally contain the fat of the Chinese Water Snake. The fat had been used in the Orient for years as a remedy for arthritis and bursitis and actually did help reduce inflammation and bring some relief. The concoction was introduced to America by the Chinese laborers who worked on the Transcontinental Railroad. It began to catch on as a treatment for aching muscles and joints.

The problem was...there weren't exactly a lot of Chinese Water Snakes crawling around the early West. As the demand for the liniment increase, the medicine salesmen often turned to other snakes, like the all-too-abundant Rattle Snake. The most widely known producer and salesman of this concoction was Clark Stanley. In 1893, he became a Snake Oil superstar at Chicago's Columbian Exposition. The "Rattlesnake King," as he billed himself, killed rattlesnakes and created his concoction right in front of the audience.

Not only was the actual rattlesnake fat not as effective in treating sore muscles, apparently Stanley eventually decided to skip the main ingredient. Years later, when his Snake Oil was later tested by the government, they found it contained only a small amount of beef fat in addition to mineral oil, red pepper, turpentine and camphor. The discovery was widely reported and led to the tag of "Snake Oil salesman" for charlatans claiming false cures.

Despite the public's disappointment in Stanley, a number of Snake Oil salesmen continued to peddle their wares. One of those was "Doc" M.R Chamberlain. Tommy Scott began working for him in 1936. Scott remembers singing in his show's amateur talent competition. Chamberlain's show was scheduled to play in Scott's hometown of Toccoa, Georgia, so young Tommy grabbed his guitar and headed off for a future in "show business." He won the competition, and Doc Chamberlain invited him to join up with the show, when it played in a nearby town a few weeks later.

Tommy couldn't wait! He hurried home to ask permission from his father. Although life in a medicine show wasn't exactly the type of career he had in mind for his son, his dad could see the gleam in Tommy's eyes. So he wished him well and allowed him to follow his dream. When Tommy arrived at Doc Chamberlain's show, he threw back his shoulders, tucked his guitar under his arm like a country music veteran, and proudly swaggered up to meet his new boss. His bubble, however, soon burst. "He looked at me," Tommy remembered, "and asked me who I was." When he told him his name and reminded Doc Chamberlain that he had invited him to join his show, the Doc was flabbergasted. "He said he had told that to everyone who had ever won his talent show, " Scott reflected, "and that nobody had ever taken him up on it before." Since he was already packed and ready, Chamberlain let him stay on. Years later, when old Doc Chamberlain retired, Tommy decided to keep the show on the road, still based out of Toccoa, Georgia.

Scott also remembered a time when Doc Chamberlain let him assist a pitchman who was in a bind, and needed an assistant to help him with a pitch. Neither Doc Chamberlain nor Tommy realized that his pitch involved what was popularly referred to as a "Jamb" or "Jam" pitch. Unlike the good-natured exaggerating that most medicine showmen were known for, the Jam pitchman basically ran a confidence game. "I never worked for him again," Scott said, "I was too scared to!"

This particular jam pitch involved selling "mystery boxes" that might or might not contain wristwatches. The pitchman, Tommy remembered, started off by displaying a shiny gold-colored wristwatch that he claimed looked "so much like solid gold, your friends won't know the difference." Then he offered the chance to buy a box that could contain one of the beautiful timepieces - or might be filled with inexpensive trinkets. For only ten dollars, he informed them, anyone might become the proud owner of one of these gorgeous watches. As he watched the crowd drop their eyes, shuffle their feet, and start to leave, he quickly began to drop the price. "How about eight dollars?" he asked, "Would that be worth the chance?" Still, the crowd showed no interest. "Okay, " he continued, "How about seven...six...five?" Then, with the desperate plea of a beaten man, he looked toward the heavens and blurted out the deal of a lifetime. "How about a dollar?"

Suddenly the shuffling stopped. Their gazes once more focused on the pleading pitchman, and several dollars were thrust excitedly into the air. As he handed out a few boxes, he asked the recipients to line up, so everyone could see their reactions as they opened their boxes. Before he let them open them, he asked them if they would be too upset if there was no watch in their box. They all agreed they wouldn't be. Then, on the count of three, he instructed them to open the boxes together. And lo and behold...each of them had become the proud owner of a brand new wristwatch!

Scratching his head in disbelief at this amazing upset of the laws of chance, the pitchman said he could not afford to sell any more at that price. He might however, consider letting a few more go for five dollars each. Once more, he asked the recipients if they would be too upset if they opened their box and found no watch. Again, they shook their heads "no." This time, when they lined up and opened their boxes, about half of them held up a new watch.

Still in state of shock over their unbelievable good luck, the pitchman nervously wiped his brow. He could only give the rest of the crowd "one more chance" at ownership of one of these shimmering golden treasures, he informed them. Then he would have to move along. This time, unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to offer a discount. After all, he was nearly bankrupt by the good fortune of the earlier winners. Again he quizzed the yokels if they would be upset to find trinkets in their boxes, and once more they agreed they wouldn't.

This time, after distributing boxes at the original ten-dollar price, he didn't line up the excited risk-takers for their "grand opening." Instead, he quickly thanked the audience for their kindness, and hopped on his wagon for a hasty retreat. As he headed out of town, counting the crisp ten-dollar bills and subtracting the paltry cost of the watches he had given away to get them, a smile crept over his face. That smile was likely not shared however, by the perplexed country bumpkins as they sorted through the inexpensive trinkets they found in each and every one of their ten dollar boxes...remembering they had all agreed they wouldn't be upset to receive them.

The showmen would sometimes buy their products directly from patent medicine manufacturers. They could sell the company's brands, or if they preferred, the manufacturers would either bottle the showman's own formula or simply stick his personal label on their stock medicines. These patent medicine manufacturers came in all sorts and sizes. Dr. R.B. Webb, for example, created his Red Devil salves in a small run-down wooden shack. He also whipped up a blood tonic that would build up "lost manhood."

A hand-painted sign hung over his "laboratory" informing customers that his Indian herb medicine "cures when others fail." Other companies, like the huge Clifton Remedy Company in Girard, Illinois, supplied as many as forty medicine shows at once. They sold the medicine to the showmen nearly at cost, since their real profit came from the drugstores in the towns that often carried their products after the medicine show left town.

Then there was the "giant." One of the all-time largest suppliers was Frank P. Home's German Medicine Company of Cincinnati. They handled up to a hundred medicine shows simultaneously. There was actually nothing German about the German Medicine Company, except the name. Frank Home felt the reference to Germany would give some of the prestige to his company that the German universities had at the time. Following his lead, more and more medicine companies and medicine showmen suddenly became "German."

The Home's Company devised a code system for the showmen to order the medicine by telegraph using only a few words. Key words were used to represent certain quantities of specific medicines. Just ten words selected from this code system, for example, could tell the company to "Send by fast freight, six dozen Teutonia; three dozen Germania Oil; one dozen Home's cough syrup; three Queen of the Valley; one gross of Berlin Corn cure; one dozen Puri-Ri-Curi soap; assorted posters; and an "A-l" all-around performer who plays the organ."

Many of the medicine companies would give free promotional materials as an incentive to the show that sold their standard products. Home's, for example, would send boxes of posters and pamphlets out for just the freight charge. When a small medicine show used the official German Medicine Company's promotional material, most people thought they were part of the company. This gave legitimacy to the little show, even though all they did was buy medicine from Homes.

Medicine companies and medicine showmen used the large colorful posters that the circuses and Wild West Shows had popularized. They would also hand out inexpensive magazines and colorful trading cards. Throwaway flyers called "dodgers" would advertise the entertainment the show offered. One of the German Medicine Company's dodgers promised "High class vaudeville, with sterling specialties, dainty dancers, clever comedians, and sweet singers" in an unrivaled array of bright and catchy amusement." Who in their right mind would miss a show like that? The company would also offer the medicine shows extra novelties like "most beautiful baby" voting ballots, bean-guess tickets, picture postcards, rulers and mirrors.

Many of the large company's concoctions were sold by the thousands of cases. The Berlin Corn and Bunion Cure, Hood's Sarsaparilla, Wright's Indian Vegetable Pills, Merchant's Gargling Oil, and Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound, became household names. Some "treatments," however, were not exactly household names. In fact, there was another whole world of money to be made by the medicine showmen in the seedy parts of town. Tucked in amongst the broken buildings of the skid rows in many cities, were the gaudy Museums of Anatomy. Preying upon fear and ignorance, these "museums" were set up to lure in customers, with gaudy and often bizarre displays. The attention-getting sign reading "for men only" also helped entice the curious mind.

The entrance to the museum was traditionally a corridor leading from the street that was lined with cages filled with snakes, monkeys, birds, and other "dime museum" type of attractions. Once the potential customer entered the corridor, he soon came upon displays containing wax or papier-mâché replicas of anatomical parts that had been attacked by venereal disease. As the "sucker to be" proceeded further into the museum, the atmosphere became more and more somber. On all sides of him, the glass cases were filled with models of hideously diseased organs.

Often, in the darkest most foreboding corner of the museum, he would come upon a glass case, totally dark inside. As he paused in front of the case, a light would flash on, revealing a figure of a smirking, drooling idiot. Underneath the figure, a legend would read: Lost Manhood. When the poor visitor was just about ready to have a nervous breakdown, a floor man from the museum would quietly walk up to him, hand him a card and let him know that if there was even the slightest possibility that he might be infected by one of these dreaded diseases, he was in luck. It just so happened that a great and imminent physician ran a "medical institute" right in this very spot, and might possibly be able to work him into his busy schedule.

Once the trembling yokel entered the "institute," he was fed more hair-raising tales about the horrors of untreated social diseases. One California secret disease specialist who worked with a museum of anatomy, would take a urine sample from the patient. After leaving the room to test the sample, he would arrive with a sad face and in hushed tones he would inform the patient that even though he did not wish to alarm him, he felt he simply had to tell him that he was in a bad way. "Your urine is full of animalcules. The microscope shows them plainly."

As the sucker cringed and fretted, the specialist continued. The test, he related, also showed that his blood was likewise full of these little "animalcules." "Now sir," he would console the patient, "as long as the animalcules swim end-wise, there is no difficulty. They circulate all about the body without injury. But let one of them get crosswise..." He focused his gaze on the poor perspiring patient. "Don't you see, the effect is to obstruct the blood vessel instantly? And then," his eyes glared more intently, "you drop dead, sir!" Needless to say, the patient could usually not get his money out of his wallet fast enough to buy the miracle medicine that might get the dreaded animalcules out of his bloodstream.

As the years rolled by, however, fewer and fewer people dug into their wallets to rid themselves of the animalcules or to purchase the wondrous Wizard Oils and Kickapoo cures. The country was simply becoming too informed. Magazines like the Ladies Home Journal and Collier's Weekly began to run articles about the fraud and quackery of the pitchmen and the medicine shows. Newspapers joined in and gave wide coverage to newly proposed laws designed to deal with the mislabeling and abuse of medicine. The automobile was bringing people into towns and cities for more legitimate medical treatment. The medicine showman's worst nightmare was coming true - the "yokels" were becoming sophisticated!

Little by little, the Indian chiefs and German High Doctors were beginning to hear the death knell of their glory days, just over the not-so-distant horizon. When congress passed the 1906 Federal Food and Drugs Act it was obvious that the end of the golden days of the medicine show was not far off. The law made it a misdemeanor to mislabel the medicines. The "cures" were impounded and analyzed, and usually found, to nobody's real amazement, that they didn't always cure a whole lot. A long series of impoundings, investigations, and fines helped to eventually bring the curtain down on one of the most fascinating acts in America's history.

The medicine showmen didn't go down without a fight, however. Their trade papers railed against the "madness" and "radicalism" of those who were trying to destroy their livelihood. Milton Bartok, known as the "Health Evangelist" of the Bardex Show, developed a spiel called an antipitch. After he had carried on about the miraculous powers of his products, he would ask, "What does it cure? It doesn't cure a thing." "Nature does the curing," he would tell them. "Any good physician you go to will tell you the same thing. His cures, or so-called cures or healing is with the help of nature." Some of the medicine companies also began to tone down their advertisements and wild claims. Kickapoo Cough Cure for example, was changed to Kickapoo Cough Syrup. Dr. Ranell's Indian Herb Tablets, which had once been sold as a cure for rheumatism, liver, kidney, blood and skin diseases, and a host of other ailments, were now advertised as being for these ailments, rather than curing them.

In spite of the efforts of the medicine showmen, the tide was turning, and the "Indian chiefs," the "German physicians," and all the others would soon find themselves looking for another line of work. Not only were the country bumpkins more sophisticated and worldly, they were no longer as entertainment-starved as they once were. They could drive to the nearest town to catch touring theatre groups and even the newest rage, motion pictures. Radio was bringing music and comedy into their house, and they didn't even have to buy magic slaves or miraculous tonics to enjoy it.

Although some shows and pitchmen were still holding on through the years, the bottom fell out in 1938. Another federal law passed that year, clamped down even tighter on the mislabeling and false advertising of medicine, and added much higher fines for violations. Federal agents even began to show up in the audiences to arrest those who continued to overlook the regulations.

As the wild and colorful era of the medicine shows came to an end, so did some of the simplicity and innocence of a young nation. Tired from their struggle for survival, the "chiefs" packed away their feathers, and the "high physicians" dropped their German accents. Medicine would become legitimate and entertainment would become sophisticated. We're likely better off with our antibiotics and penicillin, rather than trembling in fear, waiting for an "animalcule" to turn sideways in our bloodstreams. All the same, what would be the harm if...every now and then for old times sake, the pharmacist behind the sterile counter would drag out a few snakes and lizards while he munched on a bar of soap or set himself on fire with a blowtorch?

FROM "CAT PIANOS" TO "HUMAN FISH"

Vaudeville at its Zaniest

As the curtain parted, the audience cast curious glances at the row of nervous alley cats standing side-by-side in their narrow boxes. The cats responded with their own questioning gazes as they peered out through the screen-covered ends. Then suddenly, like a frantic bell-ringer, a "pianist," stood behind them and began to pull their tails, which dangled down behind the row of cages. Without hesitation, the otherwise ordinary cats were miraculously transformed into a synchronized feline music machine, and began to "meow" out a song in perfect pitch! Hard to believe? Highly implausible? Downright incredible? Well, maybe just a little, but that's all right, it was vaudeville!

The other performers probably chuckled at the audience reaction as the Maestro pulled on the artificial cat tails and secretly did cat imitations. Like many other off-the-wall stunts and acts, this one was often sandwiched in between longer performances. The Cat Piano, like so many other one-of-a-kind acts, has taken its place as a memory of an age of raw, uninhibited entertainment - an age of performers who laughed at hard times, but took their comedy very seriously.

Throughout the glory years of vaudeville from the 1880's into the 1930's, thousands of acts walked out onto the stage. Some left to the thunderous applause of appreciative audiences. Others ducked tomatoes and hoped the "hook" wouldn't sweep them away before they finished. Most people remember the big names when they think of vaudeville. Eddie Cantor, Fannie Brice, Al Jolson, Jimmy Durante, Georgie Jessel, Jack Benny, Bob Hope, George Burns, Bert Lahr, Sophie Tucker, Maurice Chevalier, Ed Wynn, the Marx Brothers, Milton Berle and a nearly unending list of entertainment legends cut their teeth in vaudeville theaters. Their stories have been documented in numerous books and movies, and we have all marveled at how such great talents took root in such humble soil.

But what about the "not-so-legendary" acts? What about "Blatz, the Human Fish," "Fleury" or "Singer's Midgets?" They deserve their place in history too. Some of the most innovative acts in vaudeville were created to fill the space between the main entertainers. They could often be stretched or shrunk to fit the time-slot available. These acts also sometimes stretched the outer boundaries of imagination. The Human Fish, for example, was an act performed by man named Blatz. He would completely submerge himself in a tank of water on stage, and begin to slowly eat a banana. When he was through with his snack, he would entertain himself by playing a slide trombone. Following his meal and music, he would read a newspaper and then curl up for a nap. According to his contemporaries, he had no hidden air hose, but could simply hold his breath for an extremely long time. The Human Fish likely didn't have much competition from similar acts.

Then there was Fleury. Fleury was an old English character who would dance around the stage in a Turkish costume. Near the finale of his act, he would toss up his cape and expose his stomach. On his chest, were painted two eyes and a nose. His navel was painted like a puckered mouth, and as he flexed his stomach muscles, he could make "faces" at the audience.

Hernandez was a peculiar-looking performer who, judging from the description of his act, might have been a hit in a modern-day rock music video. He painted his face black, dressed in black tights, and wore a wig that came to a point. He played guitar, and as he played he would perform all sorts of strange contortions. When he played a musical run, for example, he would appear to extend his neck nearly a foot, then let it slowly sink back into his shoulders.

Pointed wigs were also used in a dance number appropriately called "A Study in Points." Two men and a woman appeared on stage, and the men had long pointed eyebrows, ear lobes, noses, mustaches, and goatees. Even their collars, lapels, and coat tails had long extended points. To top it off, they wore long pointed shoes. They would perform a dance style called "legmania," which emphasized high kicking and splits. As they made their entrance, the men would gracefully lift their legs completely over the lady, in rhythm to the music.

A lot of these novelty acts were created as "afterpieces." This meant they were made to fit into the space between the main acts. Dances were a popular type of afterpiece, since they were easily lengthened or shortened. The "transformation dance" was an eye-catching number that used wires called "strip strings." A lady, for example, might come on stage marching in a full military uniform. Someone behind stage would then pull one of the strings attached to one layer of her uniform, and she would transform into an Irish washerwoman dancing a jig. Then with another pull she was in a short skirt, doing a skipping-rope dance. A dancer named Kitty O'Neill perfected a dance called the "Sand Jig" in the late eighteen hundreds. She would walk on stage carrying a cornucopia holding about a pint of sand and sprinkle it near the front of the stage. Then she would dance a jig with shuffles and slides, all on the balls of her feet.

As the dances became popular afterpieces, the performers looked around for other props to add a little variety to their act. For an "egg dance," the dancer would gingerly dance among about twenty eggs, taking care not to break them. At the end of the bit, the dancer would usually break a couple of eggs to show they were real. A "spade dance" was performed with a piece of hardwood formed to look like an old fashioned spade. The dancer would stand on the blade section, hold the handle with both hands, and hop around the stage to the rhythm of the music. For the finale, he or she would usually hop over hurdles, rows of bottles or lighted candles. Golden and Drayton did an old-time rhythm bit called "Patting Rabbit Hash." During a rendition of "Turkey in the Straw," Golden would accompany the music by patting and slapping his hands on his knees, hips, elbows, shoulders and forearms to create a triple-time rhythm that sounded almost like a snare drum.

Like the medicine shows, the wide variety of vaudeville's characters and performances was due to the varied recipe that used ingredients from nearly everything that came before it. Vaudeville's roots were linked to the music halls of early England and the between-the-act comic dialogues of the French Operas of the 1700's. The more direct ancestors were the variety shows popular in America during the 1800's. Vaudeville drew not only from the "mixed audience" type like the river-boat shows, circuses, dime museums, minstrel shows, Chautauqua, town halls and amusement parks. It also turned to the less sophisticated "men-only" entertainment forms, including the beer halls, Honky Tonks, music halls, and burlesque houses. These less legitimate forms added the spice to the recipe.

The results of this unique mixture produced a collection of acts that truly ran the spectrum of show business. They ranged from the perfectly crafted and synchronized puppets of Walter Deaves' miniature puppet orchestra, to the sloppy antics of a performer named Sparrow. Sparrow would open his act by tossing a couple of melons or pumpkins up in the air and "catching" them with his face as they burst into slop! He continued this process with eggs, and would then toss soft oranges into the audience for people to throw back as he attempted to catch them with a fork he held in his mouth. His clothes were made from rubber and linoleum, and he carried his own floor cloth.

Not nearly as messy, but just as unusual, were a couple of short bits called the "Talking Hand" and "Masks and Faces." The Talking Hand has been revised by later comedians, (remember the Ed Sullivan Show?) and featured a hand painted like a face. John D. Silva would paint eyes above the knuckles of two fingers of his hand and use his thumb as the lower jaw of the mouth. Then he would drape a hood and dress or some other costume over his hand and use it as his puppet. If his hand-character was a man, he would often stick a pipe in its "mouth" and by using a hidden hose and bulb, make it puff out smoke. The Masks and Faces bit used oil paintings of characters whose faces were cut out. The performers would dress appropriately to the person pictured and take on their character. Some of the favorite talking portraits were Lincoln, Grant, and as a closing number, George Washington would often give a speech to the tune of the Star Spangled Banner.

One reason that there were so many varied bits was simply because there were so many slots to fill. A vaudeville show would often have as many as thirty-five performers doing their singing, dancing, comedy, drama and whatever else, in rapid-fire succession. One of the most "rapid-fire" acts on the bill was that of Basco and Roberts. They worked in black face and black costumes, and wore large ape-like feet and huge wigs. Their act, although it probably never achieved critical acclaim, would definitely keep your attention. They jumped on each other's stomachs, kicked each other in the face and took dangerous falls. You might think that this would be a one-of-a-kind bit, but another team, Sherman and Morrissey, did a burlesque trapeze act that was just as hazardous. They wore huge artificial bare feet complete with large bunions and corns, and would perform "knockabout" comedy so rough that after a few minutes they would head back to the dressing room to apply medicine and pick the splinters out of each other.

One act was a lot classier, but as risky for the audience as the performers. Called the "Flying Perch," it consisted of a trapeze suspended directly above the audience and the orchestra. Charles Lane, who billed himself as M. Charles, was a Flying Perch specialist before the turn-of-the-century. After he climbed a rope up to the trapeze, he would perform all sorts of gyrations and dangerous balancing positions. Another breathtaking acrobatic performance used two parallel bars, one above the other. The acrobats would drop from the high bar down to the lower one, catching themselves by their legs. They added handstands, shoulder rolls, and sudden drops that left the audience breathless.

The "Bounding Rope" act was another eye-catcher. It was similar to a tightrope act, and the acrobat would do all sorts of stunts on a stretched-out two-inch thick rope. He would go from somersaults to half-turns, and fall down to a sitting position, then bounce back up. For some reason, it was traditional that the bounding rope acrobat usually wore a jockey costume. One of the greatest however, Juan Caicedo, was a Mexican who wore his native costume, including spurs. The spurs appeared to add difficulty to the stunt, but in reality gave Juan something to hook into the rope if he felt himself getting off balance.

Another acrobatic act that scored high in popularity was called Joe Fanton's Athletes. Joe Fanton's equipment included a twenty-foot high rigging with two rings hanging from a bar at the top. For the finale of the act, a 200-pound sandbag was dropped onto the opposite end of a teeterboard which catapulted Joe twenty feet in the air. While in the air, he would turn a half somersault and catch his feet in the loops. More than once the stagehands would raise the sandbag too high and Joe would be thrown completely over the rigging! One of the most impressive acrobatic acts was a showstopper from the 1890's. Hassan Ben Ali and his troupe of twelve Arabian acrobats would perform a rapid-fire assortment of handstands and tumbles, leading up to the grand finale. For that, Ali held the entire troupe on his head, shoulders, and arms. Suddenly, they would all throw themselves out into space as the curtain came down.

Novelty acts added a lot to the unique flavor of vaudeville. The team of Collins and Hart, for example, featured a cat that blew a whistle. An act called Singer's Midgets, was another bit that strayed outside the norm. There were usually about twenty-five or thirty midgets in the troupe, and they would all ride to the theater in a huge Packard. Not only were many of the acts "outside of the norm," but the performers didn't always fit into a standard mold either. One of the distinguishing features of a vaudevillian was often a great tenacity.

An "Egyptian snake charmer" named Kazana was ready to play the Rivoli Theater in Toledo when one of her snakes died from extreme cold weather. She placed the remaining three snakes right next to a radiator to prevent another disaster. Unfortunately for Kazana (and the snakes) she placed them a little too close and all three died from extreme heat. A true trooper, Kazana kept the engagement and performed a Hula dance. The show-biz publication, Variety, once wrote about a small-time dog act that ended when the dog died as a result of fleabites. "The trainer of the dog with the surviving fleas," the paper wrote, "has started a flea circus and latest reports say he is doing better now than he did with the dog act."

And then, there were some novelty acts that bordered on disgusting. A vaudevillian named Hadji Ali, according to written accounts, built his act around his ability to swallow large amounts of liquids and spit them up at will. One report says his grand finale involved drinking water and kerosene. He would spit up the kerosene on a little metal house in the middle of the stage and set it on fire. As the flames roared, he could then spit up the water and put it out. Disgusting or not, it would be hard to top an act like that.

When vaudeville was in its heyday in the late 1800's, the Civil War was still a vivid memory. Military acts were popular, and one of the best was Captain McCrosson, the gun-spinner. His act was described as "a wild, exuberant act, a good deal on the nut side." Following a lightning drill in the manual of arms, and a bayonet drill, he began tossing his gun high in the air like a drum major. He would balance it on his chin, bayonet down, and finished up with a volley of shots and then whirl the gun around his body.

An act called "Motogirl" was billed as the "Novelty of the 1902-1903 season. A girl had learned to control every muscle and stiffen up "so thoroughly that she can stand the closest examination without betraying the fact that she is not a dummy." She was actually passed among the audience with the instructions that "...those who choose may pinch her, and no matter how hard the pinch may be, she never squirms." This act, it would seem, could definitely be classified as a tough way to make a living!

Sometimes the acts were just a little too novel, even for the audiences of the time. Sadakichi Hartmann, a self-proclaimed Japanese-German inventor, decided to provide a New York theater audience with a "Perfume Concert." Using fans to blow perfumed smoke out into the audience, he managed to puff out English rose and then German violet scents before the audience decided they weren't really in the mood for a perfume concert, and heckled him off the stage. Usually, however, variety was the name of the game in vaudeville. The Albee Sisters, for example, threw a little of everything into their act. They tap danced, sang, did comedy bits, played the cello, violin, piano, clarinet and saxophone. For their finale, the four ladies danced off the stage wearing evening gowns, handlebar mustaches and derby hats!

Animals brought an exciting, and often unpredictable aspect to vaudeville. A trained gorilla escaped from an act that was setting up backstage at Brooklyn's Orpheum Theater while entertainer Violet Dale was performing. "He was perfectly crazy about women," she recalled, "and started for the wings when I was on, doing my act." Fortunately, the gorilla's handlers intercepted him before he found a new mate. Once, during a Marx Brother's performance, two lions broke loose, and one went to center stage to roar at the audience. Nobody was hurt in that incident either, but the theater very likely emptied in record time.

One of the classier bits of vaudeville was an act called "Living Pictures." It was taken from a popular magic extravaganza of the 1870's titled the "London Ghost Show." A huge plate glass leaned at a 45-degree angle over a pit lined with black velvet. Some of the characters of the skit were on stage and others were in the pit. As the lights in the pit were turned higher or lower, the people in the black velvet-lined pit would appear as "ghosts" alongside of the people on stage. They could be made to appear, disappear, slowly fade away or float off into the distance.

One of the typical Living Pictures plots would start with a man lamenting his lonely and wasted life. He would then go into a monologue about not having visited his poor dear mother, when suddenly she would appear in ghost form and speak to him. The poor wretch would then run across the stage to hold her, when she would simply vanish into thin air. He would frantically search the stage, screaming "'Tis nothing but a dream. Am I losing my mind?" Then, through a terrible storm that suddenly appeared on stage (with the help of metal "thunder sheets" and flashing lights) he would continue his frantic search until a bolt of lightning dropped him dead to the stage. Curtain...applause.

In addition to the magical London Ghost Show illusion, magic provided a colorful chapter in vaudeville history. Sandwiched in between dancing dogs and baggy pants comedians, gleaming silver coins popped out of the air and flew into waiting pans. Ordinary playing cards jumped out of their decks and sailed madly around the room. Canes, scarves, and hats took on the gift of life, dancing and flying far above their masters.

Usually only the big-name act of Harry Houdini is associated with the magic of vaudeville. Those who saw him on the stage passed his legend on to children and grandchildren. As much of a showman's showman as Houdini was, he was far from the only great magician who walked across a vaudeville stage. In fact, many of the great names of magic began their careers on the vaudeville circuit. Keller, Thurston, Herrmann, and The Great Lafayette also performed their miracles in eight-to-fifteen-minute bits.

Houdini, in fact, began in the dime museums as a "platform" act. Not even considered good enough to work on the theater side of the museum, he performed in the curio hall. His first act consisted of card tricks and a trunk escape called Metamorphosis (which he had trouble pronouncing). His tremendous drive, however, pushed him up through the dime museums into vaudeville, where he was eventually considered the number-one draw at the box office. As history is well aware, he then branched into his own spectacular show.

His inner drive was apparent early in his career when he decided he wanted to run a medicine show. As the laws were becoming more stringent, the authorities sometimes required a "doctor" in a medicine show to be licensed. Harry actually paid for his brother, Leopold, to attend medical school, with the goal of having him return to help him with the show. Leopold eventually graduated, but by that time, Harry was well beyond performing in medicine shows.

Another example of his tremendous motivation was apparent in his knowledge of handcuffs and other locks. During his career, he obtained the patent papers of every lock patented in the U.S., England, France and Germany. In addition to that, by consulting his medical brother, he learned how to purposefully dislocate his shoulder in order to escape from a straight jacket. That is career drive! Houdini didn't reach his monumental status simply by studying his trade. His real secret was his understanding of showmanship. The extra touches caught the public's attention, such as arranging for trustworthy local carpenters to build a packing case right there on stage, or his taking off every shred of clothing for a search. His ability to escape from these seemingly impossible situations added an element of the supernatural to his performance.

Not nearly as much of a showman as Houdini, but close to perfect with his slight-of-hand, Harry Keller has been called the "magician's magician." Keller also rose through the vaudeville circuit to his own show. He was extremely serious about his magic, and was a total perfectionist. He is remembered, among other things, for creating an act similar to the famous London Ghost Show, called the Blue Room Illusion. During his career, in the late 1800's, he became established as America's leading magician. Keller was not only a perfectionist in his slight-of-hand, but expected the same flawless performance from the equipment he used. Once, when a vanishing lamp failed to work properly, he took a hatchet to it.

Alexander Herrmann, the son of European magician Carl Herrmann, was one of vaudeville's most popular magicians. Even after he left the vaudeville circuit, he often included vaudeville acts with his performances. Alexander, who billed himself as Herrmann the Great, had developed a casual style that became very popular. That, in addition to his sense of humor, made him even more admired than the technically superior Keller. Thurston, another legend in magic, owed his start to Alexander Herrmann. Herrmann once saw Thurston's act in a small Honky Tonk and after the performance asked him how a particular type of rising-card trick was done. From that point on, Thurston billed himself as "The Man Who Mystified Herrmann the Great."

The Great Lafayette was a vaudeville entertainer who lacked the skills of many of his fellow conjurers. He mainly performed simple tricks, and always included a stage illusion, which he had popularized, called the Lion's Bride. The Great Lafayette (who actually adopted the name legally) died in a fire in an English theater while running under the stage to rescue his dog. The list of vaudeville magicians goes on and on. With wands and winks, they made smiles appear like flop-eared rabbits, and worries vanish like graceful doves.

Not quite as graceful, were the entries that many performers made onto the vaudeville stage. The starting point for many of the acts of vaudeville was in the amateur-night show. In some cases, the young "star-to-be" walked out onto the stage and won the hearts of the audience. Fannie Brice, for example, first appeared at about thirteen and had the audience throwing coins on the stage in appreciation. An early Eddie Cantor stepped onto an amateur night stage at sixteen. At first, he thought his fledgling career was over before it started. The crowd was tough and started hooting and jeering. The quick-thinking Cantor remembered a line from a burlesque show comic named Sam Sidman, and turned toward the audience, whining "Oh, dat makes me so mad!" They loved it and roared with laughter. He also left to the sweet sound of coins flying across the stage.

For others, however, things didn't always start out quite so well. The amateur-night audiences could be a young entertainer's worst nightmare. The amateur night started in burlesque, at Miner's Bowery Theater in New York. The theater's owner, H. C. Miner was the originator of the famous "hook." Later he added insult to injury and squirted the poor performers with seltzer bottles. At another New York theater, The Circle, the stage manager would simply walk over to an easel, during a failing act, and put up a large sign saying "Beat It." The Columbia Theater in Boston used the hook, but also added an interesting touch, by throwing a huge inflated bladder at the performer. In fact, the Columbia Theater had a special curtain that was split at various intervals, so the stage manager could sneak up on a performer no matter where he was standing.

In spite of the hooks and the tomatoes and the other embarrassments, amateur nights had an appealing quality. Nearly anyone could get on stage. The prize money for winning an amateur night varied from a dollar up to twenty-five. Anyone who tried out, however, was usually given fifty-cents. Some "veteran contestants" would collect fifty-cents a night every night at different theaters and end up with enough to live on. There were actually some people who made their living at "getting the hook."

As the glory years of the variety entertainers and their wild and wooly acts began to fade, it was becoming clear that vaudeville was also destined to "get the hook." Like many other types of early entertainment, it simply couldn't compete with some of the newer more "sophisticated" forms. Motion pictures, once thought of simply as brief fillers between the live acts of the vaudeville superstars, had begun to compete on their own merit. Radios brought the vaudeville stars right into the living room - for free. Huge theaters like Radio City Music Hall began to spring up across the country, and would offer elaborate dance routines and other showy performances. Even if these events hadn't occurred, the rough and tumble days of vaudeville had already begun to fade out of style. By the turn of the century, vaudeville producers had decided to change the shows from a wild and crazy collection of variety acts to a more refined and sophisticated form of entertainment.

So, one-by-one, the tired troopers sadly tucked their baggy pants and fright wigs into their road-worn trunks for the last time. As they did, they stored something else along with them. Packed in among the seltzer bottles and rubber noses, was a raw untamed quality that would not be allowed in the polished well-rehearsed performances that would follow. Today, traveling theater groups or musicians would cringe at the thought of providing the type of hokey amateurish acts that vaudeville often gave us. When we sit down to watch a touring ballet company or a finely tuned symphony orchestra, we know we will experience a nearly perfect performance. Still, isn't there some lingering child-like part of us that yearns to see the prima donna quickly turn and catch a pumpkin with her face, or the maestro suddenly jerk up his shirt and make his navel sing a song?
WHEN THE AIR BEGAN TO TALK

How "Radio-crazed" Would America Become?

"Only the Shadow Knew"

The nearly unending row of eyes stared unfocused and dreamless at the dust beneath them. Behind those eyes, the victims of the depression shuffled from bread lines to job lines. They waited, along with hundreds of other broken men, for two or three rumored job openings. For millions, the American dream had become a nightmare. Where were the good times President Hoover had predicted? Where was the laughter and the warm glow of family fun they had known only a few short months ago -before the bottom had dropped out of their world?

The good times unfortunately, were still somewhere down the road. But later in the evening, some of that warm glow would emerge from a polished walnut box in the family living room. When the depression told them life was hopeless, that box would let them know Jack Benny had reverted to his typical stinginess. Rather than driving Rochester to the train station, he had dropped him off to hitchhike. Then he had delivered a brief talk on the "generosity of the American tourist."

"You mean that's all Mr. Benny gave you?" an astonished Mary Livingston asked.

"No," Rochester informed her, "he also gave me a white glove for night operations."

As the images of Rochester and Mary filled the room, soft chuckles and slow smiles gradually replaced the worry lines and dreamless stares. Like all of the other radio characters who would flow into their living rooms over the static-filled airwaves, they were immediately transformed into mental pictures. Just like The Shadow, The Green Hornet and all the others who lined up to fill those living rooms, every character looked a little different to each listener. The mental projectionist could put poor Rochester and his silly white glove out in the middle of nowhere if he wanted. Or he could be a little kinder and let him walk down a well-lit city street. It was up to the listener - after all, the movie screen was in his or her own mind.

The mental movie screen of this new "wireless music box" or "radio telephone" as early radio was sometimes called, would soon take the entertainment scene by storm. While many people were still heading out the door to take in a live vaudeville show or stage drama, many other Americans decided to lean back in their easy chairs and turn a magic dial. That dial would reach out and bring the actors right into their living rooms. Radio would have such a strong impact that two Chicago comedians, named Freeman Gosden and Charles Correll, could literally "slow down the nation" with their radio microphone. Beginning in the mid-twenties as Sam and Henry, they had developed a local following with a minstrel show type of act. They later switched radio stations and were informed they had to change their character's names.

Selecting the names of Amos Jones and Andy Brown, they stepped up to an old carbon microphone and sent out airwaves that would reach into radio history. Amos and Andy became so popular that during their show, not only did telephone switchboards slow to a near standstill, but factories closed early so their employees wouldn't miss the show. It was reported there was an overall decrease in crime in the nation during the time-period the show aired. Apparently even the crooks couldn't pull themselves away.

Radio was destined to become so powerful that Calvin Coolidge may well have flowed into the White House on its airwaves. Despite his unimpressive physical appearance, his radio voice commanded attention. Some historians felt this may have been the major reason for his being elected. In 1938, the now infamous Halloween "trick" by Mercury Theater on the Air displayed the enormous power of radio. When the announcer interrupted a program of dance music to bring "a special bulletin from the Intercontinental Radio News," many listeners had not been tuned in previously when it was explained that the evening's program was merely a practical joke.

As the young Orson Welles brought his version of H. G. Wells' War of the Worlds to life, he treated the story as if it were a legitimate news report. While he graphically described a Martian invasion of the United States and the resulting destruction of major cities, much of the nation went into shock. Orson, however, was unaware and left the studio for a peaceful night's sleep. The next day, when the unsuspecting Welles was assailed with a battery of reporters who informed him about the shockwaves he had sent throughout the nation, he quickly discovered the potential power of this new entertainment medium.

Years before Amos and Andy and the War of the Worlds broadcast, radio had already begun its impressive journey. That trip began on the second of November 1920 in a little shack on top of a six-story building in East Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. A one hundred watt transmitter was fired up and ready to broadcast to a few hundred anxious potential listeners. This was to be the very first non-experimental public radio broadcast. The Westinghouse Electric Company had named their pioneer station KDKA. The company's timing was perfect. That evening, they would broadcast the election results from the presidential race between Warren G. Harding and James M. Cox.

The waves of excitement from that little shack's achievement continued to ripple across the nation, even after the transmitter was turned off. Newspapers and magazines let folks know that something pretty impressive had happened in East Pittsburg that evening. Americans soon set out, by the hundreds of thousands, to get one of those talking thingamajigs for their very own. Seldom had anything caught the nation's fancy with such lightning speed. Within only two years of the KDKA broadcast, the country hosted over five hundred-and-fifty radio stations. About a million-and-a-half listeners were eagerly tuning in their static-filled signals. It was exceedingly clear - this new "wireless music box" was here to stay.

The early radio broadcasting licenses were easily obtained, so almost anyone interested in having one got into the act. Companies and department store set up stations. Ford Motor Company established station WWI in Detroit. Gimbel's department store started WIP in Philadelphia. Even St. Matthews' Cathedral joined in with station KFBU in Laramie. Newspapers also entered the radio scene. Station WWJ, for example, was billed as the "voice" of the Detroit News.

Radio had not yet developed the great sound effects or the colorful cast of super heroes, comedians and mystery men who would later fill the airwaves. Very early, however, the producers were becoming aware of radio's ability to paint individualized word pictures in the listener's mind. The 1922 radio log of Newark's station WOR presented "Sky pictures for the kiddies by Mr. Radiobug." Later in the afternoon, "Uncle George" would read "Goodnight stories for the children." People all across the nation were beginning to realize that turning on the radio was like curling up with a good book. They could play an active role in the experience. If the kids wanted to see one of Uncle George's characters with a green mustache and a purple hat...presto! There it was.

It wasn't long before the radio innovators turned their attention toward creating stories for adults as well as children. In 1922, WJZ aired a theatrical production directly from the stage. Later that year, WGY out of Schenectady, broadcast a play by Eugene Walter called "The Wolf." This was the first drama to be produced in a station. The dramas seemed to naturally prompt the creation of those fabulous sound effects, which are a part of so many fond radio memories. During the mid-twenties, radio engineers realized the only tool they had available to spark a listener's imagination, was sound.

If they wanted him or her to picture a forest fire for instance, they had to create a "sound fire." Well...how about firing up a blowtorch and breaking wooden match sticks near the microphone? Not bad! Rain on a roof? Simple - roll dried peas down a paper tube. For a thunderstorm, waving a thin metal sheet worked just fine. Piece by piece, the radio pioneers of the twenties were building the mental scenery that would welcome the colorful cast of characters that would march across the stages of America's imagination during the thirties.

Radio's march to popularity, however, was not always a smooth trek. Since radio was born before air conditioning, the announcers often kept the windows open, especially during hot summer days. This practice sometimes led to unfortunate consequences. Harold Arlin, an early KDKA announcer remembered a day when a soprano was performing, decked out in her finest attire. Everything was going beautifully until a passing train coated everything in the station, including the dismayed soprano, with pitch-black soot. The look on her face was likely very similar to that of the tenor who, as Arlin remembered, inhaled an insect in the middle of his aria.

Despite a little soot and a few stray insects, early radio was rolling right along. Not content with merely telling stories and playing music, the radio pioneers began to reach out in new directions. During the 1920's, the seeds were being planted that would take root during the next two decades. They would grow into the wide variety of programming that would soon enthrall a radio-crazed nation. Sporting events were a logical addition. The first broadcast of a football game was on the Texas A & M station, Thanksgiving Day of 1920. The next year, a station employee sat ringside at the Jack Dempsey and Georges Carpentier boxing match. He telephoned his observations to a technician at the studio who wrote them down and later relayed them over the radio. Similarly, Newark's WJZ produced a running description of the 1921 World Series. A year later, radio stations would begin announcing the events directly from the arenas and ballparks.

Realizing that this new medium could inspire and educate as well as entertain, the stations began covering religious services and current events. KDKA initiated the concept of broadcasting church programs by airing the service from Pittsburgh's Calvary Episcopal Church in 1921. In the spring of the next year, a Washington, D. C. station broadcast radio's first debate. The subject was "That Daylight Savings is an advantage."

Very early in radio's development, listeners realized it was the ideal medium for communicating fast-breaking news. The instant airwaves could easily outrun the lumbering newspaper presses. Announcers began to stick news items in and around the entertainment. It wouldn't be long, however, before the "news" would have its own place in the lineup.

Throughout the decades to come, legends like Lowell Thomas, Edward R. Murrow and Eric Sevareid would step behind the microphone and catch the attention of a news-hungry nation. Radio comedy popped up in 1922 when vaudeville favorite, Ed Wynn, appeared in a play called "The Perfect Fool." Three years later, serialized comedy shows found their way to several stations. In 1925, a show called The Smith Family featured Jim and Marian Jordan. They would later become a staple of the radio world as Fibber McGee and Molly. As with the other radio scenes, everyone would picture different objects tumbling out of Fibber's over-packed closet whenever he inadvertently opened it. As the listeners viewed mind-pictures of the tumbling mass of shoes, boxes and junk, it was as hard for them to hold back a chuckle the hundredth time as it was the first.

The variety show entered the picture in 1923 when New York City's WEAF broadcast The Eveready Hour. Throughout the twenties, the show gathered movie celebrities and various entertainers from vaudeville and other variety show formats. One of the most popular radio variety shows would surface in the fall of 1929. The Fleishmann Hour, also known as the Rudy Vallee Show, was the first to feature a celebrity host. Vallee was a natural for the role. He was known as the "Vagabond Lover" and had already become famous before radio courted him. Surrounding himself with talented stars like Fanny Brice, Eddie Cantor and Ed Wynn, he sailed to the top of the ratings. Within a few years, a spot on the Rudy Vallee Show would be considered by some vaudevillians, as a more important booking than the Palace Theater.

One program at a time, radio was giving birth to the multifaceted entertainment form that would eventually reach millions of fans. It drew on vaudeville, minstrel shows, theater and even novels and poems for its entertainers and programming ideas. Radio eventually filled the air with a nearly endless variety of entertainment, accessible with the mere turn of a knob.

Every listener was aware, however, that when that knob was turned, more than happy entertainers and cheerful poetry readers might emerge. Some of the most frightening creatures of the underworld also lurked within that wooden box. Who knew what bizarre characters were waiting to manifest themselves in the shadowy corners of the living room? Who knew what dastardly villain might decide to leap out of the speakers? Who knew, indeed, what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Only "The Shadow" knew.

The Shadow was an ideal character for an entertainment medium that could only use sound to paint its pictures - a man nobody could see anyway. At first, in the early 30's, the character The Shadow merely introduced a program called the Street and Smith's Detective Story Magazine Hour. He would begin with his soon-to-be-famous question, "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?" Then he would answer his question by reading one of the latest tales from the sponsor's crime magazine. Before long, he became so popular he was transformed into the story's hero.

Lamont Cranston, as The Shadow, had developed the power to "cloud men's minds so that they could not see him." Cranston, who was quite the debonair man-about-town, had learned this valuable skill in the Orient. Not only had he perfected this ability, but he had picked up some other nifty talents as well - like projecting his voice for great distances. This skill came in handy once when he wanted to convince a mad scientist that The Shadow was standing beside him at the top of a huge volcanic mountain. Cranston, actually at the base of the mountain, threw his voice to the top. As the crazed scientist set off an explosive to destroy The Shadow, he instead merely destroyed the mountain...and of course, himself. He wasn't too big a loss, however, since he had transformed the mountain into a huge magnet in order to pull ships and planes to their destruction.

Through the years, several radio actors would play the role of The Shadow, but likely the most convincing Shadow stepped up to the microphone in 1937. He filled the role with the same energy and drama that he would use a year later on The Mercury Theater to describe a Martian invasion. At the age of only twenty-two, Orson Wells was the ideal choice. The eerie quality of his radio voice fit the role of the shadow perfectly. Unfortunately, the national fame and notoriety he would gain with the 1938 War of the Worlds broadcast, would make his voice so universally recognizable he could no longer play the anonymous Shadow.

Wells and the other Shadows were apparently extremely convincing to some listeners. When World War II broke out, several people actually wrote the network, angrily inquiring why Lamont Cranston had not yet used his magical powers against the Nazi army. The Shadow's world wasn't the only radio hangout for dastardly villains and creepy characters. There were plenty more just inside a massive door that led into a "chamber of shadows." As that door slowly opened with an ominous creaking, an equally ominous voice appeared from somewhere in the darkness.

"Good evening," it would say, "This is Raymond, your host..." No avid radio fan would have to wonder what frightening dungeon Raymond was welcoming him into. There was only one dark chamber like this. The listener could almost smell the clammy stone walls and feel the dank air seep into his lungs as he willingly - if a little hesitantly - stepped into the Inner Sanctum. The tales he would hear in the Inner Sanctum would be filled with intrigue and irony. They were also, at times, filled with a good-sized dose of improbability. In one episode, for example, a salesman is peacefully driving down a long stretch of highway when, to his amazement, he notices a dead body in the back seat. Obviously panic stricken, he continues to drive until he sees a lonely house. Pulling in, he soon discovers the occupant just happens to be the wife of the dead man in his back seat. Following an unusually brief period of mourning for her late husband, the new widow falls madly in love with her new visitor.

A policeman then happens by and tries to arrest the salesman for the murder of the lady's husband. Apparently, during his sales training, the salesman also picked up a few self-defense tricks, because he takes the policeman's gun away and knocks him out cold. Anxious to leave the scene, the salesman and his newfound love run away to Canada. Before too long, however, their blissful peace is interrupted by...none other than the husband they had thought was dead. It turns out that he faked his death for insurance purposes. Now, very much alive, he seeks revenge on the Romeo salesman who ran off with his wife.

With gun in hand he bursts into their happy little cabin. As luck would have it though, the salesman once again employs his self-defense skills. During an ensuing struggle, the gun discharges and the hapless husband is shot. Mortally wounded, he stumbles aimlessly out of the cabin and falls dead right in...of all places, the back seat of the salesman's car - right where he started.

Granted, some of the plots were just a tad far fetched. Somehow though, the eerie sound effects and the doom chords played on the organ at just the right moment, could usually make the bizarre tale seem pretty realistic. By the end of the story, after Raymond had slowly closed the squeaking door and signed of with " Good night...and pleasant dreams," more than one wide-eyed listener had developed a strong case of goose bumps.

Those same goose bumps could arise when the radio blared out police sirens and sub-machine-gun fire topped off with marching convicts. Every avid crime-fighter fan knew this signaled the opening of Gangbusters. The program was based on true stories and began with an interview from some city's police official describing a real crime. Although the audience could almost see the rugged face of the veteran police officer, he was actually played by an actor. Phillips H. Lord, the show's creator, was afraid the real officers wouldn't be able to hit their cues right on time.

As the interview neared its end, the volume dropped, and with crashes and thuds and usually the rat-a-tat-tat-tat of machine gun fire, the story was dramatized. Often beginning with violent crimes, the tales would end with law and order prevailing...and the bad guys heading for the "big house." The series was originally called G-Men and was based on actual files of the FBI. When FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover, listened to several of the programs, however, he felt the show had too much gunplay to accurately depict the bureau's methods. He canceled the agreement with the program's directors. Phillips Lord simply transformed his characters from FBI agents to policemen, and changed the name to Gangbusters.

The stories of Dillinger, "Baby Face" Nelson and other notorious criminals were told, along with relatively unknown characters. As a public service, the program also provided descriptions of dangerous criminals still on the loose. There were some pretty interesting tales in and among the gunfire. During a raid on the hangout of the Licavoli gang, for instance, the police captured a pet parrot. He turned out to be as much stool pigeon as parrot. Bit by bit, he relayed to the prosecuting attorney, names and facts he had heard throughout the years. By the time the bird proudly rested back on his perch, he had given enough information to send Licavoli and his band of thugs to the slammer for years.

Fortunately, the radio world was filled with more than The Shadow's dark world and Gangbuster's hoodlums and street creatures. One radio hero in particular, was as pure and honest as the hoodlums were evil and conniving. Jack Armstrong was aptly named the "All-American Boy." Once, during an adventure to prevent unscrupulous characters from stealing uranium deposits, he explained his all-American philosophy to his friend, Billy. He told him, "When I think of this country of ours, with millions of homes stretching from sea to sea, and with everybody working and pulling together to have a nation where people can be free, and do big fine things, why it makes me realize what a terribly important job we've got ahead."

Not only did young Jack have time for various "terribly important jobs," he was an excellent student as well as captain of Hudson High School's football team. How did he have the energy for all this? The program's sponsors were glad to explain. He always ate his Wheaties! In fact, as America entered the second world war, the announcer once explained to a young boy how he could best help the war effort. "Train to be an American," he advised him. "Follow Jack Armstrong's rules for physical fitness." Those rules, he informed him, included getting plenty of fresh air, sleep and exercise - as well as using lots of soap and water every day. They also involved eating "the kind of breakfast America needs in times like these - milk, fruit and Wheaties, Breakfast of Champions!"

Even with his daily dose of Wheaties, however, Jack couldn't take care of all the villains on the radio. Fortunately, there were more than enough heroes to go around. Radio had found a new source to tap for program ideas - the comics. It was a short flight for Superman and Batman, from the newspaper to the radio waves. In 1945 in fact, they shared the airwaves during their first meeting.

"It was the most serious thing that ever happened!" Robin the Boy Wonder told Superman. "Batman has disappeared!"

As the announcer explained, Clark Kent had received a letter at the Daily Planet office, telling him to go to a pier on North Bay for an urgent mission. Near the pier, he found a boy lying unconscious in a drifting rowboat. As he helped the boy to safety, Clark noticed a cape bearing the letter "R" tucked beneath the boy's coat. Clark was, of course, familiar with his super-peer, Batman and his Boy Wonder, Robin. He quickly changed into his Superman identify before Robin regained consciousness.

Robin disclosed his identity and pleaded for help. He informed Superman that Batman had been taken captive by a gang of crooks and that he had narrowly escaped. As Robin relayed the information, he remembered that one of the crooks had mentioned the name "Zoltan." Both Superman and Robin changed back into their everyday disguises and visited a wax museum owned by a man named Zoltan. Finding it hadn't exactly been super-challenging since, as Clark Kent observed, he was "the only Zoltan in the telephone book."

Passing by the museum, they noticed a wax figure of...who else but Batman! It didn't take long for Superman to realize it was actually the real Batman in a state of suspended animation. He had been sealed inside a super-hard wax alloy by the crooks. Once Batman was freed from his wax prison, he vowed he would stop Zoltan and his evil scheme. Zotlan had, it seems, been carrying on quite a profitable business of shipping famous scientists in wax statues, to enemy countries. As Batman made this vow he added, "You'll forgive me for saying so, but no one is going to make a dummy out of me."

Batman joined Superman many times during the next few years. He was particularly useful once when poor Superman was being held prisoner in a farmhouse attic. The crooks who had captured him had already begun placing bets on the time Superman would die - either from Kryptonite poisoning or starvation. Poor Superman was so weak he couldn't even speak. In fact he couldn't speak for a full two-weeks...which oddly enough, corresponded with the vacation schedule of a certain radio actor who was basking in the Miami sun.

Another radio super-hero wanted to make sure the villains knew he was a force to be reckoned with. Since hornets are mean, green and always ready to sting, he felt the name The Green Hornet would get his "point" across. With his gas pistol loaded with puffs of instant sleep, he would hop into his super-car, the Black Beauty, hit his buzzing hornet horn, and set out on a busy day's crime-fighting adventures. Unlike Superman and Batman, the Green Hornet wasn't born in the comic strips. The comic, in fact, was developed after he had already become a famous radio hero. His actual ancestry was revealed once during a program.

"Dad," said Brit Reid, the Hornet's alter ego, "I know personally that the Green Hornet is no criminal. In his own way, he fights for law and order. Can you believe that!"

As his father nodded knowingly, he told Brit, "I think I can believe a lot more than that. I think I know what you are trying to tell me."

Dad," Brit confided, "I am the Green Hornet."

"I suspected as much," his father replied.

When a flabbergasted Brit asked how his father could possibly have known, his dad asked him if he had ever looked closely at a painting he had given him years ago.

"Why yes, Dad - the picture of the masked man on the great white horse."

As his father explained that the world-famous masked man was actually Brit's great-uncle, the William Tell Overture played softly in the background. Brit looked proudly at the Lone Ranger's picture and reasoned, "Then I'm...I'm carrying on in his tradition, bringing to justice those he would fight if he were here today."

The Lone Ranger rode the "radio range" several years before the Green Hornet's birth. Originally the masked man traveled with five other Texas Rangers. One fateful day, however, they rode into a ravine called Bryant's Gap. Their mission was to round up Butch Cavendish's Hole-in-the-Wall gang and bring them back to justice. Unfortunately, the Hole-in-the-Wall gang also had a mission - to ambush the six Texas Rangers. The outlaw gang fired on the hapless rangers from boulders high on the ravine's walls. As they watched the last ranger fall dead to the ground, the villains jumped on their horses and rode off across the dusty horizon.

But they were a little premature. One ranger was badly injured, but had narrowly survived the massacre. He was the younger brother of Captain Daniel Reid, one of the other riders, who had not been so fortunate. After regaining consciousness several days later, the young ranger saw only the dark walls of a cave. His eyes slowly focused on the cave's entrance as he began to distinguish a figure. As the stranger walked toward him, the ranger realized he was an Indian. In broken English, the stranger explained that he had come upon the ambush and had found him barely alive. His Indian caretaker had carried him to the safety of a nearby cave and treated his wounds. Then, introducing himself, he informed the grateful ranger, "Me,Tonto." As the injured ranger thanked him, he inquired about his friends. Tonto sadly told him they had all been killed. "You only ranger left," he explained. "You lone ranger now."

Tonto informed him he had buried the other five, but had dug six graves in order to fool the outlaws into thinking all the rangers were dead. As Tonto continued, the ranger suddenly realized they had known each other during childhood. Tonto had called him Kemo Sabay, which translated into "Faithful Friend" or "Trusty Scout." As the two renewed their friendship, they eventually resolved to continue the quest for justice and decency that the rangers had begun. Concerned that the outlaws would recognize him, the ranger made a mask from the black cloth of a vest in his brother's saddlebags. Then, recalling Tonto's previous remark, he turned a serious face to his Indian friend and made a lifetime commitment. "From now on, Tonto, my identity shall be forever buried with those brave Texas Rangers who died at my side," he proclaimed. "I'll be the Lone Ranger."

As the Lone Ranger or the Green Hornet set about their dangerous missions, tension filled the air like a swirling cloud. And the spine-tingling drama of the Inner Sanctum or Gang-busters made the living room come alive with unsavory creatures of all varieties. This was fine for the wide-eyed young boys and "older boys" who imagined themselves wearing masks or becoming invisible. But it was a little difficult for a Midwestern housewife or a New England mother of four to identify with heroes with sub-machine guns or X-Ray vision.

Around 1930, a small advertising agency received a request from several companies that produced soap and other household products. Aware that their primary consumer was the housewife, they asked the agency to develop a program designed especially for women. The soap companies had knocked on the right door. The junior partner of the agency, Frank Hummert, and his wife and office manager, Anne, would eventually set in motion a whole new type of program - the "soap opera."

A young newspaper reported named Robert Hardy Andrews also walked into the picture at just the right time. After taking a job as a writer with the advertising agency, he listened to advice on scriptwriting from Anne Hummert. Many of the women who would listen to the program, she told him, needed something to fill endless hours of tedious housework. They required a "friend in need" with interesting problems to worry about. "Worry, for women," she enlightened him, "is entertainment."

Andrews selected a newspaper series he had recently written and adapted it to the radio format. Titled The Stolen Husband, the tale depicted a handsome businessman who was trying to get ahead in the world, and his beautiful secretary who wanted to do much more than merely transcribe his letters for him. The third part of the dramatic triangle was, of course, a jealous wife. A vaudeville performer known as "A Man of a Thousand Voices," read the script on the radio.

As he read, he rapidly changed his voice back and forth from the businessman to the secretary and then the wife. Everything was going well until, overcome by the strain of the breakneck voice changes; he collapsed during the performance, right on the air. The next day, the station presented another episode of The Stolen Husband - this time with a speedily assembled cast of three radio actors. This format set the stage for the upcoming array of daily dramas that would eventually fill afternoons with the love-triangles, mother-in-law struggles, and all the other "entertaining worries" that would pour out of the radio for decades.

As millions of avid radio fans turned the dial from the Green Hornet to Gangbusters and all the rest, thousands of characters jumped out of that little wooden box and took shape in front of them. For three lively decades that box was home for some of the most fascinating personalities America has ever known. From Little Orphan Annie and her trusty dog Sandy, to Sherlock Holmes and his equally trusty assistant, Dr. Watson, they led the listeners on journeys filled with danger and intrigue. Then they deposited them, exhausted but totally entertained, back in the comfort of their living rooms.

From the "Mad Russian" on Eddie Cantor's program, to the wacky cast of oddballs that Fred Allen met as he strolled down Allen's Alley, the radio comedians took them on rollicking trips into a land of lighthearted escape. But much like radio itself had crowded out the vaudeville shows and stage dramas, a competitor crept onto America's entertainment scene. The new medium would eventually push nearly all the colorful radio characters right off their imaginary screens. People would begin to ask themselves why they should expend all that mental energy creating characters in mid-air, when a new miracle - television - would do it for them.

One after another, the soap opera heroes, the comedians, the crime-fighters and all the others either dissolved back into the thin air they came from or, worse yet, climbed into the glowing tube of radio's new rival. America's living rooms suddenly seemed empty and desolate. The little beaming tube in the corner seemed to have a mystical attraction to the family members - the same ones who had once filled the room with a rambunctious cast of characters from their own imaginations.

After all, when people turned on the little tube, they could only see what was there. What if they didn't want Rochester to walk down a dark lonely street with his silly white glove? What if Superman's cape wasn't quite long enough? It simply didn't make any difference how hard they stared at the little tube, they couldn't change a thing. It wasn't fair. After all, Newark's "Mr. Radiobug" and "Uncle George" had always let them dress up their characters in green mustaches and purple hats.

HEROES, HISSES AND

JOLLY DELLA'S DEFLATING BOSOM

When Tent "Rep" Shows Toured the Country

The young actress knew she had to read the line the way it was written in the script. But as she looked around the dismal little stage, it somehow stuck in her throat. Like the other repertoire theater tent shows, they played the same towns over and over, so most of the audience already knew what a notorious cheap skate their manager could be. Old J. B. Rotnour was generous with his actors, but Lord, how he hated to turn loose of a penny to replace their scenery or to buy a new tent. Surely they had heard about the "blow-down" not long back, when the rotted stitching that had held the ropes to the canvas for so many years, finally gave way under a heavy wind. The canvas had sailed through the sky like a magic carpet, leaving behind only a bare skeleton of poles. And old man Rotnour was just as tight when it came to replacing the pathetic old pieces of scenery that had been painted and re-painted year after year.

The little troupe was putting on their usual "Saturday night western." The play was called Jealousy, and they had reached a scene where the fabulously wealthy cattle baron was carrying his blushing bride from "back East" across the threshold of his luxurious ranch house. She had a simple line to say as they crossed into the splendor of the plush western mansion.

She knew the line. But as she looked around at the sad little stage setting, the words simply refused to cross her lips. Her eyes slowly surveyed the two beaten-up old chairs by the timeworn kitchen table shedding its layers of multicolored paint. Then they focused on the unsightly collection of rusty buckets and dishpans. They had been strategically placed around the stage floor to catch the torrents of rainwater that were pouring through the peeling patches in the tent ceiling. Finally, summoning all of her theatrical training, she smiled sweetly at the pitiful little set. Then, raising her voice above the splashing of the rain, she blurted out her line: "Oh! John, it's beautiful!"

Despite the ragged scenery, the little troupe filled a strong need for entertainment. The small traveling theater companies, like the little circuses, were especially welcome in the smaller country towns. Just because the inhabitants were Oklahoma farmers or Missouri bricklayers didn't mean they weren't hungry for a taste of the same kind of entertainment the New York sophisticates enjoyed. Granted, sometimes this "taste" was bit unseasoned, but that's all right, the audience's response was sometimes just as unpolished. Like the time in Louisiana during a presentation of Othello, when a member of the audience had apparently not been following the plot line very closely. As the actor playing Othello grieved and fretted over the loss of a handkerchief, the impatient yokel could no longer restrain himself. In a loud voice, he blurted out: "Why don't you blow your nose with your fingers and let the play go on?"

Not only were the audiences sometimes a tad unpredictable but not everything on the stage always functioned like clockwork either. Like all the other live entertainment forms, there was no opportunity to "retake" a scene if something went wrong. Once, during a presentation of a play titled, Call of the Woods, a door stuck shut and left an actress in a very uncomfortable situation. The play was a popular melodrama classic, complete with a noble misunderstood hero and a damsel in distress. As the play begins, we learn that our hero's unscrupulous younger brother, Willis, has been stealing money from their poor blind mother for years. All along, he has been blaming his foul deeds on Dave, the hard working hero. Mama, taken in by Willis's lies, has banished poor Dave to a cabin in the woods.

Later we learn that Willis has apparently been fooling around with more than his blind mother's money. It turns out that Hilda, Mama's hired girl, is going to have his baby. Hilda is a pretty tough customer and informs Willis, in no uncertain terms, that she expects him to marry her. If he has any other plans, she tells him, she will not only let her gun-toting daddy know what he did, but will spill the beans to his blind mother about his stealing. Unfortunately for Hilda, she decides to deliver this fiery ultimatum when they are alone in Dave's secluded cabin. Willis is not a particularly good sport about it and secretly grabs a convenient axe handle. Holding it behind his back, he gives Hilda a last chance to change her mind. When she refuses, he whirls the axe handle around screaming, "Then you die!"

As the script called for, Hilda was then to run screaming toward the door, with Willis in hot pursuit. After they ran out the door, the audience would hear three loud whacks, followed by screams of decreasing volume. Willis was then supposed to return to the stage, holding the bloody axe handle. During this particular evening's performance, however, when Hilda reached the door, it didn't budge. She pulled and twisted with all her strength, but it simply wouldn't open. The frantic actress called off stage in a loud stage whisper, "Open the door!" After taking another trip around the kitchen table, she ran frantically back to the door, only to find it was still stuck solidly.

During all of this, the actor playing Willis tried to stall his pursuit as much as possible. He had been desperately delaying the chase by bumping into chairs and tripping over his own feet. Despite his best attempts, however, he soon stood beside her. Unless he wanted to simply stop the play, there was nothing else he could do. Obviously, the audience was aware he was going to attack her...so like a true theatrical trooper, he did the only thing he could. He hit her on the head with the axe handle. Apparently he hadn't had a lot training in faking a blow, because the poor actress had a lump on her head for days.

Incidentally, despite the incident, the play continued and eventually ended happily. Poor Hilda it turned out didn't die from the blows but instead was knocked into a state of amnesia. Honest Dave had heard Hilda's screams, and ran into the cabin, with the rest of the characters at his heels. Then Willis dropped the bloody axe handle and hid. Poor Dave picked it up as he ran in, and stood over Hilda's body. When the others arrived, Willis jumped out of hiding and accused Dave of having attacked her. Later, during Dave's trial, poor addlebrained Hilda was sitting outside the courtroom in a buggy. Suddenly the sound of horses hooves and Hilda's screams let the audience know she was on a runaway buggy. Just in case they didn't figure it out, the dialogue of the play also informed them.

It was about time for Hilda's luck to turn around, and that wild buggy ride unexpectedly turned out to be her savior. She was tossed out of the buggy and, as fate would have it, landed directly on her head. Fortunately though, whatever the axe handle had knocked out of her head, that blow knocked right back in. With her memory now fully restored, she got up, dusted herself off, and marched into the courtroom just in time to clear poor old Dave and point an accusing finger at the treacherous Willis.

It didn't matter that the plot might have been just a little far fetched. The audiences would sit on the edge of their seats as the axe whirled or the buggy crashed. Throughout the years, millions of Americans sat on the edge of their seats inside the small tents as the heroes and villains clashed. The little "canvas playhouses" as the tent shows were often called, became extremely popular. By 1927, the New York Times reported they reached more people than "Broadway and all the rest of the theater industry put together."

The little traveling tent repertoire theaters have supplied many country folk with their first theatrical experience. Like so many of the other early entertainment forms, the origin of the first tent show is a little cloudy. Much of their history has been handed down by word of mouth. We do know that one of the pioneers of the traveling theater was James H. McVicker. As is often the case, his innovation was triggered by misfortune. He was a partner in a theatrical company in Chicago, when a fire destroyed the theater in 1850. Suddenly faced with no place for his troupe to work, he made a logical decision. During the rebuilding of the theater, he took his troupe on the road.

Throughout the rest of the century, more and more theater troupes followed suit. After all, even in the larger cities, they would soon run out of theater-goers who wanted to see a particular play. In response, the troupes began to head out over the rough dirt roads to bring a taste of culture to the surrounding country folk. The problem was, most of the little country towns were only large enough to accommodate a one-night stand. This meant the little troupe would have to pack up after each performance, and head out for another little town somewhere down the road. Not only did they tire of the constant travel, but the traveling expenses were eating up their profits.

The solution to this problem was simple - they had to learn more than one play, so they could stay in the same town longer. As the companies began to develop a repertoire of several shows, they gained the name of "rep" shows. Most of these early troupes set up their show wherever they could - in the local opera house or often in a roofless "airdome" when the weather permitted. As the years rolled by however, some of the theater companies followed the lead of the small circuses, and began to tour in tents. The tent became very popular after 1913, when the new "silent movies" began to take over the opera houses.

Although it was years before America's theatrical troupes began to travel, the theater itself took root shortly after the country's birth. Since our forefathers were a little too busy carving out a new country to sit down with a quill in hand and write a play, most of our early plays came from Europe. Shakespearean drama was a natural, since the early colonists had grown up with it in England. It wasn't long however, before Americans began to add their own "special touch" to the great Bard.

Everyone agreed that Shakespeare was a great dramatist. Still, this new country had been founded on some pretty strict religious morals, and his stories were often a little on the wild side. That didn't present a big problem though - since there weren't yet any copyright laws for theatrical presentations - they simply rewrote him. It just wasn't fitting, for example, for Juliet to allow Romeo to steal a kiss on their first meeting...so, in the American version, she waited a few more dates. In fact, the American "play re-writers" decided she was also a little young to be having a fling, so her age was increased to a more respectable eighteen. They also felt King Lear needed a little modification. After all, it didn't send out a very good moral message to have him killed for no reason. So on the American stage; he lived happily ever after.

Needless to say, not everyone was delighted with this "butchering of the Bard." So, since America obviously wanted its own style of play, it wasn't long before native writers began to write American plays. Theater groups were springing up in nearly every town and they were hungry for new play scripts. Most of these new playwrights cranked out their stories between the cracks of their full-time jobs. Across the young country, schoolteachers, lawyers and mechanics suddenly turned into authors.

In some cases, they even took the opportunity to combine their trades with their new vocation. John Minshull, a New York butcher, for instance, wasn't content to write his plays for the sake of pure art. He not only portrayed the benefits of living a moral and religious life, but also of eating good portions of fresh meat. During one of his plays, the hero informed his fellow actors that the "color of the complexion depends upon the food we eat. To feed constantly on salt pork," he enlightened them, "accounts for the sallow complexion." Just in case the audiences hadn't completely learned this lesson, Minshull wrote a song in another play that ended with the lines, "Oh the roast beef of Columbia! Oh Columbian roast beef!" Since the producers could get all the plays they needed from England, at no cost, they were not in the mood to pay much to the new American playwrights. In 1815, a playwright named M. N. Noah, complained about this problem. A theater manager, he wrote, rather than paying money for one of his best plays, had offered him "ten loads of wood."

Very likely, some of the early theatrical scripts were not quite worth "ten loads of wood." Since many were written by completely inexperienced writers, in between their jobs and other responsibilities, they were often cranked out in a few hours. Aware that their scripts were not exactly works of art, some of the writers added a clarification in the preface explaining that their play had been "a hasty production," or had been "sketched in a hurry."

Hastily written or not, most of the productions eventually found their way onto a stage. As towns were founded across the early country, the theaters soon followed. In fact, the theater was often the second building to be constructed...right after the church. In Huston, Texas, however, as author Edward G. Fletcher points out, "God even permitted two professional theaters to exist at a time when the town still had no churches."

Not just everyone was thrilled about our early country's love affair with the theater. One storeowner wrote a warning about the theater's addictive quality. Possibly stretching the truth "just a touch," he said he had recently discovered the "dramatic disease" right in his own family. Fortunately, he had spotted it just in time to prevent his family members from cutting a hole in the living-room ceiling in order to let in the ghost of Hamlet's father. Not only had his family become infected, but in his store, he claimed, his clerks had begun to write their business memos in blank verse.

Despite these dire warnings, Americans loved their early theater. In fact, they loved it so much; sometimes they apparently forgot the plays were not real. During an 1812 performance of a play in Philadelphia, for instance, the hero turned to his fellow-actors and asked if they felt they should entrust their rights to English justice. An old man in the audience didn't wait for their response. He stood waving his cane and called out, "No sir, no! We'll nail them to mast and sink with the stars and stripes before we'll yield." The audience gave the impromptu "actor" a prolonged ovation.

At the conclusion of a play in New York City, a group of Cherokee Indians had enjoyed the performance so much, they felt mere applause wasn't adequate. So they climbed right up on the stage and presented the leading lady with ornaments and headdresses. Sometimes however, this "audience participation" wasn't exactly welcomed by the theater troupe. It wasn't at all rare in early times, for example, for the audience members to shout song requests to the musicians in the orchestra during the play.

In Boston, a newspaper correspondent wrote about the audience's control over the events of the plays they watched. "We (the sovereigns) determine to have the worth of our money when we go to the theatre," he claimed. He explained that through their insistent applause and loud demands, the audience would make the actors repeat the songs and dances that they had particularly enjoyed. That evening, the correspondent continued, he was planning to attend a play called The Gamester. During the play one of the characters, Mrs. Kean, poisons her husband. "Perhaps," he predicted, "we'll flatter Mr. Kean by making him take poison twice."

This audience intervention often went far beyond the boundaries of good-natured requests for musical numbers or repeated scenes. If these requests were denied, apples and walnuts were often hurled toward the musicians or actors. In fact, early in America's history, an incident in a theater actually ended in bloodshed. It evolved from the still-simmering bad blood between the United States and England. The foremost tragic actors of the 1840's were Edwin Forrest, an American, and an English actor named William Charles Macready. Each actor had visited the other's country to perform. During these visits, everything had gone smoothly until the second time Forrest played London. He was hissed during the play, and later received several hostile reviews. A man who was known to be a friend of Macready wrote the most severe notice.

Under the assumption that Macready had arranged for this unpleasant reception, Forrest decided to get revenge. So he attended Macready's performance of Hamlet, in Edinburgh, and personally hissed at his performance. And with this childish rivalry, the stage had been set for an inevitable confrontation. Friends and fans of each actor began to take sides in the dispute as the quarrel escalated into a burning issue between the two nations. Throughout both actors' ensuing performances, newspaper headlines reported flurries of rotten eggs and insults.

By the spring of 1849, the feud had become so intense that the irate audiences felt the eggs and insults were no longer enough. Macready was booked to perform Macbeth in New York's prestigious Astor House Place opera house. During the performance, four chairs were thrown onto the stage, one of them almost hitting an actress. Macready decided the insanity had gone on long enough. After the show, he announced that he would cancel his tour. His supporters however, urged him to stay on and keep the show running. Unfortunately he took their advice.

During a performance two days later, several arrests were made inside the theater due to minor disturbances. Outside, a growing crowd became inflamed when they heard there had been police action in the opera house. They began to throw stones at the building. As the situation worsened, the militia was ordered to intervene and prevent further disruption. The word had spread to the unruly crowd, however, that the militia's rifles only contained blank cartridges. So when Macready exited the theater with a police escort, the crowd - unconcerned about the militia and their bogus bullets - pushed forward. The militia members were hesitant to fire directly at their fellow townsmen, and instead, shot slightly over their heads. Suddenly, shock waves surged through the crowd. As observers and innocent bystanders screamed and fell to the ground, a horrible realization set in. The rumor had not been true. The militia was indeed using live ammunition. It was a terrible lesson to learn, but the "Astor Place Riot" finally brought the American audiences to their senses. There would never again be such a total loss of control at a theatrical performance.

Throughout the years, however, there would continue to be uncontrolled events during the live performances. As upsetting as these incidents often were for the actors involved, for the audience, they were often be the stuff that memories were made of. Take for instance, the night Jolly Della Pringle first wore her new beaded gown. In the early days of the theater, most actors had to furnish their own wardrobes. They usually bought inexpensive used outfits, one piece at a time. Not Jolly however. She was well known for her collection of beautiful evening gowns.

That night, she donned a unique outfit adorned with tiny square glass beads. It was a dazzling dress that sparkled and shimmered under the stage lighting. When she put it on and proudly strode onto the stage, Jolly likely felt that nothing could go wrong that night. She was truly "dressed for success." Despite her dazzling appearance, there was one small problem. The "hour-glass figure" was the style of the day. And Jolly didn't exactly fill out the top part of the hourglass. No problem she thought - nothing that a couple of rubber balloons couldn't take care of. So with her new "inflated figure" and her glistening dress, she walked gracefully on stage.

As the play progressed, however, something was transpiring beneath her shimmering dress that would soon add an unusual touch to Ms. Pringle's performance. The sharp edges of the square glass beads were slowly cutting away at the rubber of one of her balloons. As Jolly walked around the stage, several audience members began to notice that she was beginning to look just a tad lop-sided. As the air continued to leak out, it was becoming apparent that either Jolly had an extremely unusual physical ability, or something was a little "less than natural." The audience began to roar with laughter. A true trouper, Jolly waited for her first scheduled exit to make "repairs." Then, when she reappeared, once more in a well-balanced state, the audience roared again. Jolly however, continued unruffled, as if a shrinking and expanding bosom was a perfectly natural part of her performance.

Another unexpected incident, which also turned out to be the most memorable part of the play, took place in the Loranger show when they were playing the Midwest. The show's manager, Bess Loranger was a lovable old character in her late sixties, with dyed red hair and a robust love of life. Jim Parsons, one of the members of the troupe remembered her as being "one of the sweetest old girls I have ever known in my life, although her language embarrassed me at times." Despite her "sweetness," old Bess, it seems, did tend to swear like a sailor. In fact, the rumor was out that she also occasionally enjoyed a good cigar.

Another thing about Bess - when something struck her funny during a play, she simply had to laugh. And it wouldn't be a girlish giggle. She would erupt with an earth-shaking guffaw that would shake the back row of the theater. One such eruption occurred when she was playing a character in a play called The Family Upstairs. In the scene, she had just lost an argument with another character, and takes her anger out on her poor son Willie. She was supposed to whirl around and yell, "Willie! You go upstairs and wash your neck, and behind your ears!"

Somehow old Bess's tongue got a little tangled, and as she spun around she shouted instead, "Willie! You go upstairs and wash your behind!" Parsons remembered a split-second of dead silence. And then it happened...Bess's eruption. Her wholehearted guffaws rocked the tent. The more she laughed, the louder the audience roared. The show stopped dead in its tracks for five minutes while everyone pulled themselves together.

Yes, unlike most of today's sedate theatrical performances, not everything was ideal in the early actor's world. Writer's often commented on "The music of cracking peanuts," the "buz-buz and hum-hum of small talk," and "incessant spitting of chewing tobacco." As irritating as this was for the poor actors, the play-writers often had an even stronger irritant - the critic. The early critic could be their worst nightmare. The play, Brutus, for instance, was written off by one critic as being a "foolish and presumptuous imitation." And in even more vivid terms, another critic described the play, Eighth of January, as "a detestable heap of rubbish."

Sometimes the critic wasn't satisfied with simply panning the play. He would aim his critique directly at the play-writer. One blamed a writer for being a "spotter of pure-white paper." But the award for early America's most venomous critic would likely go to the one who covered a play called The Battle of Eutaw Springs. It was really not such a bad play, he acknowledged, "considering that the author must have had his brains blown out at this same battle!"

The theater managers didn't always have an easy job either. Occasionally an actor would show up for the performance, drunk. Since this could ruin a show and give the troupe a bad reputation, the theater companies had a hard and fast rule against drinking. Anyone who came on stage drunk would be fired. There was, however, one exception to this rule - comedy actor, Bush Burrichter. Bush was such a nice guy and so talented, that nobody wanted to end his career. Unfortunately, although he would go for weeks sober as a judge, now and then he would fall off the wagon. And when he fell, he fell hard. As one of his contemporaries remembered, "let him so much as smell a cork, and he would be drunk for days."

His manager, however, had discovered a way to keep Bush in line. Bush's girlfriend was a large redheaded woman who didn't take any nonsense from him. Knowing how firm she could be, the manager sometimes paid her to keep him sober and ready to go on stage. An actor friend named Al Pitcaithley, related an incident when the manager found Bush drunk the morning before a matinee performance. He quickly summoned Bush's girlfriend to the scene.

When she arrived, she lost no time. She immediately "jerked him to a sitting position," Pitcaithley recalled. She then slapped him, "first to the right and then to the left." Then after pounding his head against the wall a couple of times for good measure, she sat him down in front of a cup of black coffee and taught him his lines for the play. By the matinee show-time, poor Bush was a little battered and bruised, but ready to face an audience that would be unaware of his drinking problem.

Another problem occurred when, sometimes, out of mischief, one actor would purposefully try to throw another actor off his bearings. James "Goober" Buchanan remembered such an incident during a tent show with the Stout Players in Waterloo, Illinois. He had been hired as an understudy for Toby Slout. As was often the case, he also had a small part that could easily be cut if he had to fill in for the main actor. He was given the role of a small-town chief of police. Goober had learned his lines, like most rep show actors, not by memorizing the entire script, but by using the line just prior to his as a cue. After several rehearsals, he felt comfortable with his part. When the play opened, however, old Toby Slout, who had the line preceding his, had a sudden flash of meanness.

"I was supposed to walk through the door and say, 'I'm the chief of police,' and tell him I was looking for someone," Goober remembered. But before Goober could get the line out, Toby looked up with a mischievous grin and blurted out, "Why hello chief, what can I do for you?" Goober, aware of Toby's intention, decided to throw him off track instead. He quickly turned and called out over his shoulder, "Hell! I don't know." Then he calmly exited through the rear door, leaving Toby standing, open-mouthed, alone on the stage.

Goober also recalled occasional problems outside the tent. Local boys would hang around and, out of mischief, sometimes try to cut the tent ropes. "I'd watch out around the tent," Goober remembered, "and if I found a boy who might cause us trouble, I'd try to trick him out of his pocket knife." "First, I'd tell him that I would let him in free if he would help out around the tent." After the boy enthusiastically agreed, Goober would explain to him that he would have to let him hold something of value, "just for assurance that he would stay around throughout the show." Then Buchanan would scratch his head and strain to think of some type of "collateral" the young boy might possibly have with him. Finally, inspiration would strike him: "Oh I know!" he would exclaim, " How about maybe... a pocket knife?"

Even putting the kids to work could sometimes be risky. Once Goober had asked some local boys to drive the tent stakes. The tent had been pitched right next to a railroad sidetrack where several freight cars had been parked. During the play, the kids, who had been peacefully watching the show, suddenly leaped to their feet and ran outside the tent. They had heard the sound of an engine pulling up to haul the parked railroad cars away. Suddenly, they remembered that they hadn't driven the rear tent stakes into the ground. Instead, to save time, they had simply tied the tent ropes to the railroad cars. Fortunately, they were able to untie them seconds before the engine pulled the tent down. "That was a close one!" Goober recalled.

Despite the critic's poison pens, the drunks, and the smart alecks, the theater troupes continued to travel across the country. Even though the tent shows usually traveled in wagons and later in trains and cars, some of the less-fortunate troupes sometimes turned toward a more primitive method of moving from town to town - they walked. Luke Cosgrave, who worked with the F. W. and Grace George Company, remembered a trip they took through New Mexico. Mr. George had decided that along with Luke and another man, he would go through the mountains on foot, while the female troupe members, accompanied by one other man, would ride around the mountain in their wagon. Their intent was to arrive in Kingston before the wagon, and put up the show's advertising posters. They should get there in plenty of time. After all, they calculated that taking the path through the mountain range would save them seventy-two miles over the wagon's circular journey.

They set out enthusiastically, passing a couple of broken-down sheds as they began their hike. As they trudged along throughout the day and into the early evening, they began to look for a place to rest. Peering through the dusky light, their eyes suddenly popped wide open. Together, they stared desolately at two distant buildings. In the dim light, just a few hundred feet away, stood the same two broken down sheds they had left earlier in the morning. They had apparently spent the entire day walking in a huge circle.

Unfortunately, their journey didn't improve much. Hopelessly lost, they spent days wandering around, finally coming upon a cabin with chickens in the yard. No one was home, so the starving actors killed two of the chickens and cooked them. They polished off the meal with a bowl of custard they had found on the kitchen table. Then they wrote a thank you note, and left free tickets for their show, on the table. On the fifth day of their journey, they ran across five men leading three ponies. The men told them they had been sent out by a traveling theater troupe that had reached Kingston two days earlier. They were "looking for some show fellows," they explained, "who might have missed the trail."

Traveling by wagon was preferable to walking, but in some cases, not much better. Showman Herb Walters remembers moving a dramatic show by wagon in 1915. They left Kansas City on the first of June, after an extremely rainy spring. The rains, unfortunately, would continue throughout the entire summer. "The weeds in the field were taller than the crops..." he recalled. Pools of water hid hazardous sinkholes, and a lot of the bridges had been washed out. They would set out early in the morning while the rain was pouring down. "At that time of the day," Walters said, "we could move better than we could later in the day when the sun came out, and partially dried the roads..." When the mud began to dry, it would stick to the wheels, forming huge mud tires that the straining horse couldn't budge.

Somehow, despite the "mud tires," the "incessant spitting of tobacco," the "inflating and deflating bosoms," and all the rest, the early theater just kept rolling along. They brought a "touch of class" to the rowdy west. Rawboned frontiersmen would attempt to show their families they could become sophisticated theatergoers for a few hours. Sun-dried farmers would walk away from their rusty plows and mules and put on their Sunday best for an evening of big-city culture. Not only did the troupes bring the theater to the frontier, they also brought the frontier to the theater. The growth of the country was documented in the scripts of the early plays. Indian characters, for example, were first depicted as fearless noble savages. As the mood of the country changed, they soon transformed into barbaric villains.

As the pioneers moved further west, rough-cut heroes like Ralph Stackpole, walked the stage. "Roarin' Ralph, the ring-tailed screamer," as he called himself, would proudly march across in buckskin clothes and a coonskin cap. Afraid of "nothing that walks, crawls, swims, or flies," he would tackle everything from treacherous savages to grizzly bears. As the bear-fighting backwoodsmen began to fade from popularity, they were replaced by the new heroes of the "wild west." Buffalo Bill Cody, Deadwood Dick and other early western heroes brought the open-air excitement of life on the prairie to the stage. Later on, the "cowboy" became the leading man. And not just the honest sheriff or the hard-working cowpuncher. Even the bad guys became popular heroes. Actor Walter Woods toured the theater circuit for twelve years, playing Billy the Kid.

Years later, as the country began to mature and settle down, the honest hard-working farmer took his turn as the leading man. During this period, one of the truly American theatrical characters made his appearance. This character, called a "Toby" comedian, was a coarse but shrewd country boy who loved to get one over on the visiting city slicker. Like Billy the Kid, Deadwood Dick, Roarin' Ralph, and the others, however, Toby and his friends would also be replaced. This time, however, their replacements wouldn't come strutting across the stage bragging about killing bears and fighting savages. Instead, they would flow invisibly through the air or flicker quietly across a dark room.

One of the stand-ins waiting in the wings, was that new squawking gadget that most of the tent show performers were certain was just a passing novelty. After all, nobody would be satisfied to simply hear the actor's voices. What would they watch? Nevertheless, radio was slowly but surely beginning to reach out and pull potential theater-goers out of the dusty tents and back into the comfort of their own living rooms.

The tent showmen also felt confident that they had won the competition with another "passing fancy" - motion pictures. Granted, the new creation had at first hurt their business and had even run them out of their nice warm opera houses. But they had managed to outlast the fleeting novelty. After all, how long would the public be satisfied with the flickering pictures and their silly subtitles? But then came the final blow. Those silent little characters on the screens decided to start talking. Now the public would have voices to go along with their silver-screen heroes. And they wouldn't have to wait until the country's best actors came wheeling into their little towns. They could lean back, in indoor comfort, and watch them right up there on the screen.

The wife of tent repertoire actor Chick Boyes remembers the first time she saw this new competitor. She was in Chicago with her husband, during the late twenties. They had decided to visit a theater that had advertised a very unusual treat. As they were watching a typical silent film, suddenly, on the screen, a dog barked. Her husband knew the significance of that solitary little bark. Chick suddenly turned to her with a serious face. "That dog's bark," he said prophetically, "may be the end of us."

WHEN WILD REALLY MEANT WILD

The Rowdy Rough-Edged Wild West Shows

It was almost the Fourth of July, 1882 in North Platte, Nebraska, and absolutely no one had planned anything to celebrate the holiday. Nothing at all! When William Frederick Cody heard about this deplorable situation during a visit to his hometown, he didn't know what to do, but he knew he had to do something. Yes, there was no doubt about it, it simply wasn't patriotic not to have a Fourth of July celebration!

Tired of his complaining about their lack of planning, Cody's old hometown cronies instantly elected him as chairman to organize a celebration. Little by little, Cody's grumblings about the lack of a Fourth of July celebration began to transform into ideas for the event. He decided he could give a demonstration of how he had killed buffalo, and earned his nickname, Buffalo Bill. As he became more and more enthusiastic about the idea, his friends began to share his interest, and started throwing out their own suggestions. One of his buddies recalled that M. C. Keefe had a small buffalo herd that they might use. Another one suggested that the town's fenced-in racetrack might be the perfect spot for that type of demonstration.

As the plans grew, so did the effects of Cody's persuasive talents. He talked some of the local citizens into putting up prizes for the events of shooting, riding, and bronco busting. He lined up the racetrack. And in plenty of time to celebrate Independence Day, he had mapped out the birth of the 1882 Old Glory Blowout of North Platte, Nebraska. Buffalo Bill didn't stop with the idea of the buffalo exhibition and a few competitive events. He hired several Indians, and bought a stagecoach known as the Old Deadwood Stagecoach. Using several local cowboys, he reenacted a famous stagecoach holdup. He added horse racing and a sharp-shooting contest to the riding and bronco-busting events. Then he sent out five thousand handbills to promote the Blowout and let the local cowboys know about the contests and the prizes. He had hoped for about a hundred entrants. He got over a thousand! The Old Glory Blowout turned out to be a howling success. As he watched the cowboys ride and fall, and the crowd rise and cheer, Cody knew he had created something novel, something authentic, something wild - the Wild West show.

Buffalo Bill Cody was not the first person to have staged displays of wild western events. In fact, some pretty well known characters actually beat him to the punch. The great showman, P. T. Barnum, brought a herd of buffalo to Hoboken, New York in 1843, for a one-day "Grand Buffalo Hunt." He even added a free band concert to enhance the event. Unfortunately for Barnum, the buffalo didn't do much of anything - that is until the audience began to shout at them. Then they stampeded, crashed through a fence, and ran off into a swamp.

James Capen Adams, better known as Grizzly Adams, teamed up with Barnum in 1860 to organize a parade to open the California Menagerie. Complete with a band accompaniment, Adams rode in the parade on a platform wagon, along with three grizzlies. Two were chained down, and he rode the third. Wild Bill Hickok also dabbled in western show biz in 1872, with his own Grand Buffalo Hunt. A newspaper account, however, didn't portray it as being quite as "grand" as the advertisements claimed. With only three buffalo present, Hickok's show did at least have some first-class riding and lassoing, according to the article.

Despite the efforts of his predecessors, Buffalo Bill is given credit for the origin of the Wild West show. He was the first to combine the individual exhibitions and contests into a full-scale Wild West show. Cody had envisioned the concept of "bringing the West to the people" several years before he actually had to opportunity to do it.

Unlike many other showmen, Buffalo Bill Cody was the genuine article. He had lived the rough and rugged life of a scout on the plains, and wanted to share the excitement of it with others. Born in 1846 in Iowa, he and his family moved to Kansas as soon as the state was opened for settlement. As he grew up, he undertook a number of ventures, including working as a messenger for an Army supply train, and as a Pony Express rider. In the early years of the Civil War, he joined several irregular militia commands, and later, the Seventh Kansas Voluntary Cavalry. Later, he tried his hand at hotel keeping, railroad building, and even tried unsuccessfully to found a town. In 1867 and 1868, he contracted with the Union Pacific railroad construction workers to supply them with buffalo meat. During this time, he gained the nickname of Buffalo Bill.

Later, he became Chief of Scouts for the 5th U.S. Cavalry and worked at that position for four years. He took part in sixteen Indian fights and became known for his bravery and marksmanship. During one of his expeditions as a scout, he was accompanied by Edward Zane Carroll Judson. Judson was a prolific dime novel-writer, under the name of Ned Buntline. Buntline used Cody as the hero of four of his books, and helped spread Cody's fame far from his western prairie. Buntline's novels were sometimes dramatized on the melodrama stage, and he persuaded Buffalo Bill to appear with him in a performance to be given in Chicago. The play, "The Scouts of the Plains," was written by Buntline in less than four hours. Buntline, playing the part of Gale Burg, was killed in the second act. One critic suggested that it might have been better if this had happened "before the play was written."

Despite the critic's scorn, the play proved to be quite a success. Cody talked his old friend Wild Bill Hickok into joining the show, writing to him that Hickok would have to quit killing people while he was with the show. Cody sent Wild Bill traveling money and told him to meet him at the Brevoort Hotel in New York City. He informed Hickok that when he arrived in town, he should only pay the horse-drawn cab driver two dollars, no matter what he requested, saying the cab-men were "regular hold-up men." When Wild Bill got to New York, he took a carriage-cab and when the driver asked for five dollars, he gave him two and told him that was all he would get. The cab driver pulled off his coat and prepared for a fight. He got it! Wild Bill left the cabby lying on the ground and dusted of his clothes and walked toward the hotel. The hotel owner had watched the fight, and walked up to Cody's room, saying simply, "I think the gentleman you've been expecting has arrived."

During Hickok's first performance, he was cast in a scene in which he sat around a campfire telling stories with Cody and a friend, Texas Jack. During the scene, a whiskey bottle was passed around. In theater fashion, the bottle was actually filled with cold tea. In a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, Hickok said he could tell cold tea from whiskey, and would not be able to tell his stories unless he got some real whiskey. Cody sent out for the real thing and Wild Bill continued with his stories.

One day in Pennsylvania, a gang of roughs in the local bar bragged that they were going to hunt up the Buffalo Bill gang and "clean them out." Not wanting a scene, Cody told Wild Bill and the rest that they should use a private entrance to the Opera House where they were playing in order to avoid an incident. Wild Bill had other ideas. He strolled into the bar and cleared them out, leaving several lying around on the floor. When Cody reminded him that he had told him to use the private stage entrance, Wild Bill told him, "I did try to follow the trail, but I got lost among the canyons..."

Cody seemed to enjoy some of the acting life, but Hickok never did. He became extremely homesick for the excitement of the plains and his former lifestyle. He asked to leave the melodrama and was very upset when management told him he had signed a contract that he could not get out of. Wild Bill decided to become so intolerable that they would want to let him go. His strategy worked, especially when he began shooting out the footlights during the performances! Wild Bill was finally "freed" from the melodrama stage, and Cody and Texas Jack split their money with him as a friendship gesture.

Buffalo Bill continued on the melodrama circuit for years as he dreamed of saving enough money to someday produce a new kind of show - one that would bring his beloved west to life for those that might never venture there. Early in 1882, before the success of his Old Glory Blow Out, Cody met a well-known showman, Nate Salsbury, in the Grand Opera House in Brooklyn, New York. Like Cody, Salsbury had dreamed of an outdoor show with horsemanship and Indian warfare exhibitions. They met at a restaurant and shared their visions. Although they would eventually team up, the two men parted company, simply agreeing that it was an idea bound for success, but would take a great deal of money to finance.

One of Cody's neighbors, a dentist named Dr. A. W. Carver, had participated in the Old Glory Blow Out. He had some funding, and saw this type of extravaganza as his door to show business. Cody was anxious to get started with his dream, so when Carver offered to form a partnership, he readily agreed. Carver had been a trick marksman, shooting nickels tossed in the air. He had billed himself around local fairs and contests as "The Evil Spirit of the Plains."

They also hired a champion clay-pigeon shot named Captain A. H. Bogardus. Bogardus, incidentally, was instrumental in switching from the shooting of live pigeons to traps that threw glass balls or clay pigeons. Prior to his use of these gadgets, people shot live pigeons lured toward the shooter by another pigeon that was often tied to a stool near the marksman. This was the origin of the term "stool pigeon."

A friend helped to recruit several Pawnees from Oklahoma, and another friend of Cody, Major Frank North, agreed to be billed as "The White Chief of the Pawnees." During the summer of 1882 they made their plans, and began to rehearse the show in the winter. They hired some cowboys from Nebraska who could perform lariat tricks and rope steers. Cody and Carver decided to add a Pony Express act to the show, showing how the riders changed horses. Cody had kept the Old Deadwood stagecoach, and worked it into the performance.

During the first rehearsal of the show, in Colville, Nebraska, Cody was adamant about making sure every part of the performance was authentic. Rather than use trained mules, he used a team of nearly unbroken mules to pull the Deadwood stagecoach. When Frank North and the band of Pawnees charged the stage, shooting blank cartridges and yelling war whoops, the mules frightened and bolted away, frantically circling the hippodrome track. When the stage finally stopped, an extremely angry Colville mayor and several irate town councilmen jumped out. They had been the honored guests who were treated to the first stagecoach ride. According to accounts, the mayor had to be physically restrained from attacking Cody. Major North later made the suggestion that Cody consider using some worn out hack horses and Indians with a "little less ambition."

Finally, after all the planning, rehearsing, and dreaming, the show was ready. On May 19, 1883, at the Fair Grounds in Omaha, Cody and Carver presented "The Wild West, Rocky Mountain and Prairie Exhibition." Not everyone knew exactly what it was. Some called it a circus. Others simply knew it was something new and different. Nearly everyone knew, however, that it was exciting, rowdy and fun.

Carver, usually an excellent shot, had an off day, very likely from a little too much celebrating of the grand opening. Cody for the first time in public, demonstrated his marksmanship skills by shooting at blue glass balls thrown in the air, as he rode by on a gallop. They also staged the Pony Express demonstration, an attack on the Deadwood stagecoach, horse races, bucking bronco and wild Texas steer riding and a closing spectacle called "A Grand Hunt on the Plains." This grand finale included buffalo, elk, deer, mountain sheep, wild horses and Longhorns. The show contained many of the features that the later Wild West shows would have, but it was not yet a smooth well-oiled performance.

As Cody and Carver and the rest of the cast started out on the road, they performed at fairgrounds and vacant lots. Unfortunately, many of the cowboys began to spend a little too much time in the local saloons, and couldn't always be found when their turn to rope and ride came along. Transporting all the equipment had also become a concern. It was becoming clear that some serious problems were at hand. Clear, that is, to everyone but the audiences and the newspapers. They loved it! The Connecticut Hartford Courant, for example, called it authentic, and described the "thunder of hoofs, clank of spurs and rattle of pistols."

Not only were problems developing with the cowboys in the show, but also with Cody's partner. Dr. Carver was temperamental and tended to explode into violent rages when things weren't going his way. Once, at a show in Coney Island, he got so mad at having missed a shot, that he punched his helper and hit his horse with a rifle. The Indians in the show were getting more and more homesick, and along with the cowboys, they started to become an unruly mob. Cody realized it was time for some kind of action.

As they arrived for a show in Chicago, Cody heard that his old acquaintance, Nate Salsbury, was playing in town. Remembering their conversations about their shared visions of an open-air western show, Cody hunted him up and asked if he would like to form a partnership. The timing was perfect, since the temperamental Carver was fed up with show business anyway. Cody and Carver divided up the equipment, and Buffalo Bill and Nate Salsbury joined in a partnership that would refine one of the most original and exciting entertainment forms in American history.

Nate continued with his theatrical company during the next year, while Cody and his crew prepared the Wild West Show. Nate was more of a businessman than Cody and was disappointed when he visited him in the spring of 1884. He found him surrounded by a lot of drunken buddies who were "getting as drunk as he at his expense." He left a letter for Buffalo Bill to read when he sobered up. Cody wrote back to him that, "This drinking surely ends today..." and promised that he would never miss a performance because of drinking. He did let Nate know, however, that "when the show is laid up for winter, 1 am going to get on a drunk that is a drunk!"

As the '84 season opened, they had added several new faces to the cast of characters, including William Levi Taylor. Taylor was the model for a dime novel by Prentiss Ingram, called "Buck Taylor, King of the Cowboys." This is often considered to be the first book with a cowboy hero. Con Groner, "The Cowboy sheriff of the Platte," also joined the show. His primary claim to fame was in having rounded up Doc Middleton's gang of outlaws. Also aboard was Dr. Frank Powell, known as "White Beaver."

He too became a dime novel hero and was an expert marksman. Once a partner of Cody in a patent medicine business, Powell was also a doctor and even practiced medicine - occasionally. Johnny Baker, "The Cowboy Kid," began with Cody's show and stayed until the end. Johnny moved to North Platte with his family when he was nine. He began to tag around after Buffalo Bill, talking with him and holding his horse. Cody took him under his wing, and later, when the Wild West Show was created, Johnny begged to be part of it.

As the 1884 season got rolling, the audiences grew. In Chicago, one crowd was counted at over 41,000. That was incredible for those days. The good news of the audience size was matched, however, by misfortune. Major Frank North, The White Chief of the Pawnees, was thrown and trampled by a horse, and died from his injuries the next spring. Later that year, Cody and Salsbury decided to take the show to New Orleans to play the World's Industrial and Cotton Exposition. They boarded a steamship from Cincinnati that collided with another riverboat in Mississippi. Cody sent a wire to Salsbury, saying, "Outfit at bottom of river, what do you advise." Salsbury was playing in Denver when he received the message and quickly wired back the response, "Go to New Orleans," he wrote, "reorganize, and open on your date." Cody salvaged the Deadwood coach, bandwagon, and the horses. Then he quickly set about rounding up buffalo, elk, wagons, and the other necessary equipment in time to open in New Orleans eight days later!

That trip to New Orleans seemed to result in bad luck on top of bad luck. The show met forty-four consecutive days of rain. Not a great situation for an outdoor show! One day, it was so bad that only nine people bought tickets. With a typical "on-with-the-show" type of attitude, Cody said, "If nine people came out in all this rain to see us, we'll show." They proceeded to put on their full show.

There was, however, hidden behind the forty-four days of gloom, a bright silver lining. The Sells Brothers Circus happened to be playing in New Orleans at the same time the Wild West Show was performing. Some of the circus performers visited the show - among them, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Butler. Mrs. Butler just happened to have another show name, Annie Oakley. Annie was to become the leading star of the Wild West Shows. She had learned to shoot, and shoot well at an early age.

Her father had died when she was only six so she grew up fast. At eight, she shot a squirrel through the head with a long rifle, and by the time she was a teenager, she was supplying a hotel with game. When an exhibition marksman, Frank Butler, came to town in a shooting act, he issued a challenge to local sharpshooters to compete. The hotel owner backed Annie. Frank thought someone was playing a joke on him when his opponent showed up in a pink gingham dress and sunbonnet. He realized it was no joke when Annie won the contest. A year later Frank and Annie married. Frank decided to become Annie's manager, and they took to the road as a team.

The Butlers liked what they saw as they watched the Wild West show, and asked If they could join. Both Cody and Salsbury felt that they had too many shooting acts and too little money to hire more. Frank, undaunted by their lack of enthusiasm, offered to do their act on a trial basis. If they didn't like it, nothing was lost. They joined the show in Louisville for the trial and fifteen minutes after Annie began her act, they were hired!

Annie was, contrary to popular legend, not a rough tough tomboy. In fact, she was quite the little lady. As she entered the arena, she would skip in, bowing, waving, and blowing kisses at the audience. Although her marksmanship was great, it was really her showmanship that elevated her to such famous status. When she was off stage, her favorite pastime was, of all things, embroidery. In fact, she was nearly as proficient with the needle as with a rifle. She and Frank had a very long and happy marriage that didn't seem to be affected by competition. Annie often used cards that she would throw in the air and shoot as targets. One type she used had her picture at one end, and a heart-shaped target at the other. After she shot them, she would pass them out as souvenirs. This led to the use of the term of an "Annie Oakley" for a complimentary ticket, since these tickets were punched with holes for identification when the receipts were counted.

Cody had a soft spot for Annie, and treated her much like a daughter. He informed his company that "Little Missie," as he called her, was to be welcomed and protected. Annie returned his consideration with loyalty. She stayed with the show for seventeen years and never had a contract. She once said, "His words were more than most contracts." She was not only a loyal employee and friend, but became, unquestionably, the most valuable asset the Wild West Show ever had. The show's posters and other advertisements seldom highlighted individual performers. After Nate Salsbury watched Annie's first rehearsal, however, he ordered seven thousand dollars worth of advertisement on billboards and in heralds, featuring Annie Oakley.

Frank also had a lot of faith in Annie, especially in her shooting ability. Incorporated in her act were several risky exhibitions, including shooting a lit cigarette from Frank's mouth and shooting a dime out of his fingers. She would also slice a playing card in half. After two clay pigeons had been released, Annie would leap over a table, pick up her gun and pick off both targets. No wonder she was known as "Little Sure Shot!"

Although she had several nicknames, including "The Peerless Wing and Rifle Shot," "Little Sure Shot" was the one that stuck with her through history. The famous Sioux leader, Sitting Bull, gave her that title. He had watched her perform in a theater in St. Paul in 1884, and was very impressed. He dubbed her Little Sure Shot and exchanged photographs with her after the show. He also "adopted" her into the Hunkpapa Sioux as his daughter. This meeting turned out to be very important for the Wild West Show.

In 1885, John Burke, the show's press agent, decided he wanted to include Sitting Bull in the show. Sitting Bull had become famous after the defeat of Custer. Even though he was a technical prisoner-of-war for two years, he had become quite a celebrity. When Burke asked him to join, Sitting Bull declined since he once had a bad experience on a previous tour. Burke spotted a picture of Annie in Sitting Bull's tipi, and then promised him that he would be able to see Annie every day on the tour. That was all it took. Sitting Bull agreed. He signed up on June 6th, 1885 and toured with the Wild West for the next four months.

Sitting Bull was billed as a villain, and was often hissed at when he entered the arena. There was, however, a great deal of curiosity to see him. Sitting Bull and Buffalo Bill were pictured on programs, with the caption, "Foes in '76 - Friends in '85." Sitting Bull didn't seem to particularly mind being cast as a bad guy, and seemed to truly enjoy the attention he received. In fact, he picked up quite quickly on the white man's "show biz" techniques.

He would often sell his "personal possessions," such as his pipe pouch. What the happy souvenir-buyer didn't know was, he had a stock of "personal" pipe pouches on reserve! Out of his profits, he would send home money to his family, and would give the rest to the newsboys, bootblacks and other street urchins who hung out around his tent. He could never understand the logic of some white men having wealth in the midst of poverty. When he left the show, Cody gave him a present of a trick horse that he had become attached to, and a white sombrero. Sitting Bull treasured both of the presents given by his friend, "Long Hair."

Both Sitting Bull and Annie Oakley did their part to turn the Wild West show into a profitable enterprise. During the 1885 season, the show had been watched by a million people within five months, to turn a $100,000 profit. Cody was quite security-minded however, and still continued the melodrama circuit that next winter. After that however, both Cody and Salsbury devoted all their energies to the Wild West show. It had become obvious that the dream they had shared years ago of an outdoor show that would "bring the west to the people," was doing just that - to a lot of people!

As the years rolled by, and the show toured the nation, new personalities joined the cast, sometimes just for a few months at a time. Lillian Smith, a fifteen-year-old rifle shot teamed up with Annie Oakley during the 1886 season when the show performed at Staten Island for a six month stay. Like Annie, Lillian had learned to shoot when she was just a child. She would shoot at a plate thirty times in fifteen seconds. On her first attempt at shooting glass balls, she hit 323 consecutively before missing one. She would also shoot at glass balls swinging around a pole on strings. Lillian didn't go with the show when they left Staten Island.

Johnny Baker, another marksman, was billed for a while as Annie's rival. The audiences would watch with anticipation, waiting for the day he would beat Annie's record. The day never came. Years later, Johnny was asked if he had lost on purpose. He said he had tried his best and never quite made it. Annie, however, was not always unbeaten, and the information handed out about her career included her occasional defeats in addition to her more typical successes.

Buffalo Bill Cody, himself, had turned into quite a good marksman as the show progressed. The programs stated, however, that he was not a "fancy shot," but more of a "practical all-around shot." His specialty continued to be shooting at glass balls while he galloped past on his horse. Dr. Carver, remained jealous of Cody and Salsbury's success throughout the years, and continued his own show. He repeatedly made an issue of what he called Wild Bill's "trickery" of using shot instead of rifle bullets. Although the shot would spread out to a couple of inches by the time it reached the glass ball, it was still quite a tricky feat to hit the ball from a galloping horse. Cody, in fact, didn't switch to using shot to make the shooting easier. In the first show, he used regulation rifle bullets. Following the performance, he was presented with a large bill from an irate greenhouse owner, eight blocks away!

Salsbury also seemed to have a touch of envy toward Cody's success and popularity. According to some accounts, he looked at Buffalo Bill as a sort of figurehead, and considered himself to be the real power behind the show. Fortunately for the show, Salsbury was content to stick to the business side of things while Buffalo Bill gained most of the glory. Regardless of the feelings of his partners, Cody's strong point was his genuine understanding of showmanship. Because of this, he became the living exemplification of the Wild West, to generations who never had the opportunity to see the wild buffalo running free or gaze out over the endless miles of prairie.

The Wild West show was enjoyed by saddle-worn cowboys and white-collared city-dwellers, alike. As the show toured through towns and cities, a number of famous people saw it, and liked what they saw. Mark Twain, General Sherman, and Thomas Edison all watched excitedly as the dusty performance brought Cody's rough and tumble world to their towns. Twain described it as, "purely and distinctively American." Even royalty set aside their crowns and manners to drink in the raw-edged excitement of it. At a command performance for Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee in 1887 in London, Cody carried the Prince of Wales and the Kings of Belgium, Denmark, Greece and Saxony in the stagecoach. The Prince of Wales, an avid poker player, remarked to Buffalo Bill that he had never held four Kings like those before. Even P.T. Barnum was impressed. "They do not need spangles to make it a real show," he once remarked after watching a performance.

The shows weren't always held in dusty lots either. A winter exhibition was held in none other than the king of theaters, Madison Square Garden. In the words of the promoter, the Garden housed, "A gigantic new era and departure in colossally realistic scenic production." It was indeed, pretty colossal. The roof of the Garden was actually raised twenty-five feet to accommodate the performance. In one scene of this presentation, a mining camp, Deadwood City, was to be nearly destroyed by a cyclone. Three huge steam-driven fans supplied the "cyclone" and one hundred bags of dried leaves blew across the stage as Deadwood City fell to the great wind.

As colossal and as exciting as the Wild West show was, however, just like the dried leaves, it was destined to blow away and land in the sterile pages of the history books. Cody's show continued on through the turn-of-the-century, and like many other originals, it gave rise to similar shows. None, however, would have the guts and the glory that Cody brought to the arena.

As the nation matured, it sought more sophisticated forms of entertainment. The buffalo and the Indians and the shooting and all the rest of the rambunctious action would transform into vivid memories that grandfathers would relate to wide-eyed grandchildren. Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley and all the rest would change from real-life fun-loving adventurers into names in a history book that school children would recite with a mechanical boredom. If only for a few minutes, those students could step back into the mists of time and hear the bullets fly and see the horses gallop, they would never again wonder why grandpa got such a gleam in his eye when he talked about the glorious days of the Wild West shows!

FROM BRITISH BLONDES

TO SHIMMY SHAKERS

Burlesque, the "Embarrassing Stepchild" of Show Business

A dark scowl crept over the old Jewish businessman's face as he shuffled down the sixth floor hallway of the National Winter Garden Theater. His eyes darted toward the row of pictures along the wall. The photographs of girls prancing around in abbreviated costumes were definitely not his idea of appropriate decor. He couldn't avoid them since his office was located on the same floor, but he didn't have to accept them.

"Prostitutes! prostitutes!" he muttered aloud in his native Yiddish tongue. He would have likely ripped them from their frames and burned them had he only known what those showgirls from his sons' theater would eventually do to his cherished family name. For decades to follow, the very mention of the name "Minsky" would evoke vivid images of raucous bumps and grinds, and the screeching sirens of frenzied police raids. Minsky's Burlesque in New York City, became synonymous with the "cooch dancers" and "shimmy shakers" and all the rest of the free-wheeling cast of characters from this unique entertainment form. Today, grandfathers still get a sheepish grin as they relay stories to their grandsons about their visit to Minskys.

These tales usually begin with an elevator ride to the sixth-floor orchestra level of Minsky's famous burlesque theater. They recall how they tried to act nonchalant as they sat in the hard chairs and breathed in the thick mingled smells of cigar smoke, talcum powder and greasepaint. They still recall how their pulse raced when the huge red-velvet curtain parted to reveal a wild new world to their young and innocent eyes. As they sink into their memories, they can still picture the dark red walls of Minsky's theater, complete with huge mural paintings of dramatic scenes from Shakespearean dramas.

As magenta lights focused on the curtain, an air of anticipation surged through the theater. While fourteen musicians tuned up in the orchestra pit, the enthusiastic patrons began to applaud for the showgirls to appear. Then, when the anticipation had reached a nerve-tingling peak, the curtain finally opened and...there they were - the showgirls. Eighteen dancers filled the stage, dressed in leotards, red tutus and black-lace garter belts. As they began to sing and dance, catcalls and whistles echoed across the theater.

Following the chorus line, a baggy-pants comedian sporting a big "putty" nose, joined a straight man wearing a striped suit and dapper straw hat. Together they tossed out a few fast and furious one-liners. Although some muffled guffaws broke out among the audience members, they were simply not whole-heartedly involved with the act. As the comedians headed toward the wings, an opera singer stepped forward to add a touch of class to the evening's performance. Her presence was intended to settle the rowdy crowd with a bit of culture. They courteously applauded her efforts, but an evening of culture was simply not what was on their minds.

Fortunately for their strained attention spans, the culture wasn't long lasting. The eagerly awaited "cooch" dancer was next on the program. As she stepped onto the stage and began to gyrate to the heavy drumbeat of the music, the audience lost any hint of the culture the opera singer had tried to instill. The coin decorations on her short bolero jingled in time to her rhythmic undulations. The audience that only five minutes previously had clapped sedately at the operatic performance, now howled like frenzied dogs on a foxhunt. Yes, Minsky's theater had indeed come alive.

But just when the crowd was at its rowdy peak, it was once again, culture time. This time it was a dramatic sketch steeped in tearful tragedy. It told of a young man who left home for the glitter of the big-city life. After falling in with bad company and getting into serious trouble, he realized he had broken his poor mother's heart. Sliding into the depths of depression, the poor wretch took his own life. The sketch ended with his poor desperate mother pacing back and forth in front of her parlor window, waiting in vain for her lost son to return. The audience that was previously howling and whistling now sank into their chairs with mournful sighs.

But...not to worry, it was time for the girls again. First came another chorus line, then one of burlesque's specialties, the soubrette. She sang a couple of popular songs as she danced around the stage. The soubrette was the youngest of the featured ladies and was in training for a bigger role in the show. And so it went throughout the evening. The chorus girls would return, then skits, then more girls, then acrobats, then girls...until the whole thing wound down at about a quarter 'till eleven.

Yes, Minsky's Burlesque would give thousands of young men some pretty wild stories to tell in their later years. It would, however, give the old Jewish businessman who muttered at the showgirls' pictures, nothing but heartaches and worry lines. As Louis Minsky glared at the gaudy images, he could still remember how proud he had been when he had chosen the name Minsky. It had been 1883 and the persecution of the Jewish people in Russia and Poland had become severe. His father earned enough money to send him to America. As was the custom, he took on a new name. He replaced his first name of Aryeh with "Louis." To substitute for his last name of Lev, he chose the name of the city nearest his family - "Minsk." Adding a "y" he proudly introduced himself as Louis Minsky.

Once he had arrived in America and settled in, he evaluated his new neighborhood in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. As he scanned the old brownstone buildings, he decided on his best approach to make money. Like many of the other Jewish immigrants, he soon set out with a pack on his back to peddle goods to the brownstone's inhabitants. He didn't mind – after all, he was in a new land with an opportunity to save enough money to send for his wife and child to join him. And he was quite a salesman! Within two years, he was successful enough to open his own store - Minsky's Dry Goods and Notions. Louis primarily sold supplies to pushcart peddlers. The store did well until about 1890 when most of the old brownstones were replaced by towering tenement buildings. The peddlers could no longer walk house-to-house to sell their wares.

Undaunted, Louis switched to a retail dry goods business. His decision was perfectly timed. The new business prospered and before long he was looking for a larger building to house his dry goods store. His choice, the "Grand Museum," would suit him perfectly. There was, however, a slight problem. The building was occupied by a number of entertainers. On the various floors, boxing exhibitions, magic shows and minstrel companies performed regularly. There was even a curio hall, complete with Herman the Strongman and The Armless Wonder. It didn't take Louis Minsky long to decide what to do with his new tenants...he threw them all out. Life was much too serious to waste time with such frivolity. Ironically, frivolity was the very thing that seemed to follow him around throughout his life. Once Louis had earned enough to send for his wife and son, he settled into a disciplined family life, proudly raising a large family of sons. Sadly, two died early, but he still had four strong sons to carry on his proud family name...or so he hoped.

His hopes were high in 1908, when he heard that Abe, his oldest son, planned to go into business with another young man. They had raised enough money to take over an old Lutheran church on Houston Street. Since motion pictures were the new rage, this seemed like the perfect time to set up a neighborhood nickelodeon. Abe and his friend proudly christened their new theater the Houston Street Hippodrome. The customers poured in, each leaving behind a nickel. Abe's father proudly surveyed his son's books. Yes, it appeared that young Abe had a good mind for business.

For three profitable years, Louis's son was a constant source of pride. That pride faded abruptly however, when word finally reached him why there was always such an enthusiastic audience at the shows. The movies, as it turned out, were not exactly the slapstick comedies or heart-rending dramas of the day. Instead, they bore titles like "The Butler and the Upstairs Maid." Yes, young Abe, the son of the orthodox Jewish immigrant with old-country morals, had been showing dirty movies in the old church. Without any fanfare, the Houston Street Hippodrome closed its doors forever.

With his father's assistance, Abe was finally steered in the direction of the respectable real estate business. As fate would have it, however, Abe was simply not destined to be a real estate agent. His brother Billy had also joined the work force and was beginning to make a name for himself as, of all things, a "society" reporter. Billy was definitely not the society type. He had dropped out of high school in his first year and had, in his words, obtained a "G. E. degree." The G. E., he explained, stood for "Gutter Education."

But Billy was energetic and clever. He talked his way into landing a reporting job on the New York World, and somehow began to show up right in the thick of the action on important stories. He interviewed the elusive J. P. Morgan and was the only reporter to cover the Gladys Vanderbilt wedding. He worked his way into the private no-press wedding by disguising himself as a messenger boy. For his efforts, Billy was rewarded with the society reporter position.

As a reporter, he began to dig into police corruption in New York City. He began to crank out stories about a New York Police Lieutenant named Charles Becker. Becker and a gruesome collection of underworld hoods had been skimming money off the prostitution and gambling rings in exchange for police silence. Billy's stories began to upset some of Becker's buddies, especially "Gyp the Blood" and "Billiard Ball Jack." Their irritation increased when the stories began to result in jail sentences. The culmination of that irritation was a bullet narrowly missing Billy's head as he walked home one night. Following this incident, the young reporter felt a sudden shift in career drive.

That drive steered him back toward his family. His father had recently acquired another building - the National Winter Garden Theater. Billy and his brother Abe had already been discussing the idea of opening a movie theater in the top three floors. The building already had a built-in theater. The sixth floor contained the orchestra level and the theater stretched up and into the eighth floor. And the time would never be better - movies were new and exciting. Abe thought the idea was great also. Now only one obstacle loomed in the foreground - convincing their father who was already soured on the idea because of Abe's previous movie career. Somehow though, through pleading and promising, his sons eventually wore down Louis's resistance. After all, they wouldn't show sexy movies. What could possibly go wrong?

As the next few years passed, Louis Minsky likely wondered many times "what went wrong" as he shuffled down that hallway lined with showgirl pictures. But one thing was certain. Somewhere between the innocent plans for movies and vaudeville performers - and the stage filled with chorus girls and cooch dancers - something definitely went wrong! Eventually, when Louis heard someone mention the name Minsky, he expected it to be accompanied with lewd smirks and knowing winks. Although he knew what the smirks and winks referred to, he never saw for himself. Throughout his entire life, he never once set foot in the theater.

Although Minsky's was likely the most famous burlesque show, it actually came along when burlesque was fading out of the spotlight. The first glow of that spotlight glimmered in 1869. An English entertainer named Lydia Thompson brought a troupe called the "British Blondes" to New York City. In the days when a man's heart would soar at the glimpse of a lady's ankle, nobody was quite prepared for what was to come. Suddenly the audience was treated to a view of ladies in short skirts and tights! Even though Lydia was a colorful character, she was pretty tame compared to many "burlesque queens" who would follow in her footsteps. In fact, before her trip to the United States, she had become the toast of the cultured British aristocracy. A Spanish dancer named Perea Nina had recently performed in England. Perea was so talented that she stirred the admiration of the public, who had previously given praise only to English dancers.

Journalists questioned whether any British dancer could match Perea's graceful style. In fact, the issue became quite a heated topic since dance was an important diversion for the English elite. Then, out of the shadows, stepped dancer Lydia Thompson. She had been studying Perea's style and challenged her to a "dancing duel." During the well-publicized event, the audience agreed that Lydia had indeed out-stepped her Spanish rival. One reporter declared she had "vindicated the honor of her country." Overnight, Lydia became a national celebrity.

Sailing high on her fame, she assembled a dance troupe she christened the British Blondes and soon set sail for America. Following their New York premier, the Blondes toured the country to raving fans that often lined up for blocks in front of the theaters. "The propriety of visiting the Blondes," one reporter observed, "is a question which each individual must decide for himself." Then he added, "The number of individuals who have decided this question, by the way, is something astonishing."

Although the British Blondes gave what would be considered today to be a rather watered-down performance, the press had a field day. As the audience cheered and applauded, the critics sharpened their pencils and their tongues. Not only did the Blondes' physical appearance offend the moral taste of the critics, but they weren't wild about the Blondes' theatrical abilities. During their opening number, their singing and dancing was loosely based on a play titled "Ixion, Ex-King of Thessaly." Apparently it was a little too loose an adaptation for one newspaper critic. He wrote that the production resembled an "Irish Stew." "One minute they are dancing a cancan," he complained, "and the next, singing a psalm tune."

Ironically, the critic's raves, as so often is the case, simply helped sell more tickets. Their wrath had already been stirred up by the American showing of a European play called "The Black Crook." The play opened at New York City's Niblo's Garden on September 12, 1866. Not only did the performance shock the public with "Amazon parades of ladies in tights," but the musical drama had introduced a shocking new dance \- the cancan.

The critics' wrath was quickly transferred to the British Blondes. The public, however, flocked to see this new "Irish stew" form of entertainment, just as they had swarmed see the Black Crook. Nobody was quite sure just what type of show it was, but the combination of singing, dancing and blondes in tights pulled in the audiences...and the audiences' money. The best description of the new entertainment hybrid was likely that of a "female minstrel show." And following the lead of the minstrel show, which was still quite popular at burlesque's birth, it combined a little bit of everything.

The New York Spirit of the Times described the show's wide variety in 1870. The reporter said it included "music by the band, farce, beautiful ballads, performances of dogs and monkeys, stump oratory, character songs and dances, negroisms, Dutchisms, ballet, gymnastic feats and burlesque." As this description hints, the importance of actual "burlesque," the satirical parody of a well-known work, had somehow dropped to the end of the list. The reporter also noted that the audiences were large and "mainly of the masculine gender."

Success inevitably breeds imitation and it wasn't long before there were "blondes" around every corner. The fad unleashed what author Irving Zeidman described as a "hodgepodge of every theatrical oddity, bolstered and buttressed by fat blondes..." Nearly every show title included the name "blonde" and since the ideal female of those days was indeed a bit on the portly side, his observation was probably pretty accurate.

Although Lydia Thompson introduced the entertainment that was used as a model for this new type of show, the burlesque show itself was actually the brainchild of a showman named Michael Leavitt. He had been a great fan of P. T. Barnum and like Barnum he had toured the world to locate exotic attractions he could display back in the states. During a trip to Europe, he was impressed by a European tent show called Rentz's Circus. Leavitt had also been impressed by Lydia's female minstrel show concept. He decided to work with the format and began to mix elements of the variety show in with it. He incorporated the opening of the minstrel show, which was primarily a conglomeration of songs, gags and chorus numbers.

For the second section, he borrowed the "olio" concept from both the variety and minstrel shows. During this part, the diversity of the performances was almost unlimited. Gymnastic feats and trained dogs and monkeys were stuck in among baggy-pants comedians and showgirls. The third and final segment - the afterpiece or burlesque - was modeled from the minstrel show's "walk-around." During this part, the entire company gathered for a grand finale. Leavitt retained the half-circle arrangement of the minstrel show. The "end men" however, like all the performers, were women.

Leavitt named the first example of his new concoction, "Mme. Rentz's Female Minstrels," after the European circus he had admired. His instincts were perfect. The show went over so well that he soon began to search for more talent. While recruiting performers, he discovered a showgirl named Mabel Santley. She was so popular that Leavitt soon renamed the program the Rentz-Santley Show. Mabel Santley's affect on the male audience members was legendary. In one southern city, two men in the same stage box were competing for her favor. During the show, one of the men left the theater and returned with a bouquet for the new "love of his life." The other fellow, not to be outdone, sent an usher out for a huge basket of flowers.

In retaliation, the first man once again left the theater and this time returned with a gorgeous crown of roses. Finally, his rival cast caution to the wind. He removed his diamond solitaire ring, fastened it to his boutonniere and pitched it on the stage at Mabel Santley's feet. As this "war of the roses" progressed, it eventually exploded into a fight that sent both of them sailing over the stage box and onto the stage. There, they continued their brawl in front of the entire audience. Later, when Miss Santley asked a stagehand why they had fought, she learned that she had been the object of their passionate combat. "Each one swore," he informed her, "that you looked at him and smiled."

Like the shows that had followed in the wake of Lydia Thompson's Blondes, other companies began to model themselves after the successful Rentz-Santley show. Some of their performers, like Ada Richmond, "The Fair One With the Blonde Wig," eventually broke away to form their own burlesque companies. Critics would continue to rant and rave about burlesque's effects on the morals of the country, and history would treat it as the embarrassing stepchild of entertainment. But the strange concoction of bad jokes, good music and female minstrels - the burlesque show - was off and running.

The Rentz-Santley show lasted about ten years. During that run the show made several changes in management and eventually began to deteriorate. They finally bowed out, eclipsed by newer companies like the Ada Richmond Burlesquers, the Victoria Loftus Troupe of British Blondes and Ada Kennedy's African Blonde Minstrels. By the time the Rentz-Santley show closed, however, it had helped to firmly establish the odd new concept of entertainment as a theatrical tradition. It wouldn't be long, however, before that "tradition" would radically shift from the original concept of an innocent show by girls in tights. Granted, the showgirls had always been burlesque's primary attraction, but during its early days, actual nudity or even profanity on stage was unheard of.

In fact, Leavitt and many of the other early managers ran a very tight ship. "I have never seen a better-behaved troupe than this Rentz-Santley company," reflected John E. Henshaw, a former member of the Leavitt company. Comparing them to later burlesque groups, he remembered them as "saints and saintesses." Leavitt was a firm disciplinarian and had a list of rules of conduct printed right on the performer's contract. Behavior such as uttering the world "hell" or "damn" for example, would send the offender into Leavitt's office for a severe reprimand.

The end of this age of innocence, however, was right around the corner. One of the people who would help bring it to a screeching halt had the ungainly name of Fahreda Mahzar Spyropolos. A native of Armenia, she came to the 1893 world's fair in Chicago to perform on the midway. The fair had been a financial failure and the promoters were concerned about the public's general lack of interest. After all, they had sunk millions of dollars into the stately architecture and wondrous exhibits. They had commissioned Mr. Ferris to build his new contraption, the "Ferris Wheel." That might help. But, if only they could find another attraction that would spark the public's interest!

That spark was ignited the second Ms. Spyropolos took the platform. Her stage name of "Little Egypt" would spread across the nation almost as fast as the rhythmic undulations of the new dance she introduced - the "hootchy-kootchy." Between Little Egypt's gyrations and the Ferris wheel's rotations, the fair was a roaring success. Within a year, hundreds of Little Egypt imitators appeared in tent shows and dime museums. "When she dances," the barker would cry, "every fiber and every tissue in her entire anatomy shakes like a jar of jelly from your grandmother's Thanksgiving dinner." Although grandmother would not have approved of all the shaking and shimmying, the audiences did. It was only natural that the managers of the burlesque shows would raise interested eyebrows at the prospect of adding a hootchy-kootchy or "hootch" dancer to their lineup.

The hootch dancers fit right into the changing burlesque scene since the audiences were no longer satisfied with a parade of lady minstrels in tights. Coy winks and smiles had changed to rowdy bumps and grinds. Police were routinely stationed inside the theaters to guard against potential problems. Candy butchers would hawk pornographic literature and pictures along with their nickel boxes of chocolates. In addition, the dancers grew more and more daring.

Despite these changes, the burlesque show continued to intersperse culture in the form of melodramatic skits and sentimental singers...right in the middle of the raucous cancan and hootchy-kootchy dances. An odd-lot assortment of knife-throwers, jugglers, contortionists and ventriloquists continued to add variety to the mixture. Boxing champions were extremely popular in the days of burlesque, and nearly every well-known boxer appeared on the burlesque stage. One boxer, Jim Jeffries, would add a little extra bulk to his physique by wearing two suits of long underwear when he appeared on stage.

But the "golden era" of burlesque didn't glitter for long. By the turn of the century, burlesque circuits or "wheels" began to tour the nation. The burlesque companies on the circuit would move from city to city, following in the same order, like spokes on a wheel. Throughout burlesque's lifetime, some real talent began to emerge. Lillian Russell started her career as a burlesque chorus girl. Comedian Burt Lahr also came to the public's attention through burlesque. For a short time, it looked as if burlesque might actually become a respectable theatrical establishment.

That time, however, was indeed short. The respect never came. The main driving force for most burlesque performers was quite simply to leave it. As they became known, they couldn't wait to head for the vaudeville stage. As one writer put it, "The good old days of burlesque, alas, never were." The reputation of burlesque in general was not helped any by what were commonly called "turkey shows." They often consisted of a small cast of a couple of hooch dancers and a comedian or two. They made no attempt to present quality entertainment and were often completely morally uninhibited.

As the years rolled by, the managers reached out for some very unethical ways to increase their sagging profits. Road companies would auction off the showgirls to the audience members. The highest bidder for each girl would have the opportunity to meet her after the show for dinner and a date in the burlesque company's "privilege" train car. Once the winners leaned back in their seats with drinks in their hands and dreams of the showgirls in their heads, however, a police raid was staged to send the terrified suckers running off the car. As soon as they did, the train pulled out of the station with all the showgirls - and the "winners'" money.

The Columbia Burlesque Circuit fought vainly to raise the status of burlesque. Many of the shows on that circuit poured thousands of dollars into stage decorations and costumes. They tried to find high-class comedians and truly talented variety acts. Unfortunately, as they had been doing for years, the better acts continued to drift toward more respected entertainment forms. Even as the managers worked to improve the shows, the critics continued to point out the weaknesses of burlesque. The Billboard complained in 1918 that burlesque was "about as exciting as a Congressional Record."

Although Minsky's kept the tradition alive into the early 1930's, most of the wheels had long since stopped turning. As the attendance dipped, the shows began to offer continuous morning-to-night performances called "grinds." As the dancers and comedians cranked out the same shows hour after hour for cut-rate admission prices, burlesque had indeed sunk to a new low. Many of the theaters even allowed patrons to stay all night to sleep. The once-fashionable theaters had transformed into flophouses.

The reality of burlesque was that no matter how hard some of the managers fought to elevate the level of the shows, most of the customers were quite satisfied with the "blue" dialogue of the comedians and the bumps and grinds of the dancers. As vaudeville and variety grew more popular, the original form of burlesque faded into history. The Broadway Frolics of 1917, one of burlesque's last extravaganzas earned a review of "hardly a flash of originality; hardly a spontaneous glint of comedy..."

Sadly for those who had poured their energy and hopes into trying to upgrade the shows, the death of burlesque was not even properly mourned. Many held the opinion expressed by one writer, that burlesque had emerged from nowhere and "wound up in the same place." Old Lewis Minsky, as he shuffled down the hallway muttering at the showgirls' pictures, would have whole-heartedly agreed.
HAYRIDES, OPRYS AND JUBILEES

The Rollicking Radio Barn Dances

A never-ending spotlight shines on the memory of Patsy Cline as she walked sedately toward the microphone, and suddenly began to cry out the sweet dreams that still echo through the years. And somewhere, frozen in time, the applause still lingers that roared from the old Ryman Auditorium in 1949 when Hank Williams first stood on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry. Tucked away in history, the roots that slowly grew to produce these golden moments, trace back through a heritage of beaten up guitars and homemade fiddles, to the beginnings of the old radio barn dances.

Shortly after the birth of radio itself, fiddle-playing farmers and honky-tonk heroes leaned over huge carbon microphones and filled the air with their music. While they did, country plowboys and hardworking housewives tuned their magic dials and strained their ears to pick them out of the static. The music that the early country radio shows brought to life over the quivering radio waves was filled with real-world joys and tears. Farmers and mechanics laid down their tools to pick up timeworn fiddles, banjos and guitars. The stories they sang told about love and death and heartbreak and the pure and simple joys of life.

From the Sagebrush Roundup to the Iowa Barn Dance Frolic, they were filled with characters like "Slick and Sleepy," "Hiram Hayseed," "Big-eared Zip" and all the other colorful pickers and grinners. The shows brought the rough-edged simple country fun of a neighborhood Saturday night barn dance to the millions of town dwellers who may have never had the chance to sweep out the barn and welcome neighbors and friends in for a night of singing and swinging.

The early rural or hillbilly music, not yet universally called "country," was played mainly for farmers during the times they were likely to tune in. Being early risers, after breakfast, they got out to their fields for a full morning's work before they headed back to the house for the noon meal and a little rest. Therefore, their favorite music was programmed for the early morning and noontime slots. The shows often had names like Sunrise Serenade, or Midday Matinee.

In many cases, the station owners gritted their teeth as they gave the okay to station directors to begin programming the hillbilly format. This "low-brow" music was often distasteful to their more refined ears. However, they knew that the mixture of the newly invented entertainment form of radio, and the old-time melodies from the roots of the country, was a successful blend. As more and more listeners tuned in, more and more advertisers bought spots to pitch their products to them. While their profits grew, the radio station owners gritted their teeth a little less often when the early morning fiddlers picked up their bows or the midday pickers tuned their guitars.

Not satisfied with just their early morning and noontime shows, the creative program directors looked for other time slots for this popular rural entertainment. Most evenings didn't seem to be a logical choice, since the farm folks were usually early-to-bed types. But what about Saturday night? Even the most hard-working serious-minded farm family didn't mind putting on their best dancing clothes and heading over to a neighbor's barn for a Saturday evening of wholesome family fun. It wouldn't be long before the cheerful square dance music and lively string bands of the Saturday night barn dances would flow across the radio waves and into the living rooms of America.

The first barn dance to find life over the radio waves was broadcast in 1923, from WBAP in Fort Worth, Texas. It wasn't long before the word got out to other stations, that the successful barn dance format had appealed to a pretty good-sized segment of the potential listeners. Stations like WSB in Atlanta, WNAX in Yankton, South Dakota and KMA in Shenandoah, Iowa began to put together country-flavored variety shows.

Although these scattered barn dance formats popped up and gained local fans, none had yet found national recognition. That would come in April of 1924. About a week after going on the air, a Chicago radio station owned by Sears and Roebuck, put on a Saturday night barn dance show. The show didn't have a very impressive beginning, having been broadcast from a small mezzanine in the Sherman Hotel. It would, however, grow into the "grandaddy" of the barn dance shows, and would lead the pack into the 1940's. The station's call-letters, WLS, described the Sears and Roebuck building - the World's Largest Store. The WLS Barn Dance would truly become the WLS "National Barn Dance."

A group of country fiddlers took turns performing with a dance band during that first show in the Sherman hotel. A square dance caller added a touch of real old-fashioned country. Hundreds of requests poured in, and let the station owners know that they had hit the mark. Throughout the life of this famous show, it tended to follow that early format of mixing popular and country music. It contained a much greater variety of music than most of the barn dances that followed it.

Mixed in with the pure hillbilly fiddlers, guitar pickers, and yodelers, were popular-music singers and Irish tenors. Popular sentimental tunes and even light opera, were a staple of many of the Midwestern listeners, who also enjoyed the rural hillbilly style. Through the first several years of its development, more and more hillbilly entertainers joined the program, but the non-country performers stayed on as well. "Down by the Old Mill Stream" and "In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree" poured out through the radio, right along with "Bringing Home the Bacon" and "Little Old Sod Shanty."

One of country music's early forefathers, Bradley Kincaid, joined the WLS Barn Dance quite early, and brought a storehouse of old-time songs with him. He was known as the "Kentucky Mountain Boy" and did a lot to popularize dozens of unpublished mountain ballads. He also did quite well for himself financially by selling his songbooks over the air. Although Kincaid is likely the best-remembered early WLS personality, a number of other early musicians helped fill the airwaves with music. The fiddle band of Tommy Dandurand helped to liven up the atmosphere. Dandurand's group even included drums, which didn't find their way into most country bands until many years later. Chubby Parker picked a banjo and sang numbers like "I'm a Stern Old Bachelor." Walter Peterson played what he called his "Double-barreled shotgun," a guitar with a harmonica on a neck rack.

The WLS Barn Dance was announced as a program "planned to remind you folks of the good fun and fellowship of the barn warmings, the husking bees, and the square dances in our farm communities of yesteryear and even today." The leading announcer during the first year of the National Bam Dance, was destined to play a vital role in country music history. George D. Hay had gained the nickname "The Solemn Old Judge" when he covered jury trials as a newspaper reporter for the Memphis Commercial Appeal. He began broadcasting on the radio when the paper launched station WMC, and became known for starting off their barn dance show with an imitation train whistle. Station WLS soon hired him away from WMC.

Later in 1924, he would win the Radio Digest award as the country's most popular announcer. He didn't direct the Barn Dance at WLS, but was the leading announcer for all of the station's programming. In 1925, he was lured from WLS by newly opened station WSM in Nashville, Tennessee. The WSM call letters stood for We Shield Millions, which was the slogan of the station's owners, The National Life and Accident Insurance Company. WSM, was billed as "The Air Castle of the South," and was destined to become the heart of country music.

Hay knew, from his experience at WLS, that the new barn dance concept was a potential audience-builder. When he hit Nashville in November of 1925, he began to look around for entertainment that would perk up the brass band music, the "story ladies," and the other less-than-exciting entertainment that WSM had been offering its listeners. He found that several hillbilly-type groups had played earlier on Nashville radio, and had drawn a good listener response. Remembering the success of the WLS barn dance, Hay decided to experiment with hillbilly music at WSM.

On November 28, 1925, he began a new hillbilly music program, with only two performers. Seventy-seven year old Uncle Jimmy Thompson played the fiddle while his niece, Eva Thompson Jones, accompanied him on the piano. Uncle Jimmy actually was the uncle of one of the station's staff musicians, and was known locally for his repertoire of old-time songs. When the segment started, Uncle Jimmy was given a comfortable chair in front of an old carbon microphone. Hay then introduced Thompson and his niece, and invited the audience to request old tunes. According to Hay's later memories, the telegrams began to pour in. An hour later, at nine o'clock, Hay asked Jimmy if he hadn't done enough fiddling and might want to rest. Jimmy replied, "Why shucks, a man don't get warmed up in an hour. I just won an eight-day fiddling contest down in Dallas, Texas, and here's my blue ribbon to prove it."

The audience response was so favorable that Hay decided to re-create the barn dance program at his new station. The station's directors were not very happy with this new interest in hillbilly music. In fact, several citizens of Nashville voiced their concern over having such a common type of entertainment originate from their fair city. Nashville had been trying to establish a reputation as the "Athens of the South," and this new show simply did not fit that sophisticated mold. The station's directors, however, realized that most of the people who would buy their company's insurance policies were the working people who enjoyed the old-time rural music.

Since business, after all, was business, Hay was given the okay to create his barn dance. He continued having Uncle Jimmy and his niece for the next few weeks, and found himself swamped with calls from other local musicians, all wanting to offer their services free of charge. Almost anyone who could perform was accepted, and on December 27, about a month after Uncle Jimmy and Eva had appeared, the WSM barn Dance officially premiered. The Nashville Tennessean announced: "Because of this recent revival in the popularity of old familiar tunes, WSM has arranged to have an hour or two every Saturday night..." During the next few months, Hay had assembled about twenty-five regular acts for the new program.

Many of the groups had no name. They were simply farmers and other "salt of the earth" working folk who had been playing together for fun, and decided to come over to the WSM studio on Saturday night to perform. Hay wanted to keep a down-home country flavor to the barn dance, so he gave the groups names that fit the hillbilly atmosphere. The groups now became official bands, with names like the Clod Hoppers, Gully Jumpers and Fruit Jar Drinkers. The first of these string bands to play was led by a local physician, surgeon and harmonica player named Dr. Humphrey Bates. Hay named them the Possum Hunters. The group, which included Dr. Bates' thirteen-year-old daughter, had played previously on WDAD, another Nashville station.

Shortly after the Possum Hunters joined the show, the Crook Brothers became regulars. Not long after that, Kirk and Sam McGee joined up. Sam was known as one of the best finger-style guitar pickers of his time. It was becoming clear, as more and more talent joined the list, that George Hay had created something special, in fact, something "grand." In a couple of years, Hay would make a quip that would forever change the name of the WSM Barn Dance. In 1927, the program was preceded by a transcription of NBC's Music Appreciation Hour. This high-toned program primarily presented classical renditions. One evening, Hay made the comment that, "For the past hour we have been listening to music taken largely from the grand opera, but from now on we will present 'The Grand Ole Opry'."

The history of country music has its share of chance happenings and coincidences. One of them involved the Grand Ole Opry's first real star performer. Uncle Dave Macon found a new door to fame by the way of an "old door." He had learned to play the banjo in his teens, and throughout his life he had studied the old folk songs of his Tennessee neighbors. He had previously played only for friends and family, and had made his living with a freight company he had formed. By about 1920, however, his "Macon Midway Mule and Transportation Company" had run into stiff competition from a trucking company that had recently moved into the area.

Things got so bad that "Uncle Dave" set out to find a new way to make a living. During this time, the Methodist Church in nearby Morrison, needed a new door. He brought his banjo over to a charity fundraiser for the door and after the hat was passed, he found, to his amazement, that they had collected seventeen dollars. Shortly after this entry into "show business," a talent scout for Loew's vaudeville circuit heard him play and offered him a contract. Uncle Dave had found his new business! As his name spread throughout the southern vaudeville circuit, he was a logical choice when George D. Hay began to search for a primary entertainer for the WSM Barn Dance.

Uncle Dave was busy touring the south, and didn't perform as regularly as some of the others, but his performances on the barn dance began to draw a lot of attention. His personal appearances were more lucrative than the sparse WSM pay, so his mainstream job remained on the Loew's circuit. During the 1925 circuit, he played a special concert in the Ryman Auditorium in downtown Nashville. The Ryman at that time, was an all-purpose civic center. A newspaper account of this event said Macon and a fiddling friend named Sid Harkreader, "set hundreds to stomping their feet." Uncle Dave would still be going strong and still setting feet to stomping in 1941 when the constantly expanding Opry would move, and the "grand ole walls" of the Ryman would hold the heart of country music.

Although Uncle Dave was a genuine country type, many of the early Barn Dance musicians were really not as countryfied as Judge Hay wanted the listening audience to believe. In fact, a few of them were actually city slickers who worked in downtown Nashville during the week. Dr. Humphrey Bates, for example, was not only a well-educated physician, but relaxed to classical music. The Solemn Old Judge, however, wanted hillbillies to fit the theme of the barn dance and he would often remind them to "keep it down to earth, boys." They followed his instructions, and when they were on the radio or posing for promotional pictures, you could almost smell the corn in the air. He dressed his "Possum Hunters" and "Fruit Jar Drinkers" in overalls, standing alongside lazy-looking coonhounds in cornfields and pig pens.

As the WSM Barn Dance grew, "star" personalities began to emerge. Obed Pickard was the first vocal star, since most of the barn dance music in the late twenties was from the string-bands. Obed and his family ended up with their own national network radio show. And long before Charlie Pride, country music had a black country music star. Deford Bailey joined the WSM Barn Dance during its first year and became extremely popular. In fact, in 1928, he appeared on the show twice as often as anyone else. He always worked alone, and specialized in harmonica blues songs like "John Henry" and "Pan American Blues."

The other Nashville radio stations had been noticing WSM's success, and several started their own barn dances. In fact, they often tried to use the same performers that played on WSM. Partially in response to this, WSM began to pay its performers. Although it wasn't a fortune, usually a dollar-a-minute, the addition of a salary helped secure their loyalty. It wasn't only the Nashville stations that were beginning to wake up to the sweet smell of success of the new radio barn dances. One-by-one, across the nation, radio station managers in three-piece suits, loosened their neckties, leaned back in their executive chairs, and began to think about hillbillies in overalls. It was apparent that there was an entire segment of the potential audience that was sitting out there in radio-land, just ripe for the picking. As distasteful as the idea of a hillbilly show was to many station managers and directors, money began to talk, just like it had at WLS in Chicago and WSM in Nashville. So, if the country folk wanted country sounds, then they would get them...and of course, the advertisements from the sponsors anxious to reach this new market.

Throughout the 1930's, radio barn dances began to spring up in cities everywhere. By 1932, Midwesterners could tune into the Iowa Barn Dance Frolic, out of station WHO in Des Moines. The Wheeling Jamboree came out of WWVA in West Virginia in 1933. Charlotte, North Carolina began broadcasting the "Crazy Barn Dance" on WBT in 1934. Knoxville turned the middle of the day programming into the now-famous "Mid-Day Merry-Go-Round." New York's WHN Barn Dance got off the ground in 1935. And in 1937, the Renfro Valley Barn Dance began broadcasting from WLW in Cincinnati.

Two technological innovations came along at just the right moment to help increase the popularity of the hillbilly music of barn dances. First, in 1931, Philco engineers introduced a product called the Philco "Transitone" - a radio receiver that, according to an article in the Journal, "Provides motorists with melody as they pass along crowded boulevards or over winding highways." Yes, the car radio had been invented. Now music could follow the people around as they traveled on their day-to-day errands. By the mid-1930's, the songs of Jimmie Rodgers, the Carter Family, the Delmore Brothers, Roy Acuff, The Monroe Brothers and all the other early country music pioneers, were also pouring out into restaurants and taverns across the country. The Juke Box had come onto the scene.

A "heyday" for hillbilly music was sweeping across the country. Barn dance shows began to spring up in little local stations from state to state. The performers were often part-time musicians who simply couldn't resist the chance to pick or fiddle over the airwaves. In more and more cases however, the better musicians began to realize that they could actually make a living with their music. Often, an entertainer would travel around a region, playing a barn dance at one station, a mid-day show at the next, and so on down the road. When it was all added up, it was sometimes as much or more than he was making with his full-time job, and usually a lot more fun!

Many of our country music legends spent years bouncing around small-town radio shows before stepping into the spotlight of history. The little man with a big talent, Jimmy Dickens, for example, followed anything but a straight line to success. Coming from a coal camp in Bolt, West Virginia, Jimmy got a job at WJLS in Beckley, a little southern West Virginia town that programmed a lot of live hillbilly entertainment.

He walked several miles every day to bring the station on the air with his rooster-crow imitation. Then he would sing with Mel Steele and his wife, "Blue Eyed Jeanie." After they left the station, Dickens joined a group called Johnnie Bailes and his Happy Valley Boys. Jimmy was often billed as "the Singing Midget" and "Jimmy the Kid." After a while, in 1941, he moved to a larger station, WMMN in Fairmont, West Virginia. One of the singers there was T. Texas Tyler, who was also destined to carve out a large niche in country music history.

The next year, Tyler moved to a station in Indianapolis, and talked Jimmy into joining him. They each had a half-hour solo program, and joined together as a gospel duet. It was during this time that Jimmy learned about a song from a banjo picker who worked at the station. An Arkansas gospel composer had actually written the song years before. The lyrics told about a runt kid who was pushed away from the dinner table when company came. Since Jimmy seemed to fit the physical mold, it seemed only natural for him to sing the song.

He would go on to sing a lot of serious "heart songs," but that song, "Take an Old Cold Tater and Wait," started his climb as a major star and gave him a reputation as a novelty-song singer. From Indianapolis, Jimmy went to the 50,000 watt WLW in Cincinnati; then on to Topeka, Kansas for the "Kansas Roundup." After that, he moved to Saginaw, Michigan, where he would run across Roy Acuff. That meeting was the turning point in Jimmy's career. Acuff helped him secure a Columbia contract in 1948, and a few months down the road he welcomed Jimmy into the Grand Ole Opry family.

Like Jimmy's chance meeting with Roy Acuff, several other radio barn dance legends also became regulars on the airwaves as the result of a quirk of fate. Roy Acuff, himself in fact, had no plans to venture into the country music business. His "field of dreams" had always been the baseball diamond. He had been an excellent athlete when he was young, and had earned the nickname of "Rabbit" because of his speed and agility. In 1929, when he heard that New York Yankee scouts would see him play in Knoxville, it seemed that his childhood dreams would be realized. In fact, he might have been standing with a bat in his hands instead of a fiddle, had it not been for a strange turn of events.

Earlier, Roy had suffered extremely serious sunburn during a Florida fishing trip. The burn was so bad that when he attempted physical activity throughout the following months, he collapsed several times from sunstroke. Not only did he miss his opportunity to try out for the Yankees, but he had to spend long periods of time in bed recuperating in 1930 and '31. During this boring convalescence, he began to pick up his father's fiddle and, with his help, taught himself how to play. He spent hours and hours fiddling along with the Victrola records of Fiddlin' John Carson, and Gid Tanner and the Skillet Lickers. The results of that sunburn caused Roy a lot of pain, but it definitely brought country music fans a lot of joy. He would later help the Grand Ole Opry overtake the WLS National Barn Dance in popularity.

Still another barn-dance hero turned to country music as a second choice to a baseball career. The great Jim Reeves had actually signed with the St. Louis Cardinals. Like Roy, however, his career on the field was cut short. He injured himself so badly sliding into second base during a minor league game in Virginia, that a doctor told him that his baseball career was over. He turned to his second love, music, and began playing some small clubs, and disc jockeying in local radio stations. After five years of this, he took a job at station KWKH in Shreveport, Louisiana. That was the station that hosted one of the latest of the big barn dance shows, but one that, like Jim Reeves himself, turned out to be one of the greatest – The Louisiana Hayride.

The Hayride didn't start until April of 1948, but soon made up for lost time. Within four months, a skinny country boy stood up to the microphone and wailed out the "Lovesick Blues." It wasn't long before the name of young Hank Williams spread throughout the Louisiana Hayride audience, and of course eventually, around the world. Like so many others after him, however, he was lured on to the Grand Ole Opry. In fact, so many followed that same pattern, including Webb Pierce, Faron Young, Johnny Cash, Johnny and Jack, George Jones and the Wilburn Brothers, that the Hayride became known as the "Cradle of the Stars." The show, in fact, was also the "cradle" to the young Elvis Presley.

The Louisiana Hayride cradled another legend-to-be, who was almost unknown during her early days with the show. Named Muriel Ellen Deason, she sometimes sang with her husband and his sister and brother-in-law, often for free. At other times, she was simply the wife of Johnny Wright, who was becoming well known as half of the team of Johnny and Jack. Earlier, in 1943, while they were playing the Midday Merry-Go-Round in Knoxville, Johnny decided that her name was simply too hard for people to pronounce. Thinking back on the title of a popular old mountain song, "Sweet Kitty Wells," he came up with a new name that would someday be engraved in the hearts of country music fans around the world.

Even though Johnny and Jack had worked their way up from obscure small-town stations to the Hayride, Kitty's career had not yet taken off. The spotlight wouldn't shine her way until 1952, when Johnny would come rushing home with a new song he had just heard. Hank Thompson had recently recorded a number-one smash hit called "The Wild Side of Life," which expressed surprise that God had made "Honky Tonk Angels."

Songwriter J.D. Miller had just written an answer song to Thompson's song, that turned the blame for creating those fallen angels back on the men who steered them wrong. "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels," turned out to be Kitty Well's best remembered hit, and launched a career that would earn her the title of the "Queen of Country Music." What was her response when Johnny gave her the song? Well, she wasn't exactly in love with it. She looked it over and said, in a lukewarm voice, "Well, if you want me to record it, we'll do it." Fortunately, Kitty followed Johnny's intuition.

The Grand Ole Opry, National Barn Dance, Louisiana Hayride, and the other big-name barn dances have left an indelible mark on the history of country music. Many of the smaller local shows, however, made just as warm a memory for those who grew up around those stations. In fact, some of the most memorable characters will only be recalled by the people within the limited signal-range of the small town stations. Yes, the Hickory Nuts, Cowboy Roy Lykes the Yodeling Fence Rider, Poslo Bill's Razor Backs, Slick and Sleepy, "Hiram Hayseed" Godwin and all the others, may not have quite reached hillbilly superstar status. Nevertheless, they each added their own special ingredients to a very unique entertainment mixture.

Sandwiched between the small-town radio shows, were often show-dates at local schools, vacant lots, town squares, or basically just about anyplace that would book them. One of the more enterprising groups, the Lonesome Pine Fiddlers, from West Virginia found a method of attracting an audience with more than their fiddling. Like the medicine shows that sold prize candy, they would charge no admission to their shows, but sold 25-cent boxes of candy during intermission.

The candy boxes contained small prizes, and nearly every night, one lucky person would win the grand prize, a wristwatch. The Fiddlers knew which box contained the watch, and held it out until near the end of the night in order to keep the audience around for the whole show. One of the group members remembered a night when they accidentally gave out that box early in the evening. Ezra Cline, the group's leader knew the crowd would dissipate, and watched sadly saying, "Boys, we're ruined!"

The school and town square show dates, didn't exactly set the traveling musicians up in grand style. They would often scrape together a simple meal and cook it in a hotel room on a hot plate. The Goins Brothers band, also from West Virginia, had to sneak the hot plate into their hotel since the rules didn't allow cooking in the room. They once had to do some quick explaining when smoke started pouring out of the dresser drawer where they had hidden the hot plate.

The promotional advertisements were often as down home and folksy as the entertainers themselves. Hiram and Henry, for example, were billed as "two Kansas farmer boys who won fame and fortune by 'actin' natcheral' before a microphone." The Ozark Mountaineers were said to have played "rural rhythms such as have thrilled many a backwoods fandangle." According to their promotions, Doc Schneider and his Yodeling Cowboys would provide their audiences with "snappy, happy entertainment." Not everyone, however, joined in the "just a bunch of good old hillbillies" type of promotion. Bob Archer and His Kentucky Mountain Minstrels, for example, made it clear to newspaper reporters that they were not "hillbillies in the sense in which the term is used." He said they played "mountain music as it should be played, without distortion."

As the popularity of the "pure mountain music" was growing, however, the early trends of today's highly commercial country music were already beginning to take root. Cowboy Roy Lykes, the Yodeling Fence Rider wore "regulation cowboy shoes to get him in the proper mood." The Ozark Mountaineers began to wear ten-gallon hats during personal appearances. Since many of the entertainers were now being seen as well as heard, it was important that they looked the part. Little by little, they were setting the stage for the showy sequins and spangles that would become part of the costume associated with so many country singers of the fifties. That style would reach its peak with the gaudy outfits made by Nudie Cohen in California. Having several "Nudie" suits in your wardrobe meant you had made it to the big time. Incidentally, the Nudie name seemed appropriate since before making sequined suits for country musicians, Nudie Cohen had made outfits for striptease dancers in New York City.

Another forerunner of things to come occurred when the Dopyera brothers developed and manufactured an instrument in response to the need for more volume from acoustic guitars. Since the audiences were growing larger, the music, as well as the voice, needed to be amplified. Adding a built-in resonator to the guitar, the inventors used the first syllables of Dopyera Brothers, and named their instrument the Dobro. Like the showy costumes, the Dobro was another step away from the down-home flavor of the small hillbilly band that played in schoolhouses and on street corners. It was slowly becoming apparent that this idea of playing the "old-time" music of the hills was beginning to find a much larger following than the early protesting radio station management and high-toned city folk would have ever imagined.

Many of the small-time pickers and grinners of the twenties and thirties would turn into the country stars of the forties and fifties. "Cowboy" Copas, Hawkshaw Hawkins, Red Sovine, Grandpa Jones, the Delmore Brothers, Cal Smith, Texas Ruby, Molly O'Day, and a nearly endless list of country legends, bounced around the country, playing a few weeks here and a couple of months there. They usually followed similar paths to the one that led Little Jimmy Dickens to the eventual spotlight. Their routes took quite a few detours before leading them to the National Barn Dance, the Grand Ole Opry or the other radio barn dance giants. They might peddle "Pow-a-Tan Tonic," "Black Drought Laxative" or "Crazy Water Crystals" between their songs, when they landed a small-town radio gig. That type of hand-to-mouth rough-edged experience however, seemed to fit the early hillbilly singers perfectly. After all, they were bringing to life the stories of the country's hills and backwoods. Where better to experience those stories than out on the dusty back-roads?

As the individual country stars began to shine brighter, some of the small radio stations were realizing that the local musicians couldn't always draw the listeners that the better known singers and bands could. Year by year, more stations began to hook up with nationally syndicated radio shows, like "Montana Slim" Carter's CBS show, and Indiana's "Hoosier Hop." Not only that, but between the syndicated shows, the stations were beginning to play records of the more popular musicians. One by one, the Sunrise Serenades and Mid-day Music shows signed off the air for the last time. In most areas, only the large super-shows like the Opry held on.

It was becoming obvious that the local hillbillies in overalls who gathered around old carbon microphones with their fiddles and guitars, would soon be sadly hanging up their instruments and picking up their farm tools and mechanics wrenches again. Big-name stars would soon stand on huge stages as thousands of fans screamed for more. Their electrified music would write new chapters in the history of country music. Glittering costumes and streamlined buses would let the world know that country music had traveled light years beyond its countrified origins. As they tipped their fifty-dollar hats and held up their gold records, no one would call them "hillbillies" again.

The winds of progress blew in some of the greatest entertainment country music fans would ever know. It also, however, blew away something special that would never return. Slick and Sleepy, Hiram Hayseed, Big-eared Zip, and the rest faded into the past as Hank Williams, Earnest Tubb, Lefty Frizell and the others stepped forward to take their turn on stage. The new musicians no longer had to pose in overalls surrounded by pigs and hay bales. The listening audience didn't have to hear them fake their hillbilly accents or chew on a piece of straw while they talked. But, then again, those listeners weren't able to close their eyes and be surrounded by the smell of newly swept hay and the warm friendly "hillbilly" sounds of handmade fiddles and homemade fun.
THE MOST AMERICAN THING IN AMERICA

The Phenomenon of Chautauqua

Bare light bulbs hung from the half-lit ceiling. A restless anticipation filled the tent and seemed to intensify the mingled smells of dusty canvas, new-mown grass, and dime-store perfumes. Palm-leaf fans stirred the air while open country grins flashed across the tent as neighbors recognized neighbors. The preparation was completed. The anticipation was at a nerve-tingling peak. It was time. And everyone knew it, from the squirming children to the men casting anxious glances at gleaming pocket watches. Yes it was definitely time! Then, with the spring-like precision of a toy soldier, a proud man marched across the platform, wearing a Sunday smile and a fresh set of clothes, washed out just last night in the hotel sink. In a matter of seconds, he would officially begin another episode of what Teddy Roosevelt once described as the "Most American thing in America."

It would give small-town farmers the chance to hear ideas and opinions from other worlds - worlds that only found the way to their little towns once a year. It would once again come alive and bring together a mixture of unique characters ranging from high-toned poets to boisterous comedians. It would give a platform for speeches on "The Twelve Causes of Dishonesty" and the explanation of "Human Nature and Politics." It was...Chautauqua.

Before Chautauqua would give way to history, millions of Americans would witness this unique mixture of education and entertainment. Presidents Grant, Garfield, Hayes, McKinley, and Taft would all take their turns at stepping out onto its stage. Warren G. Harding, prior to his presidency, would become a Chautauqua "headline attraction." Even after he was elected, the Chautauqua people he had known, were always welcome to visit him in the White House. Fresh new ideas and social movements would take root and grow, born in the fertile setting of the Chautauqua stage. Booker T. Washington and Carrie Nation would stride proudly across that stage and catch the attention of a young energetic country. Chautauqua would eventually become so successful that speakers could tour the nation, repeating the same speeches year after year. Veteran speaker Ralph Parlette would look back on more than four thousand presentations of his motivational speech, "The University of Hard Knocks." William Jennings Bryan would mesmerize audiences for three decades. Chautauqua would become so popular that Chautauqua regular, Ben Vardaman would step off a train in Valley City, North Dakota, to a welcoming ceremony presented by eleven local bands.

For William Jennings Bryan, Chautauqua would become not only a platform for his opinions, but an open door to the political arena. Bryan was the biggest draw Chautauqua ever had, as well as the highest paid lecturer on the circuit. It has been said that Bryan, primarily through his Chautauqua appearances, spoke to more people than any other man in history. In 1896, he presented a speech at the Democratic convention in Chicago, titled "Cross of Gold." This oratory gained him immediate fame due to the same qualities that kept him on the top of the Chautauqua listing. His voice had a mellow compelling quality that seemed to draw attention like a magnet. His booming oratory could be heard for a good quarter of a mile, yet it seemed to float through the air, as one of his admirers described, "like music from an instrument."

He began his Chautauqua career at Lake Chautauqua, and later joined the circuit to become the acknowledged leader of the forum. Known by such titles as "The Silver-Tongued Orator," "The Blue Ribbon Champion" and "The Flower of the Flock," he was always in demand. One promoter said Bryan was good for "forty acres of parked Fords, anywhere, at any time of the day or night." In addition to his captivating voice, Bryan stood tall and statuesque on the platform, and his piercing eyes and large features were easily visible from the back row of the tent. His mouth, in fact, was so large that one fan commented, "That fellow could whisper in his own ear." He picked popular topics and stuck to simple lectures on morals and ideals that reflected his own basic values. His three primary lectures, "Prince of Peace," "Value of an Ideal," and "The Price of a Soul," echoed through a generation of entranced admirers.

Bryan was the perfect Chautauqua personality. Much like the unique mixture of this religious, educational, moralistic, and entertaining medium, he possessed a simple philosophy of high ideals and patriotic values. Even during his unsuccessful presidential campaigns, he spoke no malice and took no punches at his opponents. On the Chautauqua stage, he talked of the duties of marriage partners to keep the relationship happy and pure. He emphasized the need to live in harmony with families and neighbors. And he reminded people of the virtues of truth and honesty. Bryan was the ideal spokesman for Chautauqua as it traveled through the small towns of early America where a man was as good as his word, and a woman was required to assume the basic virtues of the community.

Bryan was perfectly suited to the circuit in his personal habits as well. He could sleep anywhere - in a railroad coach, in the back seat of a car or on a pile of blankets in the crew tent before his speech. His even-tempered, easily satisfied manner made him a favorite of the locals when he stopped in for a restaurant meal or a night's lodging. It was especially rewarding for the cooks and waitresses who proudly stood by and watched him shovel in helping after helping of their meals, polishing them off with three or four pieces of pie and a contented smile. Although he loved food in nearly every shape or form, his one true culinary passion was the radish. He carried bunches of radishes around in his pockets, complete with a salt cellar. Bryan seldom passed up a garden without stopping in to buy radishes from the farmer's wife.

Despite what many of his political contemporaries viewed as his frightening lack of knowledge about international affairs, he approached his position of Secretary of State with the same gusto as his circuit lectures, stating and restating viewpoints about the world that smacked with the simplicity of general store "cracker barrel" philosophy. His three failed attempts at gaining the presidency never dampened his enthusiasm as an orator.

The birthplace of Chautauqua itself, however, was quite different from the whirlwind atmosphere that propelled Bryan and the others into the national spotlight. A young New Jersey minister, John H. Vincent, wanted to start a summer program to train Sunday-school teachers. He discussed this goal one day with a friend named Lewis Miller, who happened to be the trustee of a peaceful little site at Lake Chautauqua, New York. This area had once been used for religious camp meetings, and seemed to be the ideal setting. They coordinated a meeting there in the summer of 1874, and named it the "Sunday School Teacher's Assembly." The meeting was an instant success! As the attendance grew each following summer so did the concept. Speeches on morality and inspiration were added to the pure religious training.

John Vincent began to bring in statesmen and senators, as thousands of visitors came from all across the country to join in the Chautauqua experience. The length of the training was extended to two months and larger pavilions were added to contain the growing crowds. As more tents were pitched and more variety was included, this little Sunday school training session was growing into a busy and exciting attraction. It wouldn't be many more years until Chautauqua would stretch from coast to coast as an American institution.

Presidents began to visit the site, and thrill the masses with their oratory. Music became an important ingredient in the mixture. The presentations ranged from simple group sings to engagements by the New York Symphony. Italian bands with shiny horns and colorful uniforms added their lively music. As the word spread about this new "Chautauqua experience" more and more offerings were added to increase the variety. Dramatic presentations and travel lectures became popular. The "chalk talk" artist, a Chautauqua specialty, would illustrate his presentation with rapid-fire cartoons drawn on a large blackboard or pads of paper. Magicians joined in and delighted the children in the family. Suddenly the "quiet little Sunday School training" had grown into a full-fledged show, with something for everyone.

The Chautauqua concept began to spread to other areas. Within two years after the beginnings at Lake Chautauqua, a group set up a similar assembly near a lake in Ohio. Now, the locals wouldn't have to travel to New York to soak up this experience. They had their very own Chautauqua. In fact, they used the same name. Next year, Iowa and Michigan joined in the race. By the turn-of-the-century, two hundred Chautauquas graced the nation's landscape in thirty-one states. America had definitely discovered a new treat!

Then, shortly after the turn-of-the-century, the inevitable happened. The word had been spread so well about this entertainment, that nobody wanted to miss it whether they were near a pavilion or not. Farmers in Kansas wanted to see it. So did housewives in Arkansas and storeowners in Texas. In response, Chautauqua packed its tent and took to the road. This traveling version, called tent or circuit Chautauqua is the type most widely remembered now. Chautauqua reached its arms out wide and covered the country with something it had never quite experienced before.

Just in case word-of-mouth wasn't good enough to catch the attention and open the wallets of the country folk, the organizers developed some excellent promotional methods. They draped banners reading "Chautauqua Is Coming," on buggies and automobiles, and paraded through town. Not as showy as the circus parades, they nevertheless let the locals know that something special was on the way! Sometimes musical groups like the showy Italian brass bands, would march from the train to the tent, playing a lively number as they strutted along. To add to the excitement, huge pennants were hung from downtown buildings.

Nearly everyone was glad to know Chautauqua week had finally arrived, and curious to learn what special characters it would bring to their town this year. Most towns considered it a rare breath of culture and morality, so ministers and Sunday-school teachers announced the event. Advance men were sent around several days ahead of the show to shake hands and spread the word to anyone they met. In the smaller towns, they might shake the same hand a dozen times but nobody minded. Some promotional schemes were brilliant. In a small Midwestern town, the promoters left what appeared to be punched and dated tickets to Omaha, just lying around on the sidewalks. When a passerby found one and excitedly picked it up, thinking he had found a free trip, he read instead, " You don't have to go to Omaha to hear something good, come to Chautauqua."

And come they did! Culture-starved wives who had followed their husbands west, would once again be surrounded with the finer things of life. Children would watch anxiously for the magician and his mysterious troupe to step off the train. Dad would look forward to hearing about some new-fangled inventions that he could discuss with his philosopher friends around the general store's pot-bellied stove. One of Chautauqua's greatest draws was the fact that it had something for everyone.

The anticipation of the arrival of the educators and the entertainers and all the others who were sure to add spice to this year's Chautauqua, was almost as exciting as the show itself. A day or two ahead of the show, several men would cut the grass, clear away the junk or do whatever was needed to prepare the lot. Then, the day before the opening, things really got exciting. The train with the first Chautauqua car pulled into the station. The load of brown canvas and green-painted boards was piled on the station floor to be carted to the lot. As the town's children flitted around excitedly and the storekeepers wandered down to watch the action, the scene slowly took shape.

Once the tent was pitched and the green boards were pieced together for bleacher seats, the finishing touches were added. A large American flag was draped above the platform so the various speakers could point to it for patriotic effect. A piano stood at one end of the stage and a small table was set in the center. A pitcher and glass always graced that table, readied for the ever-present ice water that would cool the speakers when the midday sun beat down on the tent. Everything was ready for the next day. By this time, there wasn't a person in town who wasn't aware that the noonday train would bring in the first of the fascinating characters who would walk out on their Chautauqua platform.

And fascinating characters they were! During its lively heyday, some of the country's most interesting and unusual speakers stepped out onto those stages. Where else could you run across David Roth, the "Man who remembered everything" or hear Robert J. Burdette expound on "The Rise and Fall of the Mustache?" And where else indeed, would you run across Jess Pugh of Chicago, who developed a "sneezing act?" He felt that an untimely sneeze had the same humorous value as an unexpected pratfall. And according to the reaction of his audiences, he was correct. Pugh developed a sneezing act around a recitation about a horse race. As he began to excitedly describe a horse race, he suddenly broke into fits of sneezing as the audience roared with laughter. Once in Kansas, a dog in the audience began to "answer" his sneezes with excited barks. Finally the dog leaped onto the stage to challenge him to a sneezing-barking contest. Pugh decided to call off the contest, while the crew boys called off the dog.

Although Chautauqua was filled with these one-of-a-kind characters, it always interspersed culture and education with its comedy and craziness. Since many of those who had traveled west, left much of their library behind, the "verbal literature" of educators and lecturers filled a great emptiness. Scientists, doctors, and inventors began to draw in as many people as the morality speakers and entertainers. Speakers like Montraville Wood, a Chicago electrical engineer, included demonstrations of fabulous new oddities. He used the light of the newly developed ultraviolet ray to write on a wall, in letters that were visible twenty minutes later. He would also bring out a two-foot wide, twenty-eight pound gyroscope. As the huge device rose and began to move around on the stage, Wood asked for volunteers to step forward and attempt to wrestle with it. This marvelous machine would outwit the best of them.

Albert Edward Wiggam, a "Hoosier with a gifted tongue," would speak on such topics as heredity and eugenics. The editor of Century Magazine said "He had a happy way of talking science, a sort of cross between Einstein and Billy Sunday." Going to Chautauqua was sometimes like getting a glimpse into the future. As small-town farmers and shopkeepers stared through the flickering light of kerosene lamps, speakers like Wood and Wiggam filled the air and their imaginations, with the modern miracles of science - like visions of days when electricity would actually light the homes of America.

Several nutritional experts, including one with the catchy name of Dinner Pail McNutt, toured the circuit, lecturing on food. They would discuss the newest findings about the food the audience consumed, including a newly developed nutritional measurement called a "calorie." Western fiction-writer James O. Goodwin remembers a lady Chautauqua speaker in Missouri telling the audience to chew their food a hundred times each bite for health reasons. "The next day everybody laughed about it," he reflected, "But you could see people all over town just chewing up a storm."

One of the most popular educators was a well-known author of the day, named Opie Read. One of his books, "The Jucklins," was at the top of the 1895 best-seller list. During his lectures he would usually read passages from his books, and give dissertations on everything from Darwin's theory to Washington politics. Opie himself however, didn't exactly fit the "best-selling author" mold. There was likely nobody in Chautauqua any more down-to-earth than Read. Like Bryan, he appealed to the rural home-folks because his success never went to his head. During his forty years on the circuit, for example, Read didn't exactly dazzle the audiences with his appearance. He would usually get an entire season out of one suit, and often make it last well into another. He would wear his shirts, as one writer described it, "to the point of exhaustion." He would then simply buy a new one for fifty-cents and start the process all over again.

In one South Dakota town, according to a contemporary's recollection, he finally broke down and bought a new shirt. He then stopped into the nearest hotel and asked the clerk if he could use a room for a few minutes. He changed his shirt, dropping the old one into the wastebasket, and brought the clerk back his room key. Fully expecting to be told it was "on the house," Read asked the clerk how much he owed him. When the clerk firmly replied, "One dollar," Opie slowly counted it out in nickels and dimes, and commented, "Thank God I didn't change my underwear too!"

"Self-improvement" was always a welcome topic. Ralph Parlette would lecture on the importance of growing from your experiences in life. In his "University of Hard Knocks" speech, he illustrated his point with The Jar of Life, which represented people who had either grown with experience, or remained undeveloped. "It's all up to the man," he would say, "He comes to the top or lands at the bottom, depending only on himself." Then he held out a large jar filled with a mixture of navy beans and unshelled walnuts. He would grin at the audience, and shake the jar so they could see that the larger walnuts stayed at the top and the smaller beans fell to the bottom. Education was popular, but nothing would attract an audience more than a good rabble-rouser. Chautauqua audiences, much like today's fans of "investigative reporters," simply loved to hear someone or some organization denounced. Nearly everybody and everything was fair game.

One by one, Chautauqua speakers filled their voices with conviction, and pointed an accusing finger at some situation they felt desperately needed reforming. Slowly but steadily Chautauqua had taken on a whole new dimension. It had begun to awaken the collective conscience of a country that wasn't really used to looking inside itself. There were, the traveling speakers informed them, "social concerns" that linked them to people in other towns and in other states.

The "intellectuals" and the newspaper and magazine editors of the day often wrote about tent Chautauqua as if it were some kind of watered-down culture for the rural folks, if they wrote about it at all. In reality however, it was the birthplace of much of the social awareness that has taken root throughout the decades that followed. The need for the fire-proofing of schools, the purification of the city's water and sewers, the upgrading of prison conditions and a hundred other issues, became topics for fiery lectures.

Allen Albert, a sociologist and lawyer, would travel ahead to the next town on the circuit. By the time he was scheduled to speak, he had found some situation in the community that he felt needed correcting. The subject had to have the potential to fire up public sentiment. Nothing could do that much more than pointing out a dangerous condition for the town's children. In one city, he told the crowd that he had examined their public school buildings, and all but seven of them are fireproofed," he told them. "And you only have seven schools," he added dramatically.

He told them he couldn't predict which one of them might burst into flames and "snuff out precious young lives." Once, in a South Carolina city, he predicted an outbreak of typhoid, because of their poor sewer and drinking water conditions. Three weeks later, a typhoid epidemic broke out. Several irate residents charged that he had actually polluted the water to make his prediction come true.

The animals in Chicago's Lincoln Park Zoo had "better cells, better air, light, and food than the prisoners in your police station," speaker Henry Hyde would declare. To prove his point, he would show pictures of contented lions happily dozing away in the zoo. Then he would bring out a picture of a dozen prisoners, wide-awake and looking miserable, huddled together in a prison cell. The Chautauqua platform was also a stage for the debate about the "Polar Controversy" between Commander Peary and Dr. Frederick Cook. Following Peary's denunciation of Cook's announcement of his Polar discovery, Cook took his case to Chautauqua.

Although Peary was an aggressive adversary, Cook was mild mannered and hard to rile. He simply wanted to tell his side of the story. His manager knew, however, that the Chautauqua audiences wanted fiery denouncements. He would stir Cook up every night before the show by repeating the vicious things that Peary had said about him. One afternoon, when Cook's train ran late, he rushed on stage and talked about his explorations and discoveries and nearly everything but Peary. After the show, his manager ran up to him and demanded to know why he left out the debate between Peary and himself. He had "forgotten to," Dr. Cook sheepishly told him.

Often speakers would illustrate their presentations. The Chalk Talkers or cartoonists, as they later preferred to be called, would often use boards as large as eight-foot square. They illustrated everything from educational lectures to humorous monologues. George Colby, who worked the huge Chicago-based Redpath circuit, would ask for the prettiest girl in town to step up to the stage. No one was vain enough to come forward, so he would invite the "handsomest man" up, (who was actually selected in advance). When Colby was finished with his sketch of the man, he would flip the drawing upside down. It would suddenly become a picture of a beautiful lady. Alton Packard, who joined the circuit in 1895, would sketch humorous caricatures that had the faces of the local citizens of whatever town he was playing. Viewing a caricature of the mayor or the school principal, never failed to set off roars of laughter. One ambidextrous Chalk Talker billed himself as the "Artist who could draw with both hands."

Like the wide variety of speakers, the musicians were also becoming more diverse. Harpists, singers, banjo players and all sorts of music-makers added their tunes to the shows. Large groups were popular, like the black singing groups who specialized in soft rich harmonies. Such romantic sights as Swiss yodelers in full costume could bring down the house. Big showy musical acts like the yodelers or Italian brass bands were often used at the end of the Chautauqua, and the audiences would call them back for encore after encore, not wanting the week to end.

Not all of the musical events were performed without a flaw however, in the uncontrolled Chautauqua setting. A fiery telegram once arrived in the Redpath offices, from Soprano Alice Nielson, who had just sung at a show in LaFollette, Tennessee. She would never again perform on the Redpath circuit, she declared, unless they could guarantee her protection from "those creatures." The directors anxiously called the superintendent of the show to find out exactly what type of creatures were attacking their talent. It seemed that the Russell Brothers Stock Company was scheduled to open the next morning, in the same field the Chautauqua was occupying.

The "stock company" was not an acting troupe, but dealt instead in livestock. On the last day of Chautauqua week, they began bringing in cattle to stable about fifty yards from the tent. Although the commotion was a little distracting, everything went well with the show that day. Everything went well, that is, until Alice Nielson's performance. Something about her high notes simply didn't "soothe the savage beast." They protested with their own chorus of operatic bellows, which increased in volume with each progressive note. Ms. Nielson apparently didn't feel that the back-up bovine harmony added anything of value to her performance.

You didn't need to have an exceptional skill in order to succeed in Chautauqua. Unusual abilities of all varieties were in demand. For example, Jehu DeWitt Miller turned his lifelong love of books and magazines into a career, and was known as "The Walking Encyclopedia." The "Boston Bird Man," Charles G. Gorst, lectured on birds, and whistled their songs. His friend Ernest Harold Baynes, directed the "Bird Masque," while as many as two hundred local children dressed up in bird costumes and danced. There was likely no greater fascination for the children, however, than the magician. Mouths would gape and eyes would pop when acts like Hendrickson and Rosani, Magicians and Shadowgraphists, would work their miracles. Magician Eugene Laurant sat a human skull on a table, and asked it questions. More than one gasp would escape from the audience when the skull answered. The same gasps would return when his "Phantom Bride" floated off into space and vanished.

Another circuit magician, who went by the single name of Reno, always made friends with the children in the towns he played. He would often buy them new clothes and toys, and in fact, ended up adopting a little girl named Millie. He and his wife, "Madame Reno" and their new assistant Millie, often appeared together. He also loved to perform spontaneous tricks off the stage when nobody expected them. When the waiter in the train's dining car served him biscuits, he would break them open to reveal coins that he told the waiter, "must have been baked inside." He would then ask the waiter for an extra knife, and when he gave it to him, it turned immediately into a spoon. Then he would reach into the waiter's jacket pocket to produce the knife. According to fellow travelers, the astonished waiter often refused to wait on him again.

His ingenuity came in handy more than once. During the 1914 Redpath circuit, he once had to take an electric train to his next stop. He was told that even though the train had a baggage compartment, there was a rule against hauling a trunk as large as the one he used to store his magic apparatus. Checking into the situation further, he found that the train did accept coffins. So he rented a coffin, packed his apparatus in it, and with a mournful expression, accompanied his newly deceased "relative" to the Chautauqua tent.

The magicians added another layer of excitement and glitter to the show. Even after they left the stage, however, the magic would linger. Stretching through time like a multi-colored ribbon, Chautauqua never lost the "touch of class" that distinguished it from medicine shows and vaudeville. Mixed in among the belly laughs and slapstick comedians, were some of the greatest minds and the most vital speakers of the time. Truly a show for everyone, from the "Chautauqua Girl" who taught the children Indian sign language, to the travel lectures, complete with flickering magic lantern slides, Chautauqua made America think.

From its peaceful beginnings, and throughout its travels across the nation, Chautauqua was exciting. It taught and entertained and amazed thousands upon thousands of people until it finally lost the battle to radio, movies and changing times, fifty years later. A nearly endless supply of preachers, performers, cranks, intellectuals, politicians, artists and actors stepped proudly off the noonday train, ready to take their place under the tent. As they opened the minds of Americans to everything from "Love, Courtship, and Matrimony" to "The Wonders of the Winds and the Secrets of the Starry Sky" they left a shining trail of thoughts and opinions behind them. When the flag-draped platforms came down, and the green-painted bleachers were packed away, a lot more was left behind than the pennies that local boys searched for in the dust. There were the feelings, the memories, and the dreams of what many people felt was the greatest week of the year - Chautauqua.
GARGOYLES, GRIFFINS

AND GLISTENING GLAMOUR

The Winding, Dazzling Circus Parades

Stately Greek Goddesses and Roman Gladiators perched arrogantly on their golden thrones to review Chicago city slickers and Iowa farm boys alike. For decades of American history, they wound their way through cities and towns like magic serpents hypnotizing wide-eyed spectators into following their "Pied Piper" calliope tails. Surrounded by the sounds and smells of mysterious beasts, the great wagons of the circus parades rolled on rain or shine. Even darkness couldn't stop them as they lit the night with calcium lights and red and green flares.

By the turn-of-the-century, as many as thirty circuses had parades traveling the nation. They could take an hour to watch, and might stretch out for more than a mile. The circus parade, in fact, became nearly as important as the circus itself. Potential customers began to judge the quality of a circus by the size of the parade. During the golden age of circus parades, from the 1870's through 1920, these magnificent displays carved a nostalgic notch into history.

And a golden age it was. The route book of an 1892 Ringling Brother's street parade describes the exotic glamour that made the parade such a fond memory for so many people. The pageant was, according to the book, "A winding, dazzling river of silver and gold." The parade wagons were described as "New chariots, gorgeous with gilded lion and serpent, or carved with dolphins and dragons, and griffins and hippo-griffons." There were "tableau cars, four squared with Grecian gods and goddesses or illuminated with golden sea-horses, winged leopards, mermaids and fabulous figures."

Floats were adorned with "medallioned mythical faces, and emblazonry of heroic saints, Peruvian sun gods, centaurs, moon-men, golden calves and Chinese dragon day glories." African "wild beasts," elephants, camels, ponies, clowns and all the rest added to the spectacle as the brass bands filled the air with music. With all of these sights, sounds, and smells streaming down main street, who could resist standing out in the hot sun to take in the "mile of gleam, gold, glint and glistening glamour?"

That "glistening glamour" would outshine everything around it. On a September morning in Lebanon, Tennessee, for example, the Gil Robinson street parade came marching into town with its horns playing and its lions roaring. A murder trial was in progress in the Lebanon courthouse. As the parade hit town and more and more jurors, witnesses and lawyers stained their eyes and ears to catch the sights and sounds of the spectacle, the judge finally gave in to the magnetic charm of the parade. "It's no use, gentlemen," he relented, "this court can't compete with the circus. The case stands adjourned till nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

Although the street parade grew to become a golden piece of American entertainment history, in its infancy, it was actually more of a quick advertisement than entertainment. In the late eighteenth century, equestrian circus troupes would wear colorful clothes and plumed hats as they marched through the streets. Trumpeters would sometimes ride horseback to attract the attention of the bystanders. By 1825, the circuses began to stop outside of a town where the circus was going to play and wash off the horses and wagons. The drivers would then put on fancy red clothes and hang banners on their wagons, while a small band would climb aboard one of the wagons as they headed into town. Little by little, the parade was beginning to develop into entertainment in and of itself.

In 1837, the Purdy, Welch, McComber circus brought the parade a step closer to the fabulous spectacle it was destined to become. On the first of May, in Albany, New York, a woodwind band mounted horses while two drummers climbed aboard elephants and marched into town. This is often viewed as the first real circus parade. By the 1850's, the parade was often a separate performance. Rather than simply marching into town, the circus performers would move directly to the show-grounds, set up their tents and then parade later in the day. The wagons were already becoming an important part of the parade. Not only were they needed to carry the equipment, but many of the circus owners were beginning to have wagons designed strictly for use in parades. These wagons were decorated with wooden carvings and scenic paintings. As the carvings became more ornate and the paintings more detailed, the larger shows began to compete for the most outstanding wagons.

As beautiful as the wagons were, the romance and glitter of the circus life shined a little less brightly as the circuses trudged across country from one little town to the next. They would usually set out by about three in the morning in order to arrive in time at the next stop. The caravan slowly creaked its way over the rough roads, piercing the dark of night only with flickering lanterns and torches. Not only did the natural obstacles make the journey rough but more than once the tired troop from a caravan would stand dismally looking across a deep stream after a rival circus had burned the bridge they needed to cross. There are also tragic stories of old wooden bridges that gave way beneath the weight of the huge circus wagons, sending people, animals and equipment into swift currents and deep waters. The wagons were built large and heavy so they would stand up to the tortures of the ruts and holes of the early roads. They couldn't be too huge, however, or the poor straining horses couldn't pull them.

Then, near the middle of the century, nearly all the size restrictions for the wagons were taken away. In 1856 the Spalding and Rogers circus tried a bold experiment. They moved their entire circus by railroad. This was not the easiest project to undertake, especially since many of the early railroads used different gauges of tracks. When one train would reach a junction point with another railroad that used a larger or smaller gauge track, the entire circus would have to be unloaded and reloaded onto another train. One-by-one, however, other circuses began to follow suit. In 1872, the newly formed Barnum-Coup circus also took to the train. P.T. Barnum was not wild about the idea, but Coup, his earlier partner, pointed out that traveling by train would let them skip past the smaller less-profitable towns.

Talking about the tremendous effort involved in loading and unloading, Coup once said, "You cannot possibly imagine the amount of labor involved. I never took the clothes off my back from the time of loading until we reached Philadelphia, our seventh stop!" As difficult as the procedure was, Coup became an expert in loading and unloading the wagons and equipment. In fact, while their show was touring Europe, the general staffs of both the British and German armies studied his systems to improve their transporting of artillery. Hard work or not, the circuses were continuing to use the rails. It wouldn't be long before the quality of a circus would be judged by the number of railroad cars it took to carry it. Since the wagons could now sit high atop the railroad car gliding over steel rails rather than clunking along through potholes and muddy trails, they could grow much larger. In some cases, they were nearly thirty-feet long. The "golden age" of the parades and their magnificent wagons, was right around the corner.

As the competition for the most flamboyant wagons became more intense, the circus owners began to invest more money into building them. Rather than merely painting their existing wagons, they were now commissioning master wood carvers trained in the styles of European craftsmanship. Elaborate plans were drawn up and executed by skilled wagon-builders. Even the wheels became pieces of artwork. During the decades to follow, some of these examples of American folk art would be viewed by more people than the great masterpieces of the world's museums.

The magnificent parades, a mixture of gaudy, noisy "show biz" and detailed craftsmanship, have been called the greatest form of advertising of all time. How could a small boy not beg his parents for circus tickets after he had seen, heard, and smelled just enough of the show to make him want more? The circus owners were acutely aware of the profit that came from luring in the last-minute customers, and often funneled hundreds of thousands of dollars into these real-life advertisements. Even at the turn-of-the-century, for example, a wagon could cost several thousand dollars. Ringling Brothers paid $1,900 in 1903 for a scenic wagon depicting life in Russia. Barnum & Bailey bought a bandwagon in 1897 for $7,000. One of the most ornate wagons ever made, Barnum & Bailey's "Two Hemispheres" bandwagon, was a ten-ton beauty that was overlaid with gold leaf, and cost $40,000 in 1903.

The thousands of dollars and thousands of hours of detailed craftsmanship produced some of the most delightful vehicles that ever traveled the face of the earth. The days when a handful of musicians would wash off the wagon and climb aboard, had definitely changed! The wagons were literally becoming works of art. Gracefully mounted on top of the massive under-carriage, were the detailed carvings, statues and paintings that added an artistic quality to the glitter of the circus razzle-dazzle. Imaginary creatures, including gargoyles and griffins were carved in among the graceful scrolls and borders. Cupids darted around the designs, and fierce wild animals waged deadly combat in dramatic poses, preserved for decades by patient craftsmen.

The designers first sketched out the pattern in detail, noting the approximate sizes of the various sections. Then the carver set to work on huge slabs of clear select white pine. With his mallet and chisel, he transferred visions and sketches into three-dimensional realities. Normally, both sides of the wagon had nearly identical designs. In many cases, however, the detail was different. When the creation was finished, the slabs were mounted onto the side of the wagon and screwed or bolted into place. The surface was then covered with gold or silver leaf or painted with bright colors.

Some of the larger wagon-builders eventually had their own master wood carvers on staff. Moeller Wagon Works of Baraboo, Wisconsin; Beggs Wagon Company of Kansas City, Missouri and the Sebastian Wagon Company from New York City ranked among the largest and best known. Henry and Corwin Moeller of Moeller Wagon Works turned out wagons for forty years, for nearly every large circus in America. Henry, first cousin to the Ringlings, once told about a man who came into the shop to ask him if he could build some circus wagons for him. When Henry told him that he could, the stranger proceeded to unroll a bunch of blueprints and said he wanted the wagons to look exactly like the plans. Henry got mad and told him to, "Take his damn plans and go back to Chicago!" What he didn't tell him was that he couldn't read a blueprint if he tried.

Even the wheels of the wagons were examples of expert craftsmanship. St. Mary's Wheel and Spoke Company of St. Marys, Ohio, was the most widely known wheel manufacturer. They shipped specially ordered wheels to circuses and wagon-builders across the country. One of the familiar sounds of the parade, was the deep knock of the wagon wheels. This was caused by a slight lateral movement that brought the wheels up against the shoulder of the axle shank. The magnificent bandwagons covered with gilded carvings now held as many as eighteen musicians. Every circus had at least one bandwagon, and the larger ones had several spaced throughout the parade. After the parade was finished, the musicians often filled in as ushers, ticket-sellers or even clowns. Even though many small children likely wished they could be sitting high and proud on a golden bandwagon playing a shiny brass horn, the job was not quite as romantic as it appeared. There was a hazard involved in playing an instrument on a moving bandwagon. As the wagon bounced over the rough cobblestones, the mouthpiece of an instrument could cut a lip or even knock out a tooth!

The spirit of competition among the circus owners continued to grow. As early as 1846 the Isaac A. Van Amburgh Circus paraded a twenty-foot gilded wagon that rose seventeen-feet from the ground. A forerunner of the even-larger bandwagons that followed, it was billed as "the largest ever seen on this continent." Not only were the wagons expanding, but the number of horses that carried them grew to incredible numbers. Some of the larger circuses would hitch as many as forty horses to their lead bandwagon. The first record of a 40-horse hitch was with the Spalding & Rogers Circus in 1848.

Driving a team of forty horses was definitely not an easy job. Jake Posey, who controlled the team for Barnum & Bailey at the turn-of-the-century, described his method in his autobiography, The Last of the Forty-Horse Drivers. Three men rode with him. One worked the wheel brakes. The second man was ready to jump down and untangle snagged lines or deal with any other unexpected catastrophe. And the third man would pull in slack or feed out more lines as Jake turned the corners. Jake held several lines between each finger. Once, when he was asked how he knew which rein to pick up, he replied, "How does a musician know which chord to strike?"

Towering as high as thirty-feet, another impressive type of wagon was called the "telescoping tableaux." These wagons carried scenes made up of carved figures representing various themes. They depicted life in other countries, Mother Goose stories, patriotic scenes and various moments in history. The tableaux, or "static scene," would sometimes be carved and mounted right on top of the wagon. Some of them were so tall, however, that the top figures were lowered into the body of the wagon by a worm-gear arrangement. They would be "telescoped" up for the parade, and then lowered for traveling. One of the most famous was a huge representation of St. George and the Dragon, in the Adam Forepaugh parade. The Ringling Brothers later bought it.

The telescoping tableau wagons were very popular during the late 1800's but ran into trouble in 1881. That was the year that many large cities began to string telegraph wires across the streets. For several years, some circus owners hired men to stand on top of the wagon and raise the wires with long-handled forks as they passed underneath. Eventually, however, they removed the top section and mounted it on a separate platform wagon. The rest of the wagon was often turned into a bandwagon.

The sight of the shining golden wagons, the wild animals, the graceful horses, and all the rest was enough to lure the bystanders toward the circus grounds. But just in case it didn't convince everybody, the parades also delighted the ears as well as the eyes. As popular as the brass bands were, blowing their hearts out from high atop the glittering bandwagons, the most famous music-maker was likely the steam calliope. The first steam calliopes actually consisted of two wagons. One carried the instrument and the second followed behind with the boiler. Patented in 1855 by J. C. Stoddard, this loud piercing instrument would bring up the tail of the great parades for years to come.

They were not easy to play because they required a heavy hand on the keyboard to open the valves. The steam was so powerful that the music could be heard for nearly five miles. The calliope also came in handy during emergencies. It could be called into action to pump water onto the overheated canvas during the blazing summer. In addition, it could even be used as fire-fighting equipment during emergencies. The whistles would often vibrate out of tune as the wagon bounced along the cobblestones. However an out-of-tune note or two didn't seem to bother the audience. The shrill music of the calliope is one of the fondest memories of those who were fortunate enough to have witnessed the great parades. It was also a reminder that it was time to rush to the circus grounds to catch the show. "See the whole of my magnificent Street Parade," one of Barnum's 1882 posters advertised, "It will take you an hour to see it through to the Calliope."

Air calliopes were smaller and more mellow than the steam versions. They often followed in smaller wagons behind ponies. Bell-wagons were also popular attractions. Ringling Brothers featured a bell-wagon with nine huge spring-operated bronze bells surrounded by gilded sculptures. In 1903, Ringling even tried using a pipe organ run from a Stanley Steamer automobile engine built into the wagon. It sounded great...when it wasn't moving! Unfortunately, as the wagon bounded along the uneven streets, the pipes often popped up out of their holes. It lasted one season.

Spalding and Rogers introduced one of the most impressive musical wagons in 1855. Named the "Apollonicon," it was a mixture of organ pipes, drums, cymbals, whistles, triangles, gongs, horns and bells. All of these instruments were played mechanically by an operator named Carl Fuhrman who, like many showmen of the time, called himself "Professor." Even though there weren't a thousand instruments as the advertisements claimed, it likely kept Professor Fuhrman pretty busy. The huge mechanism was mounted in a large box-like wagon that, like the mammoth bandwagons, was pulled by a 40-horse team. In fact, the Apollonicon was so difficult to maneuver along the rough roads of the day that Spalding and Rogers soon took it out of the circus parade and mounted it in another one of their ventures, a Mississippi River riverboat. Not only did they add to the history of the street parade, but basically originated the showboat.

As noisy and exciting as the wagons were, the main attractions for many of the children weren't merely pulled along the road. They glared and snarled and snapped back at them. The animals in the cages and dens of the menagerie section were more impressive than those found in most of the zoos at the time. The menagerie wagons had removable sides to expose the animal cages. Sometimes, however, the sides were left on during the parade, especially if it was raining. Some owners left the wagons covered routinely because they felt that the rare sounds of the wild beasts were enough to tantalize the crowds, and felt people might be less likely to pay for what they've already seen.

Once the parade was over, the animal wagons were lined up end-to-end around the menagerie tent for display. Some of the larger circuses had as many as two dozen menagerie wagons with animals and birds from countries around the world. The 1892 Ringling Brothers Circus, for example, had a variety of animals that included a White Nile hippopotamus, black swans, white peacocks, a silver bear, Mexican lions, South American jaguars, Australian kangaroos, African ostriches and Russian deer.

The smells of the "beasts" were part of the unique draw of the parade. Although it would be hard to view them as pleasant, somehow the pungent odors of the sweating horses, the shuffling elephants, and the pacing tigers and lions were strangely intriguing. As the smells mingled with the gleam of the golden wagons and the powerful music of the bells and calliope, the individual parts of the great parade somehow melted together to form a unique experience that could never again be duplicated.

The order of the Ringling Brother's street parade of 1911 describes the unique spectacle at its zenith. A lead buggy led the way and was followed by five mounted men carrying banners. Six buglers followed them, and close behind rolled the first of the great bandwagons with fifteen musicians proudly piercing the air. Then the great variety of wagons and cage-wagons came flowing down the street.

Sixteen camels pulled an Egyptian float. The "Great Britain" tableau wagon was topped off with a 14-piece sideshow band. Mounted ladies in elaborate costumes rode among the wagons, as did "Roman chariot" drivers. A clown bandwagon reminded the children in the audience how many laughs were in store if only they could talk their parents into springing for a ticket. As the procession continued, floats representing Spain, Germany, India and Russia rolled down the street. Fifty mounted men carried banners in front of the United States tableau and thirty elephants shuffled along behind. More cage-wagons and riders and other wagons joined in until a grand total of 279 horses and 30 ponies had clopped down the cobblestones.

The horses, like the majestic wagons, were also adorned with colorful trappings. They often wore bright red bridle coverings trimmed in gold braid or blue embellished with silver. These were usually highlighted with crystal jewels. The ladies who rode them would ride in small groups, wearing costumes that matched each other. The beautifully dressed ladies on their glorious steeds looked like goddesses. They probably helped convince a few undecided farm boys to dig into their pockets for money to buy a circus ticket. In some of the larger street parades, horses were also used in a "Wild West unit." The bands were dressed like cowboys, and stagecoaches and covered wagons rolled along, bringing a touch of the old west to the city streets.

Indians in full dress joined in the colorful and exciting parade unit. Since the Wild West shows would often use parades similar to the circus Wild West unit, they would sometimes point out in their advertisements that the circus people were "not real cowboys." For example, an advertisement in the Wisconsin's Dodgeville Chronicle in 1904 read: "The Great Texas Bill Wild West and World's Best Rough Riders with its celebrated Cowboy Band will present a great historic street parade. This is not a circus parade!"

Not quite as sleek and elegant as the horses, the "ships of the desert" - the camels, were nevertheless a favorite feature. Ringling Brothers devised the most unusual camel presentation in the history of the parade when they hitched a team of sixteen camels to one of their large wagons. They originally tried for twenty, but found it was just too difficult, since the camel is not the most easily managed animal. Although the crowds loved them, some of the circus animal handlers didn't exactly share their enthusiasm. This might easily have been due to the cantankerous animal's habit of spitting cud on people, or their unusual ability to kick sideways.

Of course the huge lumbering elephant was also a favorite crowd-pleaser. Every child would count out loud as the long line of pachyderms slowly rounded the corner. The number of elephants became another measurement of the quality of the parade. Most of the elephants were from India or Siam but the circus owners tried to include a few of the larger African elephants so viewers could whistle and say, "Look at the size of that one." Barnum's famous Jumbo was an African elephant that stood eleven-foot six-inches tall at the shoulder. A familiar saying likely originated during this time. Since the he strong musty smell of the elephants frightened the horses, men would often ride ahead to warn the bystanders to "Hold your horses, the elephants are coming." During a circus in Winchendon Massachusetts, a horse bolted away when the elephants marched past, and was killed as he hit a rail fence. Frank A. Robbins, the circus owner, found out the horse's owner was extremely poor and paid him eighty dollars, even though he had been warned by one of the circus riders.

With all the elephants, camels, horses, chariots and wagons, it was inevitable that something would occasionally go wrong. Even the great wagons were not invincible. In the true spirit of showmanship, the circus personnel were always prepared for the possibility of a wagon breakdown. This didn't happen often, since even the most delicately carved ornate wagons were built solidly enough to put up with some extremely rough road conditions.

The undercarriage, wheels and frame were purposefully over-constructed to allow for almost any feasible situation. The builders knew the wagons would bump along over thousands of miles of brick and cobblestone, and would sometimes need to be pulled out of the muddy circus lots by teams of straining horses. Even the best-built machinery however, will occasionally break down so most of the large circuses distributed parade rules to their employees. The rules from a 1904 Walter L. Main circus stated, "If any vehicle breaks down in parade, pull to one side and after fixed up, get in anywhere, but do not stop the parade..."

As the seemingly endless array of one-of-a-kind "dreams on wheels" rolled through America's turn-of-the-century cities, it seemed as if nothing could ever "stop the parade." The circus owners, however, were beginning to face serious issues. They had dealt with problems before and had always come out on top, shining in the sun. Even during the early days when the parades trudged along their long dark journeys from town to town, they had persevered. Once they arrived at the edge of the next town, they shook off the hardships they had endured, washed off the road mud, and strutted into town proud and majestic.

They had even overcome the difficulties of railroad travel, loading and unloading the entire circus along the way, and once again faced the new day with happy tumbling clowns and glorious golden wagons. This time however, the problems couldn't be washed off in the creek at the edge of town or covered up with greasepaint and orange wigs. For one thing, the cities had grown larger, and the circus lots were no longer located in the middle of town. The performers would often have to ride five or ten miles just to get downtown for the parade and back to the show lot. They couldn't give their best performance after this kind of journey. By the 1920's, traffic was also becoming a concern. In addition, the asphalt pavement wouldn't always hold up the huge wagons. On hot summer days, the massive wheels would sometimes sink right down into the asphalt. In fact, there are a number of stories of mayors who would purposely route the circus parade through streets that needed repairing and then charge the circus owners for the cost, claiming the parade wagons had caused all the damage.

In 1921, the Barnum & Bailey parade was discontinued. Barnum had actually tried to shut down the street parade years earlier, but brought it back due to public protest. Smaller circuses continued their parades in medium-sized towns throughout the 1930's. Most of those circuses, like Gentry Brothers, Walter L. Main, and Robbins Brothers, went broke during the depression. The Cole Brothers parade lasted through the 1939 season, when a fire destroyed most of their wagons.

Despite some feeble attempts to save the parades, like carrying the wagons on flatbed trucks, it was sadly obvious that nearly a century after its humble birth, the grand and glorious circus parade was dead. Fortunately, some farsighted collectors managed to salvage a few wagons. However, most of the golden-clad masterpieces that had rolled past hundreds of thousands of cheering fans were left to deteriorate or burn. But the great wagons, the sights and sounds, and the dreams will never really stop. They still bring out the same youthful smiles as they roll on through America's cities and towns in hundreds of thousands of childhood memories.
THE POUNDING OF THE SHEEPSKIN

AND THE RATTLING OF THE BONES

Minstrel Shows: Our Country's First

"National Entertainment"

The outrageously dressed end-men adjust their instruments and check the fit of their wigs. "Mr. Bones" moves the set of hand-polished rib bones to just the right position for perfect rhythm. "Mr. Tambo" slowly revolves his sheepskin tambourine as he anxiously waits for his cue. "Mr. Interlocutor" quietly clears his resonant throat as his gaze centers on his silver pocket watch. It's nearly eight-fifteen. No more time for practicing in the opera house basement. It's time to rear back and give 'em what they came for. Then, just like the clockwork of his pocket watch, the callboy walks backstage for his last-minute rounds and a stage-whispered, "All up for the first part."

As the band members quickly find their places on the raised platform in the rear of the stage, the minstrels hustle around to stand in front of their assigned seats in the semicircle of chairs. The stage manager's eyes flick across the faces of the "burnt cork" entertainers, to make sure everyone is ready to roll. His proud features relax as he signals the fly-man with the ringing of a bell. The curtain rises, the applause bursts out of the darkness, and with a sedate "Gentlemen, please be seated," one of entertainment history's most unusual and most popular offerings was ready to echo through the theater with the rattling of rib bones and the shaking of tambourines.

Now often viewed with mild curiosity or outright disdain, the minstrel show was once the undisputed king of entertainment. During its heyday, from 1850 until 1870, the nation was caught up in a "minstrel craze." Little boys were offering to clean up the table so they could collect the rib bones to scrape them off, dry them out and make their own set of "bones." There was scarcely a self-respecting college that didn't have a young men's banjo club. Minstrel groups grew from eight or ten entertainers to forty, and eventually to troupes of over a hundred. Minstrel song sheets were printed at breakneck speeds and gobbled up by amateur and professional minstrel entertainers. During these gravy days, any good minstrel company could book the best theater in a city and fill it to overflowing. In fact, nearly every city had a theater that featured nothing other than minstrel entertainment, and they were often forced into giving three shows a day. Some even added a morning concert.

During those years, the odd looking troupes of black-faced performers dressed in gaudy clothes and wild wigs were such a draw that many of the more legitimate entertainers became outraged. "How frequently the most eminent in tragedy or comedy, have toiled through the choicest efforts, to scanty listeners," one critic complained, "while upon the same evenings, fantazias upon the bones, or banjo, has called forth the plaudits of admiring thousands."

In 1855, a well-respected traveling concert troupe was forced to give its concerts in the morning when they played Cincinnati, because all the theaters and halls were booked that summer with minstrel companies. Occasionally however, some competing entertainers were clever enough to use the minstrel craze to their advantage. Once, in Richmond, Virginia, a stock theater company was having trouble filling a theater, with their production of "Monte Cristo." The quick-thinking manager booked a minstrel band to play between the acts. They packed the theater, and saved the day.

The minstrel show came along at the perfect time to become the country's first real big-time national entertainment. Cities were starting to grow large enough to build huge theaters that could hold a hundred minstrel entertainers and thousands of fans to cheer their efforts. Chicago was nearly 300,000 strong. Philadelphia had reached three-quarters of a million and New York was nearing an incredible one-million people. Also, there wasn't a lot around to compete with the new musical phenomenon. An evening's entertainment usually consisted of taking in a quiet lecture or visiting a local museum. Circuses and ornate fireworks displays were popular, but the new minstrel concept would soon dominate the entertainment scene.

Theater going would no longer consist of a trip to the small-town opera house for a sedate little drama. Huge "marble palaces" were springing up across the country, and the minstrel performers were only too glad to fill them with their rattling bones and harmonic voices. Before "minstrelsy" would leave the center stage, it would spread from the east coast to the developing west. In 1849, it followed the gold rush to California. As the excited miners built their wooden theaters, the minstrels joined in competition with the theatrical troupes and dancing ladies, to give the miners a taste of their hand-clapping rhythm and raucous comedy. Twenty years later, and still going strong, with the completion of the 1869 transcontinental railroad, the minstrels would spread their music along the small towns that were springing up along the railroad's path. Murphy and Mack's Minstrels for example, would travel that train and give a ten-day show at the famous Salt Lake Theater of the Mormons, in Utah.

During the bitter Civil War, the minstrel show, oddly enough, continued to flourish. The tensions during the four years of conflict left the fighting men and their relatives back home, hungry for something to take their minds off the war. Both sides turned to the comfort of the relaxing diversion they had come to love - the minstrel show. The racial sensitivity of the times did, however, call for modifications in different sections of the country. Most minstrel companies instinctively changed jokes and added the appropriate patriotic songs.

Several of the northern minstrel companies made some pretty quick moves to get back up north after the outbreak of the war in 1861. George Christy of the famous Christy Minstrels, was playing at the time in Charleston, South Carolina. One morning the company found the inscription, "Death to the Yankees," written on the wall near the stage entrance. Christy decided it would be prudent to explain during his ending presentation, that the troupe had no sympathy with the Union cause.

Bishop and Florence's Minstrels ran into problems during a show in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Two members of the show were southerners, and had gotten into an argument with some of the locals over the South's right of secession from the union. Not long after this ill-timed discussion, an enraged mob stormed the theater. The actors leaped out of their dressing room windows and hit the ground running. Fortunately, their adrenalin must have been pulsing at a little higher level than the mob's, because they made it out of town alive. La Rue's Minstrels, on the other hand, cleaned up at the box office because of the tensions of the war. They concocted a phony story that one of their star performers had been shot for standing firm for the Union cause. As they played northern towns, their box office receipts increased every time the story was repeated.

Shortly after the close of the Civil War, a minstrel company that was touring the northeast ran into another problem. Some Irish-Americans were invading Canada in what were called "Fenian raids." These raids were an attempt to draw the British government's attention to their fight for Irish freedom. The base player of the uninformed minstrel company arrived for their show, as he always did, with his instrument in a bright green bag. Unfortunately, that was also the color of the Fenian banner. After some quick talking to the suspicious Canadians, the show went on and all was well. Just for good measure, however, they ended with a rousing version of "God Save the Queen."

Not only did the minstrel show carve out its own unique place in history, but it set the stage for a lot of the various types of entertainment that would follow it. The yodeling of the barn-dance cowboys, for example, found its introduction to the minstrel show through Tom Christian, a member of the Christy Minstrels. The "straight man" who became the popular butt of his partner's jokes in vaudeville, was developed from the minstrel master of ceremonies, "Mr. interlocutor," who was always the unsuspecting fall guy for both of the end-men.

The second part of the minstrel show would set the stage for the concept of "variety" entertainment. Variety would become the nucleus for the "review," the burlesque show and the vaudeville show. During that second section of the minstrel show, everybody would contribute his own specialty. Dancers would stand up and go into their best buck and wing or soft shoe. Orators would rise and deliver a quick and lively speech. Comedy teams jumped up to deliver a few quick one-liners and wrapped it up with a song-and-dance number.

The irony of the minstrel show was that it often ended up as a gaudy caricature of the people it depicted. It began as an attempt to bring the joyous and lively quality of black music to people who had never experienced it. What started out as a tribute however, often became an insult. Critic after critic complained throughout the 1850's and 60's that, as one put it, "The old-time Negro character has been sunk out of sight and the vulgarity of the game has taken the place of the innocent comicalities that were in vogue forty years ago." The original task of the minstrel show, they claimed, was to "humorously and sympathetically" delineate the life and music of the black population. Instead, they often turned the show into a burlesque of the people they were imitating. Some argued that the minstrel show had always been more of a burlesque than a truthful representation. Hardly anyone could argue that the original concept had, throughout the years, grown into something much different from its original roots.

Like Chautauqua, medicine shows, and the others, the minstrel show's birth was much more sedate than the wild and woolly extravaganza it would become. Its birth, as is the case with so many other entertainment classics, was originally unplanned. According to a well-accepted story, Billy Whitlock, a typesetter for the New York Herald, was practicing his hobby of banjo playing with his friend Daniel Emmett at a New York City boarding house where they both lived. Two other men, Frank Brower and Dick Pelham happened by one uneventful day and lingered to listen to their music. All four, it turned out, were striving young musicians. After a few social pleasantries, they decided to get together and practice. They eventually discussed the possibility of teaming up to give an ensemble performance.

The only problem was, they each played musical instruments that didn't seem to fit into the ensemble concept. Emmett played the violin; Whitlock, the banjo; Pelham, the tambourine and Brower played, of all things, bone castanets! According to Emmett's account of the first time they played in front of friends, they were ridiculed. The story is cloudy as to whether they played at the Branch Hotel or Bartlett's Billiard Parlor, both in New York City. At any rate, they performed their new combination in front of other showmen and would-be-showmen. As they brought out their bazaar collections of stringed instruments, tambourines and bones, their fellow musicians thought they had lost their minds. They jeered the first song as the bones clicked and the tambourine jangled. Then, little by little, something unusual happened. The jeers turned into attentive gazes as the listeners slowly began to take in the unusual new sounds. As Emmett was to relate it later, the songs, especially the humorous ones, started to bring smiles to their faces. Eventually howls of laughter echoed off the walls. By the end of the performance, the room was filled with "an uproar of applause." As the four young men packed away their instruments, and thought about the evening, they weren't exactly sure what they had created. They realized, however, it was something special - maybe even something the general public would want to hear.

That introduction of their musical concoction to the public wouldn't be too long in coming since they were excited by their success with their friends. At Emmett's suggestion, they dressed up in what would soon become the classic attire of the well-dressed Minstrel - white trousers, striped shirts and dress coats complete with long swallowtails. Since much of their music came from the rhythmic songs of the black community, they used burnt cork to blacken their faces. Individual singers and comedians had performed in "blackface" before, but not an entire quartet. Then with a nervous anticipation, they met their public. As most accounts relay it, in February of 1843, they opened at the Bowery Amphitheatre in New York City, under the name of the Virginia Minstrels.

During the evening, they performed together, as well as individually, and in various combinations. They sang "The Essence of Old Virginny," "Lucy Long Walk Around," and nearly every other number they knew, then ended the show with a rousing "breakdown." The breakdown, often an Irish or Scottish jig mixed with the black rhythm style, soon became the hallmark of the ending of the performance. Even after another section of the minstrel show was added, the breakdown would signal the ending of the "first part." Like their earlier trial performance, their pioneer efforts on the public stage were greeted with a curiosity that slowly turned into howls of laughter and waves of applause. The "novel, grotesque, original and surpassingly melodious Ethiopian Band, entitled the Virginia Minstrels," as they had billed themselves, had opened the door for a new wave of entertainment that would dominate the stage for decades.

Spurred on by their success, the Virginia Minstrels began touring other cities. Following a well-received tour, they decided, in April of 1843, to take their act across the ocean and let England enjoy their new musical concoction. Things looked good. They had some success in London, Manchester, and Liverpool. Then suddenly, the tour began to fail. Although the minstrel show would later take England by storm, during the remainder of their tour they just couldn't interest the British theatergoers. They disbanded, returned to America, and later found work in a variety of minstrel shows that had developed during their absence.

Another pioneer minstrel group had their name resurrected during the resurgence of folk music, by the New Christy Minstrels. The original Christy Minstrels were organized in Buffalo by E.P. Christy. Some music historians argue that they beat the Virginia Minstrels to the punch. Since most of the information about the pioneer minstrel days came down to us through word-of-mouth reminiscences, likely no one will ever know for sure. The Christy Minstrels were definitely among the "founding fathers" of Minstrelsy. They played for years in Mechanics Hall on Broadway, becoming a pillar of New York's entertainment scene. Unlike the Virginia Minstrels and the hard luck they found in England, the Christy company would take root and grow into the leader of the pack. Ironically, not many years after the Virginia Minstrel's experience, they toured England and became so popular there that for years many English fans called all minstrel performers "Christys." The Christy Minstrels made it clear to the public that they were offering "wholesome" entertainment. One of their 1847 advertisements stressed that fact:

Christy's far famed and original band of Ethiopian Minstrels whose unique and chaste performances have been patronized by the elite and fashion in all the principal cities of the Union...respectfully announce that they will give a series of their popular and inimitable concerts, introducing a variety of entirely new songs, choruses and burlesques. Admission, 25-cents.

The Christy Minstrels developed much of the basic minstrel concept. They decided to arrange the performers in a semicircle with "Mr. Interlocutor" in the center and the two end-men, Mr. "Bones" and Mr. "Tambo," named after the instruments they played, on the ends. The exchange of jokes and good-natured insults that Mr. Bones and Mr. Tambo directed toward the dignified "straight man," helped tie the performance together. Mr. Interlocutor was the serious and somewhat pompous intellectual who was always a natural target for the wild antics of the end-men. Like the wacky clowns and the aristocratic ringmaster of the circus, they were an ideal comedy combination. As the "highly educated" Mr. Interlocutor patiently corrected the grammar and absurd pronunciations of the end-men, he would nevertheless always fall prey to their clowning. As one writer put it, "The crowd likes nothing better than to see a half-wit get the better of a pompous intellectual." The Christy Minstrels also extended the show into a "second part" that let down the barriers of that format and allowed everyone to jump in with their specialties.

Another pioneer accomplishment of the Christy Minstrels, was the development of the minstrel street parade. The minstrel parade, never as showy as the circus parade, nevertheless provided the same excellent advertisement. Parading from the railroad station to the local hotel soon became a ritual for the arriving showmen. The parade was typically headed up by a drum major dressed in a short red coat dripping with gold braid. He juggled a brass-knobbed baton, as a silver cornet band followed close behind. The cornet band would later back up the minstrels during the show. Then came the minstrels, dressed up in their show attire, marching two or four abreast, depending upon the size of the show. They strutted proudly in their long-tailed coats of varying patterns, trimmed with red silk lapels. As the local children paced along beside their new heroes, they were already scheming of ways to get a quarter from their parents for the big show.

One of the few competing minstrel companies to approach the Christy's popularity, was the Campbell's Minstrel troupe. In fact, they became so sought after that dozens of other minstrel shows called themselves "Campbell's Minstrels." Now and then competing "Campbell" troupes would meet each other, with predictable results. Like most forms of entertainment, the minstrel show couldn't resist taking a few pokes at the political scene of the day. Minstrel showman Lew Dockstader, for example, added extra verses to a popular song, "That Ain't No Lie," during an 1887 appearance at Madison Square Garden:

Went downtown for to cast my vote

Thought I'd swap it for a two-dollar note,

Man says, "I'll give you five, sure as fate

If you'll vote the Democratic ticket straight,"

I took the five, then another man

Gave me ten to vote the Republican,

But to fool them both I couldn't resist

An' I voted for a no-account Socialist.

Not everyone laughed at Dockstader's satires. In fact, according to an old newspaper account, once when he impersonated Teddy Roosevelt during a show, Roosevelt was so upset he tried to have him barred from Washington. Many of the "tools of the trade" of the minstrel show had been used in various forms in Africa and Europe. The banjo, for example, can be traced back to an African instrument called the "banjar." It was made from a large gourd, and fitted with four strings. Joe Sweeney, an early minstrel snowman who had played with the Virginia Minstrels, actually brought the banjo into the minstrel show. He rigged up a cheese box with a wooden neck, and attached five strings. E. M. Hall was commonly known as one of the all-time great minstrel banjo players. He would spin it around and juggle it while playing, which later became a specialty of a lot of country musicians.

Some think the "bones" might have actually originated from African cannibal tribes. Apparently they wanted a little "after dinner music" from their guests. The bones of the early minstrel show, however, were originally horse ribs sawed off to about twelve inches. As the years rolled by, ebony or other hard materials were often substituted. Like the jazz drummers who would follow, Mr. Bones would often toss them high in the air and catch them between his fingers, continuing the rhythm. With two bones in each hand, he would fit them between two fingers and his finger and thumb, and click them together in a variety of rhythm patterns.

The tambourine is a smaller version of a shallow drum called a "tambour." The tambourine was popular in France, Spain and Italy long before it became a minstrel standard. Like the juggling banjo player, Mr. Tambo was a master at tossing the instrument in the air. He would toss it up behind his back, under the chair, over his head and then hit it with his hands, elbows, head and feet. Even though the entire troupe often used tambourines to add emphasis to the end of some of the songs, Mr. Tambo was the acknowledged expert.

Not only did the minstrel show help develop musical instruments that became classics through the years, but it added to the vocabulary of entertainers. The term "ham," used for an actor who over-acts, likely originated from a Christy Minstrel number called "Ham Fat." One section of the song reads:

Ham fat, ham fat, smoking in the pan,

Get into de kitchen as quick as you can,

The gravy's gettin' in de hamfat pan.

As the song became a minstrel tradition, the word "ham" was used to describe a performer who got a little carried away with his acting abilities on stage. Speaking of hams, one of the unique highlights of the minstrel show was the "wench." This was a "lady" impersonated by one of the showmen. Usually the wench would appear in one of the short comedy skits during the second part of the show. The more exaggerated the feminine characteristics of the wench, the more the audience seemed to enjoy it. At the climax of the skit, the deep-voiced "lady" would usually display a pair of huge feet under her skirts, topped by men's trousers. Like the plays of early times, the cast of the minstrel show was all male, so if a lady was called for in a skit, "she" would perform, hairy legs, beard and all.

As the years rolled along, the minstrel show began to resemble the variety and burlesque shows that would follow it. People were no longer satisfied with the little semicircle of minstrels playing the traditional tunes and cracking the same old jokes. By the late 1870's and during the 1880's, the trend was toward "bigger and better" shows. Advertisements of "Forty, Count 'em, Forty," let the prospective audience know that they would be treated to more than the typical small minstrel companies of the past. Haverly's Mastodons toured the nation with a show a hundred strong.

The small unassuming row of chairs had given way to elaborate stage settings. Leavitt's Gigantean Minstrels started touring in 1881 and staged street parades with two bands and a row of carriages among the parading musicians. Hooley's Megatherians and Cleveland's Colossals joined the competition. The Billy Sweatnam, Billy Rice, and Barney Fagan's Minstrels probably set the record, with a hundred and ten members. Saxophone players, buglers, and a drum corps joined their minstrels. During the 1882-1883 season, at least thirty-two traveling minstrel companies crossed the country, most of them huge and showy.

Not satisfied with Mr. Bones and Mr. Tambo, Haverly's Mastodon Minstrels had so many end-men, they took turns in relays. The entertainment also strayed farther and farther from the traditional beginnings. Trained dogs, acrobats, contortionists, bicycle trick riders, and a wide-ranging list of other acts became regular features. The once-reigning king of entertainment had, through the decades of its popularity, transformed into the very forms of entertainment that would eventually bury it.

The finishing blows to the minstrel show, were dealt by several competitors. As vaudeville, burlesque, and musical comedy began to grow stronger, they could offer higher salaries to the minstrel show stars, and lure them away. The minstrel shows, with their expensive stage settings and elaborate costumes, were simply becoming too costly to compete. The Al G. Field Minstrels, for example, were spending thousands of dollars each year on scenery and often over ten thousand for the wardrobe. As the minstrel craze slowly died away, only the smaller theaters were interested in hiring them, and they couldn't pay enough to support the huge companies. Vaudeville and burlesque were offering the same type of entertainment with a lot less expense to the owners.

Many of the true minstrel fans had long since turned away anyway. As one critic put it, since the Civil War, the pure tunes and truthful imitations had turned into "Punch and Judy costumes," "stale newspaper jokes," and "mere foolishness and unmeaning cackle." Many of the minstrel acts and performers joined variety shows and kept the old-time blackface performer alive. Later, artists like Al Jolson and Eddie Cantor would remind theatergoers of the glory days of the great minstrel shows. Black performers later entered the minstrel field, and curiously enough, usually wore blackface makeup.

One by one, the great "marble palaces" and majestic minstrel opera houses changed their venue to the more "up-to-date" variety shows and reviews. The minstrel companies wouldn't be using their dressing rooms to apply their burnt-cork makeup and practice their latest banjo numbers. As they packed away their polished bones and tambourines, some critics threw their hands up in joy, that the "mere foolishness and unmeaning cackle" had finally stopped. Other people, however, would carry warm memories of the unique entertainment that helped them forget the hard times and the bitter war for a few hours of good music and bad jokes.

Years later, the stars of vaudeville, musical comedy, and the silver screen, would thumb through the history books, and gaze with mild curiosity at pictures of minstrel showmen. They would be unaware that the oddly dressed white men smiling out through outlandish black faces, had made many of the footprints that they had followed to success. They wouldn't know that the sophisticated soft-shoe they proudly danced to stardom, or the sparkling variety acts that shot them into the spotlight, had taken root between Mr. Tambo and Mr. Bones - somewhere in a small-town opera house, amidst the pounding of the sheepskin and the rattling of the bones.
MIRACLES, MIDWAYS AND MOUSE EARS

The Rise and Fall...and Rise

of the Amusement Park

Chicago had tossed back its proud shoulders, dusted off its stately features, and opened its doors to the world. The world, unfortunately, was simply not impressed. The disappointed Mid-westerners felt the bitter sting of shame as their huge Columbian Exposition opened with many of the buildings unfinished, and most of the exhibits not even in place. They had swallowed hard as they read the biting headlines of an Eastern newspaper, which read, "Fair Not Ready and No Use Finishing It." It looked as if their great exposition might go down in the history books as a multi-million dollar fiasco.

Apparently the critics from the Northeastern states had been right. They had predicted Chicago wouldn't be able to pull off a world's fair. After all, Midwesterners simply weren't as sophisticated and experienced as their eastern neighbors. It seemed clear that congress had made a major mistake in approving Chicago as the site for such an important world-class celebration. Yet as the eastern critics wrote off the Columbian Exposition of 1893 as a monumental failure, they had forgotten one important fact. This was the same city that had nearly burned to the ground just twenty-two years before. And somehow, it had dusted off the ashes and stood up again - tall, proud, and even stronger.

Despite the bitter headlines and the resulting small attendance, the fair's organizers fought back their disappointment, rolled up their sleeves, and kept going. They knew they wouldn't be able to save the exposition by merely hoping. It would take a lot of hard work, just as it had when they had raised the city from the ashes. As they glumly looked around the unfinished project and read the hostile reviews, they also realized it would take something else...a miracle.

That miracle, fortunately, was growing steadily under the watchful eye of a dreamer with "wheels in his head." The exposition organizers had originally intended to erect a huge tower to overlook their fair. They wanted a structure that would rival the Eiffel Tower, which had become so famous during the exposition in Paris. In fact they had even signed a contract for a five hundred and sixty-foot tower. The builder, however, couldn't raise the capital for the project.

The disappointed fair officials fell back on another offer. An engineer named George Washington Gale Ferris had submitted a plan to build, instead of a tower, a huge amusement wheel. His scheme had sounded a little crazy - a massive structure that would carry hundreds of people in a huge circle reaching over two hundred feet in the air. But, maybe it would take a little "craziness" to solve a problem this tough. Because the contract was signed late, it would be impossible for Ferris to complete the project by the opening date. In fact, when the agreement was signed, on December 29, 1882, the more than two million pounds of steel the massive project would require, was still in raw pig iron form.

By the first of May the next year, when the fair opened, Ferris still had at least three-month's work left. But by pushing ahead and working long hours alongside his crew, he had the massive wheel ready for action in less than six weeks. Ferris was out of town when it was first tested. but he had complete trust in his workers. He had given them the order to "turn it or tear 'er off the towers." As they peered up at the huge wheel, which could carry thirteen hundred and sixty-eight passengers, they likely said a silent prayer that it wouldn't "tear off the towers."

The giant structure had already attracted a lot of attention as visitors surveyed the thirty-six cars attached around the rim. Each one was as large as a streetcar, and could accommodate thirty-eight riders. Steam power was pumped in through ten-inch steel pipes from a boiler house located seven hundred feet outside the fair grounds. Could the steam actually turn the massive thirteen hundred ton wheel? In an instant, the question was answered. On command, the mighty engine puffed, the flywheels slowly turned, and the great wheel began to rotate! As the shining structure was set in motion, thousands of visitors focused their gazes skyward. Musicians stopped in mid-note to follow the wheel's giant circle. Lions stood alongside their trainers, peering up toward the gleaming steel marvel.

For months, the motionless giant had merely been a subject of curiosity. "Would it work?" "How could it move?" "Just what was it, anyway?" Now, as it continued its massive orbit, it was obvious what the huge "Ferris Wheel" was...the miracle Chicago had been waiting for. On June 11th, John Ferris blew a golden whistle and officially started the rotation of the great wheel. It would continue to thrill hundreds of thousands of riders until the end of the fair that October. As news of the huge wheel lured visitors from all directions, they swarmed among the now-completed exhibitions and attractions.

The steady revolutions of the huge wheel, combined with the frenzied gyrations of the fair's star attraction - "Little Egypt," would eventually transform the event into a colossal success. In fact, the World's Columbian Exposition, which had gotten off to such a shaky start, is considered by many to have been the most successful exposition in history. It not only showed the world that Chicago was a success; it also set the stage for another type of entertainment scene. During the building of the exposition, independent showmen came to the city to set up their acts and exhibits on vacant lots near the fairgrounds.

They set up, not to join the fair, but to entertain the thousands of construction workers who milled around the area after their workday was over. When the fair opened, many of them remained, setting up just outside the entrance. This was the first time a group of independent show people had played on the same lot for so long a time. Inside the fair was another innovation - the "midway plaisance." It was a long pathway running between forty-some booths and performance platforms. As the visitors entered the area, they strolled through an Egyptian temple, a model of the Eiffel Tower, a street in Cairo, Persian art glass spinners and a host of other attractions.

The gathering of independent show people outside the gate, and the midway Plaisance or "midway" inside, would mark the beginning of the concept of "collective amusement." They would serve as the blueprints for the great amusement parks and carnivals that would someday cover the country with raucous thrills and blazing lights. Although they hadn't yet been mixed together, the ingredients that were combined to create the carnivals and amusement parks, had been around for years...just waiting to be blended into a unique mixture of sights, sounds, and smells.

One of these, the carousel, had not always been a light-hearted carnival novelty. Ironically, it evolved from war game equipment used in Europe to train young lords in the art of equestrian skills and lance handling. During the 17th century, the young noblemen would mount primitive wooden horses attached to the spokes of a huge wheel. As servants rotated the wheel, the riders would attempt to spear rings with short lances. Reaching for the brass ring on a carousel may have developed from that practice.

The roller coaster also has roots reaching back to the 17th century. Sledders in St. Petersburg, Russia raced down a 70-foot tall snow-packed slope on small sleds. Since the sport was quite dangerous, a guide actually controlled the sled while the passenger sat in his lap. In 1804, the first wheeled roller coaster was built in Paris and was named the "Russian Mountains" after the St. Petersburg attraction. Several small carriages rolled along a track on an artificial hill made of timber. Although the new ride was popular, the fad died away after a few years.

Later, in the mid-eighteen hundreds, the roller coaster appeared in America. The American version was actually modeled after a system designed to carry mules downhill in a Pennsylvanian coal mine. The mules would carry empty cars up the hill to be loaded with coal and propelled down by gravity. A track system was designed to bring the mules back downhill in a special car. After the system was abandon in 1870, several enterprising businessmen converted it into a tourist sightseeing vehicle. The cars were hauled to the top of the mountain by a steam engine. For a five-cent fee, tourists could take a gravity-powered ride back down the mountain.

It would be a long step from the "war game horses" and the "mule train" to the massive amusement parks that would someday stretch across the nation. But as the individual showmen gathered outside the World's Columbian Exposition gate, and the sightseers swarmed around the midway inside, that step was getting closer and closer. The showmen had grown so used to traveling alone, or with only their family, that it seldom occurred to them that they might do better if they banned together. For years, they had trudged over the lonely dirt roads from one little village to the next. The only company they might have would be the dancing monkey or the den of snakes that accompanied them.

Often they would carry a piece of canvas to make a crude wall around their act. Their "stage" was simply the ground enclosed by the little wall. This type of presentation became known as a "pit show." Usually a canvas banner hung on a pole to describe the attraction. Outside the little pit area, the showman or a member of his family sold tickets and worked the "bally," not yet called a "ballyhoo." The "bally" was usually some kind of a noise-maker, a magic trick or anything else that would draw the crowd's attention until the showman could lure them inside the little canvas booth with his spiel.

As the pit showmen began to notice the success of the Chicago exposition, an idea began to materialize. Most of them had already discovered individually that they could find a ready-made audience in a festive mood at town picnics and other local celebrations. If independent showmen could work so well together at the exposition, why couldn't they join up and travel together to these celebrations? In fact, the concept had already worked for European showmen many years before. As early as the 1600's, records show that London's Bartholomew Fair began to attract independent entertainers. The fair had already been in existence for hundreds of years as a church-sponsored event where traders peddled their wares.

As the centuries rolled by, jugglers, puppeteers and other entertainers added their special touch to the fair. By the 18th century, the entertainers had overtaken the peddlers. The fair's 1828 receipts, for instance, listed such attractions as a Chinese juggler, a "fat boy and girl" and a "Pig-faced lady." In addition, the fair's organizers had begun to erect "a multitude of lamps" to entice the customers. Little by little, the fair was taking on the trappings that would eventually become standard elements of the great amusement parks that would follow.

In Vienna in 1766, King Joseph II opened his former hunting grounds to the public as a park. The area was known as the Prater, and shortly after it was opened, the king permitted the building of tents and booths for entertainment and refreshments. Hand-driven carousels and large swings with decorated chairs added to the atmosphere. A small "up-and-down," the forerunner of the Ferris wheel, also graced the scene. When the first Austrian railroad was built in 1823, the public had little use for the "metal monstrosity." Its clever developer, however, arranged to have the track of the experimental railroad built in and around the Prater. The visitors, viewing it as another of the park's rides, began to line up for the new attraction.

As American showmen thought about the European parks and Chicago's exposition, there was no question about it - the time had come for America's independent showmen to band together and present their acts and displays as a team. Wherever they gathered during and after the World's Columbian Exposition, they discussed the idea.

Otto Schmidt, a German scenic artist, often joined their groups, listening intently to their discussions. He agreed that the concept of teaming up seemed logical. The only drawback would be the cost involved in organizing and transporting a company of showmen and all their equipment. Although Schmidt was a quiet unassuming type, he apparently had excellent persuasive skills. He worked for a local theater and managed to persuade the theater's former owner to subsidize an experimental "traveling midway." Schmidt gathered the supplies and signed on the independent show people needed to open the next summer in Toledo, Ohio. Following that show date, they headed for St. Louis. Having some success there, the traveling midway separated into two sections, one heading to the Southeast and the other into Texas. Their plan was to join up in New Orleans for a big show. Unfortunately, the "big show" never transpired. One troupe broke up along the way, and the other dragged into New Orleans, dead broke.

Undaunted, Schmidt again approached his financial backer and asked for thirty-five thousand dollars more to stake a new show. Once again his friend came through. So they regrouped under the official name of the "Chicago Midway Plaisance Amusement Company" and left for the 1895 New York State Fair at Syracuse. They loaded their equipment on railroad flatcars, and headed out - bound for success. Unfortunately, although Schmidt had excellent skills in the area of persuasion, his basic organizational abilities seemed a little lacking. Their equipment was not stored in wagons on the railroad flatcars, but according to written accounts, was simply "piled onto those flatcars like so much loose hay." The train had to make regular stops to recover equipment blown off as they traveled.

Sadly, the show itself didn't fare much better than the equipment. After several unsuccessful dates, Schmidt's financial backer decided to close the operation and salvage what was left of his investment. One of the problems Schmidt encountered was the expense of setting up at each fair. When they arrived, they would hire local carpenters to build the midway from scratch. Not only was this costly, but the troupe had to lay off for at least a week during the construction.

It would be four more years before this problem would be resolved. An Ohio hotelkeeper, Frank W. Gaskill, organized "Gaskill's Canton Carnival Company" in 1899. Gaskill decided to send one of the show's builders ahead to the next show date, a week before the company arrived. He would recruit local carpenters to build the midway, and then supervise their work. By the time the carnival company arrived, the midway was ready for action.

Gaskill's concept worked. The show made money all along its twenty-two week circuit which began in Cillicothe, Ohio and ended in Savannah, Georgia. Since Schmidt's attempt didn't last a full season and had to closed intermittently during building, Gaskill has been given the credit for creating the nation's first successful traveling carnival. As the visitor walked along Gaskill's midway, he encountered a "Wild Man of Borneo," an Oriental theater, wild animal shows and an exhibit called the "Streets of India."

High above them, an acrobat perched on a revolving ball descending from a spiral tower as fireworks burst over his head. A shooting gallery attracted the young men who wanted to exhibit their marksmanship to their dates. Later, the young ladies would likely drag the "marksmen" into the tin-type photo gallery for a souvenir photograph. Topped off with a six-piece band, Gaskill's 1899 midway was taking on the sights and sounds of the carnivals that would entertain millions of Americans during the next century.

It wouldn't take long for other independent showmen to follow Gaskill's lead. Just four years later, in 1903, twenty-two traveling carnivals toured the circuit. Not all the news from the troupes out on the road was good, however. The press reported, for instance, that Johnny Jones' Carnival company had run into a little bad luck. Ali Baba, the Hindu Sword Swallower almost bled to death when he had to cough before he could remove the sword from his throat. And their high-wire walker was being attacked by pigeons because his wire was attached to a building where the birds were trying to nest. Nevertheless, it was clear - the traveling carnival was here to stay.

While Schmidt, Gaskill and the others took to the road with their amusement companies, some showmen remembered the success of the stationary European amusement parks. Why couldn't America have its own version of London's Bartholomew Fair or Vienna's Prater? New Yorker, George C. Tilyou, set out to answer that question. He had visited the World's Columbian Exposition on his honeymoon and had been so impressed with the Ferris Wheel; he offered to buy it when the fair closed. Although he never obtained it, he ordered a smaller version built on some property he owned on a little island near New York City. The rustic island was already known as a getaway retreat for the city-dwellers. It was named Coney Island, after "Konijn," the Dutch word for "rabbit." When the early Dutch immigrants had settled the island, thousands of rabbits roamed its sand dunes.

During the mid-eighteen hundreds, horse-drawn streetcars began to bring visitors from Brooklyn to Coney Island. By 1875, Andrew Culver's Prospect Park & Coney Island Railroad brought in tourists by the thousands. In 1895, Paul Boyton opened a small but successful amusement area named Sea Lion Park on the island, and had shown Tilyou that the sightseers were willing to pay for a good time. Sea Lion Park had also demonstrated something else.

It was an enclosed park with an admission fee. This concept help to exclude the unsavory collection of con artists and rowdies who often roamed the beach. Tilyou had an understanding of the visitor's need for relaxation and fun. "We Americans," he once said, "want either to be thrilled or amused, and we are ready to pay well for either sensation." With this belief in mind, he built Steeplechase Park in 1897. Charging twenty-five cents to enter the fifteen-acre park, he provided a getaway where visitors could leave everyday pressures behind and become children again. As the guests entered the park, they would pass by a huge emblem of a devilish-looking jester with a massive thirty-three tooth grin. The entrance was a ten-by-thirty foot revolving wooden drum that often knocked the visitors off their feet. Once inside they found the main attraction, which gave the park its name. Eight wooden horses raced along a curving track to the finish line. The double-saddled horses presented an ideal way for a young couple to get cozy on a cool evening.

As the guests explored the park, they found such attractions as the Human Roulette Wheel, the Whirlpool, and the Human Pool Table, all designed to toss them around in dizzying circles. Distortion mirrors evoked chuckles, while unexpected puffs of wind lifted skirts in the air and produced blushing giggles. Tilyou later added a cyclorama show, based on a attraction he had experienced at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York. The "Trip to the Moon" took visitors on a fantasy ride to the moon. As they disembarked among the caverns and craters, they encountered giants and midgets, as well as moon maidens who handed out green cheese.

Steeplechase Park, with its moon maidens, wild rides and all the rest, was a roaring success. Tilyou had shown the country that Americans would indeed pay to be thrilled and amused. His firm belief in the project was demonstrated in 1907, when the park burned to the ground. The next day he posted a sign promising a "bigger, better Steeplechase Park." Always the entrepreneur, he added, "Admission to the Burning Ruins - ten-cents.

Not only would Tilyou rebuild Steeplechase, but in 1903 another huge park added to Coney Island's fame. The glittering bustling "Luna Park" was an architectural marvel. Its turrets, spires, crescents and whirling pinwheels were illuminated by a quarter of a million lights. Luna's creators, Frederic Thompson and Skip Dundy, added another ingredient to America's amusement park recipe. They included live entertainment shows. Aware that their visitor's attention spans wouldn't tolerate long performances, they developed brief sensational acts. A herd of show elephants gave a short performance which climaxed with a slide down the shoot-the-chutes. A four-story apartment building regularly burst into flames as firemen rushed to save the victims from the blazing inferno. Mt. Vesuvius erupted routinely, sending its molten lava pouring down on the poor citizens of Pompeii.

In 1907 Russian writer, Maxim Gorky, visited the park and wrote an emotional description. In his words, the park "...rocks and roars and bellows and turns the heads of the people." At night, he reported, "A fantastic city all of fire suddenly rises from the ocean into the sky." Despite his moving description of the "fantastic city," he was apparently not as impressed with the whirling rides and the sensational acts. "if people come here to be amused," he added, "I have no faith in their sanity."

Set amidst the bright lights and glitter was one of the most unusual attractions any amusement park has ever offered. From 1904 until 1943, the park exhibited a miniature "hospital" of premature babies in incubators. Dr. Martin Arthur Couney had developed the first mechanical baby incubator, in the 1890's. Despite his faith that the invention was a lifesaver, he had little success in attracting either interest or funding from his medical colleagues. In response to the universal apathy toward his creation, he began to exhibit the new device at international exhibitions. Although he still couldn't interest the medical world, he caught the attention of Thompson and Dundy who offered to pay him to bring his exhibit into Luna Park.

Rather than simply display the incubators, Dr. Couney set up a miniature hospital in the park, complete with premature babies brought to him by desperate mothers who had heard of his invention. As visitors purchased a 20-cent ticket and entered the display, a lecturer would educate them on the technical details of the machines. A system of hot-water pipes regulated by a thermostat kept the temperature constant, while fresh air was pulled in through a pipe rising high above the building. That air was then run through a triple filter system to remove impurities.

Despite a community uproar over the idea of a "premature baby sideshow" at Coney Island, the medical profession realized his techniques and standards of care were sound. The American Medical Association eventually sanctioned the little hospital. Couney, in fact, was not only a dedicated professional himself, but demanded the same devotion from his staff. If, for instance one of the wet nurses who breast-fed the babies was caught eating any of the junk food in the park, such as hot dogs or cotton candy, she was fired. During the decades that the little "sideshow hospital" inhabited Luna Park, over 6,500 babies were saved. For years to come, many of Dr. Couney's graduates would hold reunions at Coney Island. Despite the continued interest in the babies, attendance at the park began to drop. After Dundy and Thompson died, a group of investors took over operations but refused to spend the money needed for upkeep. In 1946 the crumbling park was destroyed by fire.

A third large enclosed park was built on Coney Island in 1904. Built a year after Luna, the park, "Dreamland" was designed to outshine both Steeplechase and Luna. Built at a cost of 3.5 million dollars, its 375-foot beacon tower rose high above Luna's spires. Rather than Luna's quarter of a million lights, Dreamland sported a million. Competing with Luna's four-story apartment fire, Dreamland's spectacular "Fighting the Flames" show employed four thousand characters. Three hundred midgets inhabited its "Lilliputian Village."

In addition to making the buildings and exhibits larger and showier, Dreamland's developers decided to imbue the park with an atmosphere of culture. All of the columns and statuary in the park were painted a pure white. The first chapter of Genesis was recreated inside the park, five times a day. Youngsters wearing white college gowns and mortarboards operated the ticket booths and many of the concessions. Unfortunately, as many others have discovered throughout the years, the public is usually not as interested in culture as in fun and excitement.

The gate receipts dwindled and visitors turned back to Luna and Steeplechase for their Coney Island getaways. Like Luna, Dreamland went up in flames, leaving only a memory of the "cultural fantasy park" that had once lit the Coney Island nights with a million lights. By the time the fires blazed through Coney Island's parks, however, the concept had already sparked the imagination of showmen across the country. In the early 1900's, amusement parks began to spring up everywhere. New Jersey built Palisades Park. Philadelphia designed Willow Grove Park. Euclid Beach Park was constructed in Cleveland. All across the nation, Americans were discovering a new entertainment sensation.

By 1919, between 1,500 and 2,000 amusement parks graced the nation. Most of them followed the Coney Island model, hosting a roller coaster, Ferris wheel, carousel, fireworks displays and live music and shows. The parks were often built at the end of a trolley car route, to encourage riders to take the street railways. New Jersey's Olympic Park was billed as "The Classiest Family Resort in America" and required visitors to wear their Sunday best. The park featured an electric merry-go-round and phenomenal fireworks displays. The dance marathon was first staged at the park, with one of the marathons emceed by the young Red Skelton.

Riverview Park in Chicago became known worldwide for its "scream machine" roller coasters. In the 1920's it was recognized as the "world's largest amusement park" and was served by four streetcar lines. At one point in its history, Riverview contained eleven roller coasters. The Chicago building code limited the height of the tracks to 72-feet. When the "Blue Streak" coaster was created, however, the designers simply built part of it underground so the structure wouldn't exceed the 72-foot limit, but the thrill-seeking riders would feel the exhilaration of a 90-foot drop. Sandusky, Ohio's Cedar Point amusement park provided continuous vaudeville acts along with its rides and other attractions. The park's creator, Georgia A. Boeckling, was a natural showman. He imported a tribe of Philippine natives to give regular performances. To give the natives a touch of the mysterious, they were always introduced as "headhunters."

Although Cedar Point, Riverview, and some of the other large successful parks would continue to thrive into the 1960's, by the early 1920's, most of the parks began a slow decline. The coasters and carousels and the rest had lost some of their original sparkle. Also, the automobile was beginning to take the former amusement park fans off to other competing vacation getaways. Many parks that had held on through the 20's and 30's, crumbled during the 40's and 50's. Television was beginning to pull many of the remaining park-goers back into their living rooms for an evening of free entertainment. As the more affluent city-dwellers left the decaying inner cities for the suburbs, the deteriorating parks fell to ever-increasing crime and violence. It looked as though the once-glorious fantasy parks with their blazing lights and captivating sounds would simply fade into the history books.

Although a scattered few amusement parks remained wholesome and crime-free, far too many had deteriorated both in the people who attended and the ones who ran the rides and shows. It had been an unwritten rule in the many of the early parks, that the guests would wear suits and ties or "Sunday dresses." And of course, they were expected to display proper manners at all times. As the parks crumbled, however, those who still frequented them often had more interest in causing trouble than in having fun. If the amusement park were to survive, it would definitely need to clean up its act. It would have to once again become a safe haven for wholesome fun. Also, in order to be competitive with the more modern entertainment forms, the amusement park needed to offer something distinctive. The age-old roller coasters and distortion mirrors had been around for so long, they had grown commonplace.

Like many other park visitors in the 1950's, a discontented guest sat on a bench in a deteriorating park and glumly observed the shabby peeling paint and the timeworn rides. As he watched the ill-mannered antics of the typical "carny-crowd," he thought about the same problems that thousands of others had contemplated before him. There was, however, something different about this visitor...he was destined to change it all. While his eyes were filled with broken-down rides and pushy workers, his mind began to envision sparkling clean attractions run by well-mannered hosts. And...what if, rather than simply building a clean safe version of the standard amusement park, someone could create one that focused on a specific theme? It would stand out from the rest and compete with the newer amusement forms.

So, sitting there on that bench, Walt Disney envisioned the future of the amusement park. It wasn't too difficult for him to come up with a theme since he had already helped give birth to a delightful cast of characters. They could jump off the drawing board and add the touch of fantasy the park would need. And it shouldn't be a problem attracting the public. After all, Mickey, Pluto, Donald, Goofy and the rest had already won the hearts of Americans. The problem, as Walt found out all too soon, would be in convincing the needed financial backers that his dream could succeed.

Walt soon cashed in an insurance policy to fund a field study of amusement parks around the nation and overseas. As he researched the various parks, he began to select particular ones that intrigued him. Greenfield Village, a historical park in Dearborn, Michigan seemed well run. In Copenhagen, Tivoli Gardens had impressed him with its relaxed well-organized operations. As he toured around looking at the existing parks, he gathered ideas for his own dream park. In 1952, he drew on his personal savings to hire a small group of designers to develop plans and models for the park. The "Imagineers," as he named them, set to work helping him establish some basic standards for the park. It would need wide walkways so guests could leisurely stroll through the area and there should be a huge custodial staff to make sure it was always spotless. There had to be plenty of food and entertainment and there must be attractions that were unique to that park.

As his Imagineers gradually built the park on paper and in clay models, Walt was becoming more and more anxious to build it in concrete and steel. In fact, the idea of creating the park became an obsession. He refused to even consider making any more pictures until he could get his new dream underway. Unfortunately, not everyone around Walt shared his enthusiasm for this new dream park...especially his brother, Roy. He was a partner in Disney studios, and had some influence with their financial backers. Unlike Walt, with his obsessive belief in his new vision, Roy was extremely apprehensive. He felt they were doing well as a film studio, and shouldn't gamble on something unfamiliar. His fears even lead him to circulate a false story in the business community that the banks were against the idea of the park.

His scheme worked. When each individual backer heard that all the banks were against the idea, one by one, they gave Walt's request for a loan, a sympathetic, but firm "No." It wasn't long before Walt discovered the reason for their reactions. When he found that Roy had undermined his vision, he became even more committed to the project. He refused to even talk to his brother, and they communicated solely through each other's secretaries or wives. Since it was obvious that Roy would continue to hinder his attempts to commit Disney Studio's time and money to the project, Walt developed a separate company to take control of the affairs of his dream park, which he had now decided should bear the name of Disneyland. As he desperately looked for sources of funding, he turned toward the young entertainment medium he had previously decided was too amateurish to deal with - television. He remembered that an immature television network, the American Broadcasting Company, had previously made substantial offers to air Disney movies and cartoons. However, it was a common Hollywood policy not to sell movies to television, and Walt himself felt the picture quality wasn't sufficient to broadcast his cartoons.

But what about films created, not to show in movies, but made specifically for television? This would neither violate the Hollywood ban, nor effect any of his existing productions. So he set about developing a new television show. He bought the rights to some stories about a masked Mexican bandit. Both Douglas Fairbanks and Tyrone Power previously had success playing the character in full-length movies. Maybe this new bandit-hero, named Zorro, could help him raise money for his dream.

Despite Roy's reluctance toward Walt's Disneyland dream, the idea of moving into television intrigued him. He offered to help Walt promote it to the New York television networks. Walt accepted his offer and sent Roy off with information about his new TV show idea, along with a pamphlet promoting Disneyland, which Roy reluctantly agreed to show the television executives. Both the NBC and CBS officials liked the Zorro concept but insisted on seeing a pilot film.

When one of the CBS sponsors said he simply had to see a pilot before agreeing to any deal, Roy firmly explained, "Walt doesn't do pilots. Never has. Says he never will." Then he added, "You know our track record. You'll have to judge us on that and the draft scripts."

"TV doesn't work that way," the sponsor replied. "No pilot, no sponsorship."

The NBC executives and sponsors had the same reaction. Walt's stubborn refusal to produce a film pilot seemed as if it would kill his dream before it got off the drawing board. Then one morning, he received a call from a TV vice president named Kintner, from ABC.

"Walt, I hear you need money to build your fairground," he told him. He explained that if Walt would let them put Mickey Mouse on ABC and join together for Disney television shows, he would guarantee a three million dollar loan.

Walt's immediate response was not exactly delight. "For God's sake," he blurted, "how many times do I have to tell people it's a leisure park, not a fairground!" Then, when Walt found out Kintner worked for the newly formed ABC network he was even less responsive. ABC was, in Walt's opinion, "The peanuts network." He explained that they were simply to new and too small to help him out. Unruffled, Kintner persevered. "Give us Mickey Mouse, Walt, plus the Disney name," he offered, "and I guarantee that within two years we'll be one of the big three." Upping the offer to a half a million in cash and a four-and a-half million-dollar loan guarantee, Walt made an agreement on the spot. If this little "peanuts network" could actually come through with their end of the bargain, it looked as if his Disneyland dream might actually materialize.

Not only did the agreement start Walt's park on the road to reality, but as Kintner had predicted, ABC, with the help of Walt, Mickey, Zorro and the rest, became a major television network within the space of a few short months. Now that Walt had the funding, there was no slowing his dream. His early plans called for such attractions as a True-Life Adventureland, Rivers of Romance, World of Tomorrow, Lilliputianland and a Spaceship to the Moon. As he and his Imagineers refined his visions, a fantasy world slowly began to take shape. It was a developing a form that was definitely linked to the early amusement parks, but, as Walt had envisioned, had a unique personality. By opening day, July 17, 1955, he was ready to show the world his new brainchild...well he was sort of ready. Actually, as he proudly stood in front of the live television cameras, concrete was still being poured and the asphalt on some of the streets was still steaming. In fact, the grand opening of his wonderful dream was not exactly the fantasyland he had hoped for. As ladies walked across the sections of newly poured asphalt they left behind high-heeled shoes, stuck in the road. Because of a plumber's strike, there were not enough water fountains and thousands of grumbling guests were convinced that this was Walt's greedy plan to sell more soft drinks. The riverboat, Mark Twain, very nearly capsized during its overloaded maiden voyage. And to top it off, Fess Parker, Disney's popular Davy Crockett, made a highly publicized grand entrance just as the automatic sprinklers suddenly came to life and soaked him to the skin.

Somehow though, Walt and his Imagineers persevered. Throughout the following months, they constantly modified their ideas to fit reality. Walt, for example, had originally wanted to stock live animals throughout his jungle cruise. Zoologists, however, convinced him that the animals would likely sleep during most the park's operating hours. As a concession, he used animated animals, but did rent several live alligators from an attraction near Knott's Berry Farm. He caged them in chicken-wire pens near the Jungle Cruise entrance to impress the guests waiting in line.

In a sense, Walt still got his wish to have live animals in the attraction because, more than once, one of the reptiles broke out of the pen and slinked into the attraction's lagoon. When this happened, the alligator farm's handler was summoned to lure his gator back into the cage. In the meantime, however, the divers who regularly needed to jump in the water to dislodge a boat that had become stuck on its track, likely did so in record time.

Once Walt had ironed out the problems with the sprinklers, the gators, and the rest, it was becoming clear that his new vision of the old amusement park was a winner. Within six months of the opening, over a million guests had entered his "magic kingdom." Less than ten years later, the 50-millionth visitor crossed through the gates. Walt had definitely discovered the key to success - keep the park clean, fill it with courteous workers, offer the guests plenty of food and fun and give it a theme to make it unique.

As others recognized the value of his vision, they would eventually transform the face of the American amusement park. Using Disneyland as a blueprint, they built safe clean parks filled with distinguishing settings, like pirate's islands or western ghost towns. As Walt stood back, surveying the lighthearted crowd of fun-seekers who strolled through his dream, he probably reflected upon the pitfalls and obstacles he had to cross before completing it. Very likely he had the same feeling that Ferris and the rest of the World's Columbian Exposition organizers felt as they eyed the teeming throngs who finally attended their great fair. Getting Americans to relax and enjoy themselves is hard work!
MYSTIC MERMAIDS AND THE

"MARVELOUS CHERRIE BURNHAM"

When Museums Mixed Science With Showmanship

It was simply a dusty little brick lying there on the sidewalk. There was no reason it should attract the rapt attention of so many curious bystanders. Yet this one, on the corner of New York's Ann Street and Broadway, like the bricks on the other corners of the little intersection, had become the subject of a lively controversy. As St. Paul's Chapel's clock tower marked his progress, a mysterious "brick man" kept to his solitary task. He looked at no one. He answered no questions. With a deliberate, almost military air, he picked up a brick from one corner, walked to the next and replaced it with the one he was carrying in his hand. Pacing rapidly toward the next corner, he set that brick down, and picked up the one he had previously placed there. Corner-by-corner, minute-by-minute, he continued his relentless task.

As the time wore on, one person, then another, stopped dead in his tracks and stared at him with wonder. What on earth possessed this maniacal man? What inexplicable puzzle was he working on? First two or three stopped and scratched their heads in amazement...then a dozen...a hundred...and more. Eventually a crowd of over five hundred observers watched his every move, whispering possible explanations to each other. Then in a split-second, the buzzing of the crowd was silenced. The tower clock struck the top of the hour. As if controlled by the clock's chimes, the brick man suddenly stopped his incessant movement. For the first time in forty-five minutes, he turned away from his task. Then, with a brick still in his hand, he walked directly through the entrance of a nearby building.

Most of the amateur sleuths simply shook their heads and went about their business. A dozen or more however, bought a ticket and followed the mystery man into the building. Once inside the building, they surveyed the brick man's every move. He slowly walked up and down the isles of the building \- a large museum - holding the brick calmly at his side. Then his behavior suddenly altered - much as it had when the clock tower struck the hour. This was it! They knew they were on the verge of discovery. The secret of the mystery man would soon be revealed. And so it was. As the cluster of cagey observers huddled together to share the moment of discovery, the brick man calmly strolled out the back door of the museum. As their brows wrinkled and their perplexed heads shook from side to side, something gradually dawned on them. Every last one of them had plunked down twenty-five cents of his hard-earned cash to buy a ticket for a museum he had no intention of visiting.

Outside, a small crowd had once again begun to gather. With curious gazes and hushed tones, they speculated on the odd behavior of a man who walked from corner to corner, replacing one brick with another brick. Was he mad? Was he controlled by secret powers? Were his actions governed by the mysterious clock tower? No, not really. They were governed by his boss, Phineas T. Barnum. After all, if the "brick man" wanted his salary at the end of the day, he had better start his next "brick route." In another 45-minutes, it would once again be time to lead another batch of suckers into Barnum's American Museum.

Those "suckers," after realizing they had been had by Phineas, likely shook off their initial indignation and decided to enjoy the museum. That, of course, was precisely Barnum's plan. He knew that a visit to the local museum was not everyone's idea of the best way to spend an afternoon. After all, many of America's early museums were pretty dreary little establishments. Often crowded with dusty stuffed animals, sterile mineral collections, and indiscriminate stacks of native spears and arrows, there wasn't always a lot to catch the attention. Barnum however, had decided to change all that.

"It was my monomania," he once said, "to make the museum the town wonder and town talk." This "monomania" had begun to overcome him at the age of thirty-two. Working in New York, writing newspaper articles and advertisements, he learned that John Scudder's American Museum was for sale. The museum by that time, 1840, was the most popular in New York City. Barnum had visited it many times, and had longed for years to run it. It was already relatively popular. He knew however, that with the addition of his special touch, it could become a gold mine. Unfortunately this special touch was about all Barnum had to offer for the museum.

He just couldn't let his dreams die. Somehow he had to have that museum. Through the years, it had turned into the ideal business for him - a wild mixture of sideshow entertainment and bizarre curiosities, placed in among the more commonplace museum pieces. Soon after it opened in 1790, the museum had begun to veer from its owner's original design - of a cultural center. Its creators, John Pintard and Gardiner Baker, had dreamed of setting up a permanent display to spread culture and education throughout the city. Pintard said he wanted to acquire "all that could be found of Indian literature in war-songs, hieroglyphic writings on stone, bark, skins, etc." Baker became the museum's keeper, and enthusiastically set about gathering curiosities to fulfill that dream.

It wasn't long however, before the dream began to fade. Pintard felt the museum was turning into more of a collection of odd curios than a cultural exhibition. Disgusted, he sold his rights to the museum to Baker. As the years rolled by, the museum was transferred from one owner to another. One of the owners hired a naturalist named John Scudder to work with the animal and mineral exhibits. Scudder later bought the museum exhibits himself. During the next few years, he added a lecture hall, a large forest scene, and display cases for thousands of specimens. For the first time in years, the museum began to attract crowds. As visitors walked through the displays, a brass band played in the background.

That brass band seemed set the stage for the museum's future. Through the next few years, more and more show-manship entered into the picture. After Scudder's death in 1821, the side show novelties began to overshadow the cultural displays. The magicians, minstrels, mummies, and ventriloquists were simply bigger crowd-pleasers than the stuffed birds and mineral specimens. That situation would have mortified the museum's originators, but it suited Barnum just fine. He valued the cultural collections, but realized that sometimes a little showmanship was needed to pull in the crowds. Scudder's daughters had inherited the museum, and offered it for sale at fifteen thousand dollars. It might as well have been fifteen million as far as Barnum's bank account was concerned. He had however, some other riches at his disposal - his silver tongue and golden imagination. He simply had to convince the owner of the building where the museum was housed, that if he could only take over the failing enterprise, he could turn a profit.

Through a series of cunning maneuvers, Barnum was able to work his way into the position he had dreamed of. Suddenly he was no longer walking longingly through the halls of the American Museum, he was managing it! From the minute he got his hands on it, the museum began to take on shades of his personality. Only a simple sign with the words "American Museum" had promoted the museum before Barnum took over. This was simply not satisfactory. "There was no bustle or activity about the place," Phineas recalled. "The whole exterior was as dead as the skeletons and stuffed skins within."

To rectify this situation, Barnum draped the building in colorful flags and banners. He installed floodlights on the top of the building to throw beams of light up and down Broadway. Then he enhanced the "bustle and activity" by hiring a band to play on the front balcony and announced "Free Music for the Million." In typical Barnum fashion however, nothing was exactly free. "I took pains to select and maintain the poorest band I could find," Phineas reflected. "One whose discordant notes would drive the crowd into the Museum, out of earshot of my outside orchestra." Although history has attached Barnum's name to the circus, it was during his days at the American Museum that his promotional talents were in full bloom. One of the most famous of his early curiosities was brought to him in 1842 by Moses Kimball of the Boston Museum. Kimball had purchased a preserved specimen from a sailor whose father had bought it in Calcutta. The father had been convinced it was actually a mermaid discovered by Japanese sailors.

The odd little specimen looked like anything but a beautiful mermaid. It was only about three feet long, black and shriveled. Barnum privately thought it had likely been made in the orient, by deftly joining the upper half of a monkey with the lower half of a fish. He had read about similar objects being used in religious ceremonies. His suspicions however, he quietly kept to himself. He may not have been a believer in mermaids, but he was a definitely a believer in publicity. He realized this shriveled little specimen could provide a golden opportunity to make a name for his museum. As soon as he bought it, he set about the task of promoting his new-found treasure which he called the Fejee Mermaid. He began by writing letters for various friends in different states, to send to New York newspapers. Each of the letters casually mentioned that a Dr. Griffin of the Lyceum of Natural History in London, had recently visited that area.

A letter from Montgomery, Alabama appeared in the New York Herald. It discussed the good doctor's recent return from Pernambuco, with a marvelous specimen - a preserved mermaid! About a week later, a letter from Charleston, South Carolina told a similar story in another New York newspaper. Later, still a third paper printed a letter from Washington discussing the treasure, and mentioning the fact that the learned professor would soon be arriving in New York. A few days after the last letter, one of Barnum's employees, Levi Lyman, registered at a Philadelphia hotel, under the name of Dr. Griffin from Pernambuco and London. As he left the hotel, he casually asked the hotel-keeper if he might be interested in viewing a curiosity he had recently acquired. Displaying his new marvel, "Dr. Griffin" attracted the attention of several of the hotel keeper's friends as well. The next day the Philadelphia newspapers bore headlines about a marvelous scientific discovery - an actual preserved mermaid!

By the time he arrived in New York, the "Doctor" had a ready-made audience for his wondrous discovery. All that was left to do, was for Barnum to work his wonders with the local papers. He gave a different engraving of the mermaid (each just a tad embellished) to each of the New York papers. The engravings were no longer of any use to him, he explained. Despite his pleading, it seems that the esteemed Dr. Griffin had told him it would not be possible to exhibit the wonder anyplace but London. He was after all, an agent for London's Lyceum of Natural History. Disappointed, but magnanimous in his defeat, Barnum unselfishly gave the engravings to the newspaper editors (without letting them know he had given another one to each of the rival editors).

That Sunday, all the New York papers - right on Barnum's schedule - printed a picture of the mysterious mermaid. Suddenly the public was intrigued. The combination of the letters, and the pictures of this rare find, had the town buzzing.

Well...what could Dr. Griffin do? The "gentlemen of science" in New York were now insisting that he share a glimpse of this miracle. Reluctantly - in the name of science - he consented. He agreed to exhibit it "for one week only" at Concert Hall on Broadway. Barnum's strategy had worked flawlessly. Concert Hall was packed. And due to the overwhelming fascination of the American public, Dr. Griffin even agreed to continue the exhibition for an unlimited period at, coincidentally, Barnum's American Museum.

Like all of the other famous attractions that Barnum would promote throughout the years, the shriveled little black oddity helped him reach out and draw in people who otherwise would likely never have seen the inside of his museum. Of course, it also provided him with the opportunity to exercise his ever-present sense of humor. Barnum simply couldn't resist pulling a harmless joke on the public whenever the chance arose.

That chance arose one St. Patrick's Day, when a large crowd of Irish visitors had come to the museum. By noon, the place was so crowded that ticket sales stopped. A large crowd stood in line at the front entrance. Barnum was told that many of the Irish visitors had brought their dinner, and had no intention of leaving the museum for hours. Realizing that the line of potential customers would soon disperse if they couldn't get in, Barnum quickly went to work.

He ordered a sign painted, and placed on the rear door, reading: "To The Egress." One after another, the patrons headed out the door to view this newly publicized wonder. Was it a new breed of animal? Could it be a rare archaeological discovery? Their questions remained unanswered as they stood dejectedly looking back at a closed door that opened only from the inside. As paying customers took their place in the museum, the bewildered Irishmen were not yet aware that "Egress" was simply another word for "exit."

Despite his playfulness, Phineas always made sure his customers received a good measure of enjoyment before they left his museum. He added spice to the scientific exhibits, with a generous sprinkling of entertaining oddities. As the jugglers, albinos, automatons, Gypsies, giants, ventriloquists and "educated dogs" joined his cast, the boundaries of Barnum's American Museum were stretching. They had gone far beyond the initial "skeletons and stuffed skins." The boundaries of America's interest in museums as a whole were also stretching. The American Museum hadn't been the only early effort at creating permanent displays for the curious public. Even before the revolutionary war, the colony's radical viewpoint that "all men are created equal" made them question the European style of museum. At that time, the typical museums in France and England were not open to the general public. The British Museum in London for example, only allowed thirty visitors a day. Each of them had to apply for a permit long before their visit.

Two years before Paul Revere's midnight ride, a group called the Charleston Library Society founded the nation's first museum. With the goal of "promoting a Natural History of South Carolina," they began to collect acquisitions for their new creation. The first recorded object collected was "a drawing of the head of a bird." Unfortunately for the bird drawing and other subsequent acquisitions, a fire broke out during the Revolutionary War and destroyed the museum. By 1792 however, the fledgling museum found a new home in Charleston's courthouse, and was off and running again.

Meanwhile, in Philadelphia, an artist and naturalist named Charles Peale turned a wing of his home into a museum. Combining his interests, he displayed animal and mineral specimens as well as his collection of artwork. Printed on an admission ticket, the visitor would find that "The Birds and Beasts will teach thee!" The ticket would "Admit the Bearer to Peale's Museum, containing the wonderful works of NATURE and the curious works of ART." Included among the curious works of art were not only paintings of presidents and other famous Americans, but portraits of his family and friends. After all...it was his museum.

Through the years, Peale expanded his collections with such attractions as the petrified bones of a Mammoth, a "Jackall Dog," weapons from South-Sea islands, the feathers of a tropical bird from Tongataboo and a host of intriguing articles. Although his museum thrived for years, it began to decline after his death. Eventually the collection was broken up and sold to several other museums. In fact, Barnum eventually bought a good deal of Peale's collection for the American Museum.

One by one, museums sprung up across the nation until, by 1776, there were over two hundred. Not only were they becoming popular, they were also growing more professional. Visitors wanted to see well-organized exhibits, rather than indiscriminate displays of assorted oddities. The old rooms packed with dusty stuffed birds and miscellaneous minerals, just didn't meet the public's more sophisticated expectations. Wealthy art collectors were gathering paintings, and charging visitors to view them. Historical societies formed, and exhibited local curiosities. Several states established their own museums. As more and more state museums developed, the next logical step was for the country itself to consider creating a "national museum." The idea may have seemed logical, but the development of the country's museum wasn't exactly a smooth-sailing project.

The genesis of our country's museum was, oddly enough, not to come from within the country. James Smithson, the son of the Duke of Northumberland, left over a half a million dollars in his will, to the American government. His instructions were to use it to develop "an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men." Government officials were baffled. Why would an Englishman give a fortune to another country - especially for such an unusual purpose? In fact, when the executor of his affairs wrote America's Secretary of State to inform him of the gift, he voiced his opinion that Smithson must have "labored under some degree of mental aberration." The probable reason for this "aberration" would come to light later. Smithson had originally left his fortune to the Royal Society of London. However, the society later rejected several scientific papers he had submitted, so he changed his will.

Nevertheless, mental aberration or not, America now had a huge sum of money to build some type of establishment to increase and diffuse knowledge among men. The only problem was, everyone seemed to have a different idea of what that "establishment" should be. For ten years, government officials quibbled over details. They proposed everything from the development of a huge library to a series of normal schools. Some thought they should build a structure to house a collection of natural history specimens that had been stored in the U.S. Patent Office. As the arguments raged on, it began to look as if the best solution might be to give the money back to England. Fortunately, the decade of turmoil finally resulted in a decision and the nation built its own museum - the Smithsonian Institution.

As the Smithsonian joined the historical societies and state museums in their efforts to modernize and systematize their displays, another sort of museum didn't exactly share this trend toward sophistication. Taking his cue from Barnum, the "Dime Museum's" owner was perfectly happy to exhibit the Gypsies, giants, albinos and all the rest. The Dime museum - now just a distant memory - once furnished a retreat for hundreds of thousands of "less than elite" curiosity-seekers. Often tucked away on the shoddy side of the city, the Dime Museum enticed the "common man" like the more refined museums tempted the sophisticated taste.

The Dime Museum was usually split into two sections – a small theater, and an exhibit area known as "Curio Hall." Likely the most important part of the museum however, was the entrance. It was there that the museum needed to work its magic on the poor innocent soul who happened to be passing by. As he was peacefully walking along, with no intent of disposing of the dime jingling around in his pocket, he encountered a frenzy of multicolored banners and flags. Raucous automated music filled the air in front of the gaudy red and gold entrance.

And then it happens. Before he can turn away, his eyes fall on the promotional pictures along the museum's entrance. Caught up in their spell, he is lured a little closer. The portraits of the wonders waiting inside, gaze back at him. A towering giant - larger than he has ever known, glares down from his lofty stance. A "fat lady" of enormous dimensions smiles out to him. An attractive woman returns his gaze as her long flowing beard lays across her lap. Nature's most intriguing human oddities are beckoning him to continue down the hallway. They are all waiting for him, just on the other side of "one thin dime."

As the pictures, the music, and the glitter slowly break down his will power, the visitor trades his dime for a greasy yellow ticket (which has been reused several hundred times). Once inside the museum, he walks down a corridor lined with more pictures of the curiosities that await him. Then, finally he arrives at Curio Hall. Small stages and booths line the walls of the room, set against a bright red and yellow background. On the stages and in the booths, the characters pictured in the lobby have materialized in the flesh. In the transformation from pictures to people, they have changed a bit. The fat lady is not quite as massive and the giant doesn't tower exactly as high as the pictures depicted. Nevertheless, here it is \- a room full of human wonders!

As the visitor scans the room, a loud thumping suddenly draws his attention to a distinguished older man wearing a black frock-coat. "Behold," he cries out as he taps the floor with his gold-headed cane. "Ladies and gentlemen, the lovely Cherrie Burnham, the fair, the beautiful! Marvelous! Marvelous! Stand up, Cherrie!"

As the aging "professor" entices the crowd to move closer, the "fat lady" stands for their admiration. "Look at her," he continues, "a mighty girl, fat, magnificent. Five chins! Cheeks like the sun-kissed melon! Arms like vats of luscious Falernian wine!" As she exhibits all of her six hundred-and-ten pounds, the professor continues to praise her bulging femininity.

Then, as quickly as the crowd's attention had turned toward Miss Cherrie, their eyes again follow the professor's tapping cane. Now he's introducing Signor and Signorina Pastorelli, the couple "known throughout the world as the tattooed Mars and Venus." Standing and shedding their bath-robes to reveal scanty costumes, the couple displays the multicolored artwork that covers their bodies. "Pictures of beasts and birds; of foreign lands... " the professor points out. Even though Signor Pastorelli is Italian by birth, the professor tells the crowd, he loves our country. "See there," he says as the tattooed man turns to reveal a colorful flag etched across his back, "the Star Spangled Banner! Oh, long may it wave!"

And so it went. Accompanied by his tapping cane, the professor focused the attention of the wide-eyed crowd on one human attraction after another. Their pulses stirred as the Wild Man of Borneo and the Human Skeleton came forward. Their breathing halted as the sword swallower and the fire eater executed their hazardous stunts. By the time the visitor had viewed all of the sights in the Curio Hall, watched the Punch-and-Judy show and had his palm read, he began to look for the exit. The museum owner however, wasn't quite through with him. He sent agents circulating through the crowd, selling tickets for the "grand concert after the performance."

A reserved-seat ticket could be purchased for only one more "thin dime." A "magnificent stage-show lasting nearly an hour" awaited him in the rear room. With ticket in hand, he tentatively entered the dark musty room. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the dim lighting, he could make out rows of threadbare opera chairs. Sitting, he settled back to watch a small stage behind an "orchestra" of four less-than-impressive musicians. A man passed among the chairs hawking chewing gum and songbooks.

As the lights suddenly came up, the orchestra burst into an overture, flavored with a heavy drumbeat. Throughout the show, a small assortment of second-rate vaudevillians took turns performing short musical and comedy bits in a valiant attempt to give their little audience a full dime's worth of entertainment. For a conclusion, a "bioscope" displayed dim flickering segments of moving pictures. After the small curtain dropped and the houselights were turned on, the visitor exited the tiny theater through Curio Hall.

As he walked out, he wasn't aware that he was stepping through a vanishing piece of entertainment history. With the passing of the years, the Fejee Mermaid, the Human Skeleton and the Fire-Eater have disappeared from museums as the country's taste turned toward more refined and credible displays. At times though, even in the most sophisticated of modern museums, night watchmen have reported a strange occurrence. In the still of the night, they say they have heard a peculiar tapping sound. Then, according to the accounts, as they strained their ears, they have all heard the same distant call..."Behold, ladies and gentlemen, the lovely Cherrie Burnham, the fair, the beautiful! Marvelous! Marvelous!"
THE GREATEST "MUD SHOW" ON EARTH

The Circus - Long Before the Big Top

The air was as crystal clear as the young boy's dreams that 1870 morning in McGregor, Iowa. While the five brothers breathed in its sweet grassy fragrance, they gazed down from a lush green hillside and dreamed the dreams of thousands before them...of joining the circus. The men below them scurried around, unloading the circus supplies. As they did, the boys imagined the wild animals and daring performers who would soon be putting them to use. The best part was, they would be right there to see it and feel it and smell it. They had tickets!

Their father, a German harness-maker, had agreed to do some repair work for the circus strong man. In trade for his work, he had received free passes for the whole family. Their father, August Rungeling, had no inkling that those passes would someday open a gate for his sons into the colorful world of flying trapezes and screaming crowds. That gate would lead them, with their Americanized name of the "Ringling Brothers," away from that quiet little Iowa hillside and down a path that would eventually lead to the "Greatest Show on Earth."

It would be years, however, before the brothers would answer the call of their early dream. After all, circus life was not exactly the most accepted method of making a living in those days. Sons tended to follow their father's footsteps into more respectable trades. So Al, the oldest brother, left home to join a carriage company and take up the family business of harness-making. But while he worked on the leather harnesses, his childhood memories worked on his dreams.

Finally the images of acrobats and clowns became more vivid than those of carriage horses and harnesses. When old Doc Morrison's circus came through Delvan, Wisconsin, Al joined as an acrobat and juggler. During his stay, Doc Morrison taught young Al more than juggling and acrobatic stunts. He included other tricks of the poor circus performer's trade...like how to get out of a hotel room without paying the bill.

While Al Ringling was soaking up the knowledge and glamour of the circus trade, his brothers had followed different paths. Otto was learning geography while both Alf and Charles were studying music and John, the youngest, taking up the acting and minstrelsy trade. They too, however, were haunted by the still-smoldering fever they had contracted on that Iowa hillside. At Al's invitation, they joined him in 1882 to rekindle the fire of their early circus dreams. Their first show - the "Ringling Brothers' Classic and Comic Opera Company," was a financial and artistic disaster. Filled with youthful enthusiasm, they forged on. The year after their first show failed, they ran into an old down-and-out circus pioneer named "Yankee" Robinson.

From the start, the Ringling brothers instinctively had a way with words that could greatly embellish the magnitude of their performance. "Behold the old hero of the arena, coming Tuesday, May 20, 1884," they printed in their first handbill. "Old Yankee Robinson and Ringling Bros. Double show!! The largest and most elegantly conducted and perfectly equipped arenic exposition ever witnessed." Robinson had been on the road for years and used his experience to advise the eager young circus owners. He signed on as their manager. During a speech at their 1884 opening performance at Sauk City, Iowa, he told the spectators that his union with the Ringling brothers made his journey through life complete.

"If I could have my dying wish gratified," he told them, "it would be that my name should remain associated with that of the Ringling Brothers. For I can tell you, the Ringling Brothers are the future showmen of America." Later that same year, Robinson died during the tour. Unfortunately, it would be Barnum and Bailey, not Yankee Robinson, that history would associate with the "future showmen of America." Years before the Ringling Brothers name would stand beside those of Barnum and Bailey's, our country's back roads were traveled by early circus pioneers. They slowly carved out the notch in history that would someday be filled with the huge super-circus.

One of those pioneers, John Robinson, began life on the road at an early age. When a small show named Blanchard's Circus came through young John's hometown of New Bedford, Massachusetts, his traveling blood began to stir. It had stirred once before and he had signed up with a whaling ship bound for a three-year trek on the Bering Sea. Unfortunately, the sea had also stirred soon after the ship left New Bedford. A vicious storm drove them back to port. After the incident, John decided he might not be cut out to sail the seven seas and remained on land to find a little less turbulent form of transportation.

John was convinced he had found it when he saw Blanchard's Circus pull into town. As he watched the small show wheel in and set up, he had no idea that those wheels would start him on a life-long journey. That journey would carry him and eventually three generations of circus owners - all bearing the name "John Robinson," through almost a century of circus history. Robinson, like nearly every other entertainer before or since, rattled around in menial bread-and-butter jobs before striking out to build his own dream. After a year with Blanchard's Circus, he joined Page and McCracken's Circus and spent the next four years working there as a helper.

Equestrian exhibits were the most popular circus acts of the time. Robinson felt that if he was going to make a jump from his menial assistant job to his real dream of performing in the circus ring - it would be on the back of a trained "ring horse." He decided to spend the winter - the circus's off season - learning the art of horsemanship. Unfortunately, something was holding him back...the lack of a horse. The trained ring horses were usually owned by the trick riders, who took them with them during the winter. Undaunted, John surveyed the row of draft horses in the ring barn. These lumbering animals were used to pull the heavy circus wagons and were far from sleek show horses. Filled with the exuberance of youth, however, John selected an unlikely "show horse to be." Night after night, they slowly became acquainted by the dim light of a tallow candle. As the weeks of late-night training rolled on, John added two, three and finally four of the draft horses to his midnight act.

Finally, John and his team of trained baggage horses were ready. Ready for what, he wasn't exactly sure, but he knew they were ready. One day as he quietly hoped and watched, fate opened a door for him. A well-known two-horse rider had to cancel his act. This left young John with the perfect opportunity. He didn't hesitate. Walking up to Mr. Rockwell, the circus's owner, he presented himself as a four-horse trick rider. Following the predictable howls of laughter, John gathered his unlikely looking team of newly trained ring horses and performed. The next year, 1818, their circus program advertised, in large letters, a new four-horse trick rider - John Robinson.

As his career grew, John not only became successful enough to build his own circus, he even added a brass band. According to a story from his contemporaries, during the band's first performance, he watched them with the pride of a new father. As he admired the six dapper young New York City musicians, he knew his show had finally gone "big time." But as he watched, John grew increasingly more upset.

He wondered what on earth the bandleader was waiting for. John eyed him nervously as the musician serenely watch his fellow band members playing their hearts out - all the while, holding his shiny bugle at his side. Slowly the muscles of John Robinson's once-proud face tightened. His eyes narrowed underneath trembling brows. His patience had dissolved. Finally, words boiled to his mouth. "Why don't you go on and play?" he screamed. The musician patiently tried to explain that it wasn't time for him to play. "I've got thirty-bars rest," he replied. "Rest nothing," Robinson bellowed. "I hired you to play and you're going to play or quit. You can rest all you want to after the show."

Although he may not have been a musical genius, John Robinson, like all the other circus pioneers, knew that "resting" was not the way to succeed with a wagon show. They had to move acrobats, clown, horses and all the rest through the dark of night over roads that could knock the wheels right off the wagons. America was ripe and ready for the kind of show that John had built. It was quite an event when the wagon show, as the early circus was often called, would hit town. Due to the miles of raw mud-filled ruts the wagons would have to plow through, the pioneer circus also inherited the name of "mud show."

Muddy or not, these shows were a welcome sight to the entertainment-starved country folk of the early eighteen hundreds. In fact, even though the small circus rumbled through the dark of night and often pulled into the next stop before dawn, they were often greeted by half the town's population. Other than a few barn dances, an annual county fair and a handful of spelling bees, there wasn't a lot happening out there in the country. The circuses didn't take to the muddy roads just to please the small town yokels. There were simply not enough people, even in the cities at the time, to keep them in business. After all, when the circus was taking root in America around the turn of the nineteenth century, Philadelphia, the nation's capitol, was only 60,000 strong.

Not only were there a limited number of potential audience members but not all of these hard-working folk considered this form of entertainment a very Godly way to spend their time. Some were convinced that whiling away a couple of hours watching clowns and trick riders must certainly carry the mark of the devil. In fact, a lot of people were convinced that the early circuses added to their company by stealing children as they toured. The media warned the good citizens about the evils of the circus. The August 2nd, 1815 edition of the Chillicothe, Ohio Daily Recorder read, "we presume that he good sense of the citizens in general would lead them to treat their exhibitions with that unqualified neglect and contempt which they so richly deserve..." It went on to inform the readers that the circus that would be visiting their town was "infested with dishonest, unprincipled men of various descriptions - swindlers, counterfeiters, stage-players, show men, etc...."

The circus owners weren't the only victims of this religious zeal. One of the earliest elephants to join the traveling manageries, "Old Bet," was murdered by an irate farmer in Alfred, Maine, in 1816. This religious fervor against the early circuses continued to fester for years. In 1832, the Massachusetts Spy warned the readers that the town had given license for "a company of strolling actors, calling themselves circus riders, to exhibit their fooleries here." "Who does not know," the article continued, "that no one gets any good out of this kind of show." Since so much of the public was influenced by this type of information, many of the circus pioneers were careful to mix in enough "respectable" entertainment to make the circus acts more acceptable. John Bill Rickett's circus, for example, often interspersed theatrical skits and short melodramas between the clowns and acrobats.

Ricketts is widely considered to have been the Father of the American Circus. He brought his skills in riding and showmanship from Europe in 1792, and set up a riding school in Philadelphia. On the third of April, 1793, he opened the first true American circus, on the corner of Twelfth and Market Street. The show advertised music, acrobats and comic feats. The advertisement said Ricketts and his pupil would "assume the attitudes of two Flying Mercuries." This stunt involved Ricketts standing on one foot, with a younger rider standing on his shoulder in a similar position "on a horse being in full speed."

John Bill Ricketts not only organized a successful circus but managed to mingle with some pretty impressive individuals. George Washington visited his circus in April of 1793. Washington, also a horse fancier, struck up a acquaintance with Ricketts and a few days later sold him a white horse for $150. The horse, "Old Jack," was indeed quite old at the time of the sale and George likely felt he had made quite a deal. Ricketts, however, realized that having Washington's horse for public display was more than worth the money. The two "horse-traders" became close friends and began riding together. A few years later, President Adams also visited Ricketts's circus.

Flush with success, Ricketts built a larger building in Philadelphia and later another in New York. Through the years he also improved his circus acts. In 1795 he added mounted Indian chiefs in full costume. For the next season, he included a number of trick riders, a clown, a tightrope dancer and both "ground and lofty tumblers." During his eight-year career Ricketts succeeded in building more than twenty circuses - one in every major city in eastern America. As he added singers, dancers, comedians and pantomime artists, it appeared that nothing could stop his rise to fame. Appearances, however, were very deceiving.

In 1799, fire destroyed both his New York and Philadelphia circuses. Although he planned to regroup and begin again, he never recovered from the financial and emotional losses of the fires. Then bad luck was piled on top of bad luck. Ricketts, along with most of his company, decided to try their luck in the West Indies. During the journey, he was kidnapped by French privateers. Fortunately he was rescued and able to continue the trip. Fate, however, decided to cast another black cloud over the excursion. Upon arriving in the West Indies, several troupe members caught Yellow Fever and eventually died. On top of that, Ricketts's brother was taken to jail for deserting his newly married native wife. Tired of the struggle, Ricketts decided to set sail for England. As if matters weren't bad enough, during the cruise, he and everyone aboard were lost at sea.

Despite Ricketts's personal struggles, he and the other circus pioneers had apparently given enough of a taste of the circus to early Americans to whet their appetites. Soon after Ricketts's success, competitors offered their versions of this new entertainment. Before long, despite the outcries of the religious zealots, the circus was taking hold in early America. During a three-month run in 1794, Thomas Swann's circus offered trick monkeys, fireworks and male and female riders, all backed by a brass band. Lailson and Jaymond's Circus came along in 1797 and included trick riders, pantomime and a "clever clown." Their show featured "Miss Venice," billed as the first woman rider in the country. New York's Daily Advertiser reviewed their show in their December 1, 1797 issue. Miss Venice, the paper stated, would "ride standing on a single horse, with all the gracefulness of her sex."

As the circuses began to spring up around the country, it was clear that whether or not they kidnapped children along the way or carried the mark of the devil, they were offering something the country folk wanted to see. Still, however, local laws impeded their travel. But as long as there are laws, there will be ways around them. Pepin and Breschard's circus, for example, was not allowed to perform within Boston's city limits since that type of entertainment was "banned in Boston." To avoid the wrath of the law, they simply set up shop in nearby Charlestown. Apparently not everyone in Boston agreed with their city's law, since the circus drew in enough Bostonians to keep it around for six months.

Following the Boston gig, Pepin and Breschard's Circus moved to New York where they were advertised as the "first professors of the art of riding and agility on horseback." Due to their limited budget, Pepin was not only one of the "first professors" but also doubled as the clown. By their second season, however, they were able to add to the cast. Their posters touted ropedancers and a pantomime act performed on foot and horseback. From New York, they moved on to Philadelphia. There, in about 1810, part of the cast split to form their own circus. Cayetano, Codet, Menial and Redan's Circus" went back to Boston and later to New York. "Messrs, Codet and Cayetano" were equestrians and Mr. Menial played the clown. A donkey named "Zebra" also joined the cast.

Likely unaware they were on the cutting edge of circus history, they took a giant step and no longer legitimized their show with melodramas or theatrical skits. They boldly presented pure unadulterated circus acts. Fortunately, they somehow avoided the religious zealots on their travels and continued a successful run. They were also ahead of their time in another way. Their company included a live elephant. Nowadays, we can't picture a circus without the shuffling string of pachyderms topped by showgirls in sequined costumes. But it would be another twenty years after they displayed their elephant, before circuses would begin to regularly travel with animals. In those days the traveling menagerie was a specialty in and of itself.

Another early elephant-owner was destined to leave a lasting mark on circus history. Although he was not related to the later Baileys who would join with P. T. Barnum to create the "Greatest Show on Earth," Hackaliah Bailey, like Ricketts, would help to pave their way. Early in the 1800's, Bailey displayed an elephant he named Betty or "Old Bet" for short - likely named after his former wife, Elizabeth. Old Bet, unfortunately, would be the elephant the religious zealots were to murder in 1816. But by that time, Hachaliah had realized the financial benefit of exhibiting one of these fascinating animals. He quickly imported two more - a male he named Columbus and a female he called "Little Bet." Sadly enough, Little Bet, like her namesake, was also murdered. A group of adolescent boys killed her in Rhode Island in 1826.

Bailey wasn't much for traveling and left most of the road-work to his business partner, Nathan A. Howes. "Uncle Nate," as he would become known to circus historians, toured with what had become a traveling menagerie. Meanwhile, Hackaliah Bailey retired in 1820 to build the Elephant Hotel in Somers, New York. A statue of Old Bet in front of the hotel reminded visitors of one of the first, if not the very first, traveling elephants in America. The Elephant Hotel became a regular hangout for the circus and menagerie owners who were springing up around the Somers area.

Apparently Hackaliah's example had convinced them that traveling around exhibiting unusual animals or providing entertainment beat the daily drudgery of farm life. On January 14, 1835, one hundred-and-thirty-five of them met in the hotel ballroom. They formed a trust that would help control competition from circuses and menageries outside their group. They named the group the "Zoological Institute," taking the name from a menagerie owned by one of their members.

Although the trust fell apart during a financial panic in 1837, three of the members and a couple of their business associates later formed a group called the Syndicate. They combined their capitol to finance expeditions to capture exotic animals. The Syndicate kept a tight grip on the circus and menagerie business until 1877. That grip was so tight that they earned the name "The Flatfoots," from putting their foot down flat on unwanted outsiders. That name stuck with them until the end.

The first circus owner to join forces with a menagerie was J. Purdy Brown, a cousin of Hachaliah Bailey. In 1832, he began to tour his circus along with a competitor's menagerie. The owners soon realized that the extra crowd was good for both of them. Before that time, not only did the circus and the menagerie owners quarrel, but more than once they were known to have stolen each other's animals. By the late 1850's, the menageries had been swallowed up by the circuses, and audiences expected to see wild animals along with the clowns, tightrope walkers and all the rest.

As the early circus rolled along through the mud and muck of our country's bumpy roads, a pharmacist from Albany, New York took a different path. Gilbert R. Spalding had inherited a circus as a payment on a loan he had made. From the start, he wanted to travel farther and more comfortably than the old roads would let him. He decided to use the trains to carry the wagons. Spalding teamed up with an English equestrian named Charles Rogers and within a few years the Spalding and Rogers's Railroad Circus took to the tracks. Apparently Spalding soon decided the timing was not yet right for train travel though, and he closed the railroad circus. Still seeking a way to avoid the bumpy roads, Spalding took to the waterways. There he found success. For fourteen years, from 1852 until they were forced to stop during the Civil War, Spalding and Rogers toured the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers with a fabulous showboat called the "Floating Palace."

The boat was indeed a palace. Built at a cost of $42,000, it contained a standard-sized 42-foot circus ring and seated 2,400 people. The Floating Palace was an immediate success. It was decked out with thick carpets, velvet hangings and hand-carved woodwork. More than two-hundred gas jets provided the lighting and a towboat carried steam heating equipment to keep the audience comfortable. Housed on the towboat was also a small menagerie.

Another of America's circus forefathers once worked for Spalding. Dan Rice, a feisty young clown-turned strongman and singer, joined Spalding's North American Circus as a young man. His clowning abilities made him a hit from the start. By 1848, Spalding set him up to manage his own show, the "Dan Rice Circus." Rice became popular for his snappy political humor and eventually earned an incredible one thousand dollars a day. He would open the show by trading barbs with the ringmaster, dancing jigs and singing various political satire songs. His conversations with his "educated" pig, Lord Byron, would have the crowd in stitches. Rice became a favorite of Abraham Lincoln, Zachary Taylor, Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee. His favorite costume was a red, white and blue outfit.

In fact, several historians think Rice might have been the model for "Uncle Sam." Some disagree, since there was a similar character in earlier years. Rice did, however, definitely leave a lasting mark on the political scene. It is widely accepted that his invitation to Zachary Taylor to "jump up on the bandwagon with him" led to the popular political saying of "jumping on the bandwagon." In addition, it was very likely Dan Rice's circus that filled the five young Ringling brothers with circus fever on that Iowa hillside.

Years before the young Ringling brothers dreamed their circus dreams, a young man from Bethel, Connecticut was lured on the road by similar visions. In 1836, young Phineas T. Barnum joined Aaron Turner's circus where he worked as a secretary, ticket-seller and occasionally as a clown. According to a popular story - during a performance in Annapolis, Maryland, Aaron Turner felt the urge to pull off a practical joke on Barnum. Young Phineas, he informed the crowd, was wanted for murder. In fact, Turner continued, he had barely been able to rescue Phineas from a mob lynching. As the flabbergasted Phineas surveyed the rapt attention of the crowd, he likely realized early in his career, the value of a little bogus notoriety.

The next year, Barnum opened his own circus - "Barnum's Grand Scientific and Musical Theater." The show lasted only two months before being snuffed out by the financial panic of 1837. Ironically, although Barnum's name is firmly linked with the circus, he was actually never that enthusiastic about the circus life. His famous American Museum in New York City was the center of his attention and became the springboard that threw him into the limelight. In fact, in 1871, Barnum was prepared to retire, with his only circus experience being his disastrous 1837 two-month tour. His fame, however, had spread world-wide due to his promotional skills. Jenny Lind the Swedish Nightingale, Tom Thumb the celebrated midget and all of his sideshow-type attractions had made Barnum a household name.

The value of that name was not lost on two successful circus men of the time. William C. Coup and Dan Castello approached Barnum with the idea of lending his name to their new show. Although Phineas was initially opposed since he was looking forward to retirement, Coop and Castello's fast talking wore down his resistance. Soon the "P.T. Barnum Museum, Menagerie and Circus, International Zoological Garden, Polytechnic Institute and Hippodrome" took to the road. Not only did their new enterprise boast the longest name in the business, it was also the biggest circus of its time. Although Coup was the real power behind the project and Barnum had little interest in the circus, he wasn't reticent about claiming the glory. As the show became successful and expanded year by year, so did Barnum's already oversized ego. Within a few years, disputes arose among the three partners, resulting in Castello leaving the partnership. In 1875, when Barnum insisted they team up with a notorious "gyp artist" friend of his, Coup also decided he had enough and left the alliance.

On his own, Barnum instinctively turned toward his old cronies, the "Flatfoots." Their new affiliation was a success for a while, but by 1880, they began to feel the pressure of competing circuses that had escaped their monopolistic control. One of the largest of these was Cooper & Bailey's Circus - a huge railroad show. Young James Bailey, the show's leader, was an orphan who had grown up in the circus town of Detroit. While a boy, he was befriended by an advance man for the Robinson & Lake Circus. The advance man, Frederick H. Bailey, eventually adopted James, giving him his name and raising him in the circus environment. Frederick Bailey, as it turns out, was a distant cousin of Hachaliah Bailey - "Old Bet's" owner. Old Hachaliah had more influence on circus history than he would have ever guessed.

Both Bailey and Barnum soon realized that teaming up their shows would be beneficial for them. With an "if you can't fight 'em, join 'em" spirit, they combined forces. They needed a catchy title that would let the world know they were now the best...no, the "greatest" show they could hope to find. Dredging up a name he had used briefly with the Coup and Barnum Show, Phineas suggested, "Barnum & Bailey's Greatest Show on Earth." Unlike Barnum with his overstuffed ego, James Bailey was a quiet considerate behind-the-scenes manager. He kept over two hundred retired or disabled employees on the payroll and gave fortunes to charities.

Somehow the opposing personalities worked out well, with Barnum out front basking in the applause, and Bailey quietly and efficiently making the business decisions. After Barnum's death in 1891, Bailey continued to run the successful super-circus. Meanwhile, the Ringling Brothers had traveled light-years since their 1884 performance with old Yankee Robinson's equipment. Near the end of the century, the Ringling Brothers's "World's Greatest Shows" went into direct competition with the Barnum & Bailey show.

The Ringlings seldom used written agreements when they made decisions about the future of their circus. They simply decided what they wanted to do and quietly set about the process of reaching their goals. Their goals weren't always small ones, and in this case the goal was enormous - to acquire the Barnum and Bailey circus. During Barnum and Bailey's recent five-year European tour, the Ringling Brothers had moved into the limelight as the nation's largest and most popular circus. Their goal was achieved in 1907, after James Bailey's death. For several years, the Ringlings toured the two shows separately. Then, in 1918, the three remaining Ringlings decided to combine the two super-circuses. The "Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Combined Shows" truly became The Greatest Show on Earth.

As the circus moved into its golden age, and magnificent tents covered towering silver equipment, it was obvious that the old "mud shows" had indeed grown up. Thousands of eager spectators swarmed inside the tent to view the three rings of wonder that filled their senses to overflowing. The years had swept away the public's fears that the circus showmen carried the mark of the devil or that they kidnapped children as they toured.

Those years have unfortunately also swept away many of the stories about the colorful characters who turned baggage horses into show teams and mud shows into the Greatest Show on Earth. As modern sequined trapeze artists tower high above the clamoring crowds, many are unaware of the circus pioneers who elevated them to their lofty perches. If they only knew, the next time they soared into space they might whisper a reverent "thank you" to Hackaliah and Old Bet or the donkey named Zebra.
WHEN VOICES GREW FACES

Television: The Birth of "Radio Pictures"

The incredibly patient horse calmly endured the heat of the blazing lights. He stood with a nonchalant grace as rivulets of sweat trickled down his mane. He seemed to be almost aware of the vital part he would play in television history. His rider was definitely aware, and was more than ready to fulfill his role. He sat tall in the saddle like a cowboy hero on the big silver screen. His image however, appeared on a small glass screen only a few inches wide. The tiny screen seemed especially dwarfed by the cavernous interior of the Madison Square Garden Theater. Despite the screen's small size, a congregation of skeptical television pioneers clustered around it. Their eyes were glued to a dull image of the horse and rider who were near the far wall. As the observers surveyed the little picture, they could simply not see anything miraculous.

Nobody was really surprised. After all, ever since this odd little contraption had come on the entertainment scene, companies had continually promised more than they could deliver. Both RCA and Philco had previously lured them to witnesses "astounding demonstrations" of their progress toward adding moving pictures to radio. The demonstrations unfortunately, had consistently failed to astound anyone. Why should this exhibition be any different? After all, everyone was acutely aware of the problem with the new "marvel." In order to broadcast a halfway decent picture, the experimental stations had to use a thousand foot-candles of light. The poor entertainers who stepped in front of the huge lights were nearly melted down.

It was more than a little difficult for them to feel very entertaining as the perspiration rolled down their cheeks and thin lines of mascara ran into their eyes. They squinted into the blazing lights, wearing black lipstick so the viewers could see their mouth move on the snowy little screen. Obviously nobody would leave the well-established radio business to undergo these tortures. It looked as if these new "living pictures" would soon go into the history books as another unsuccessful experiment. As the little group of skeptics continued to survey the dim picture on the small screen, they mumbled among themselves. "When would these dreamers finally give up and admit defeat?"

Suddenly, their mumbling halted. The huge lights had ceased their fiery blaze. A hushed darkness spread across the massive theater. Then with a dramatic flair, the distant rider calmly struck a match and lit a single candle. As the little group watched him with questioning stares - one by one their attention abruptly shifted to the small glass screen. The shock of the moment must have shattered their senses. Something was wrong. That couldn't be happening! But there it was - right in front of them on that magical little rectangle - an image of the rider and his horse...lit by one candle!

CBS employee Washington Miner, was among that skeptical group. He remembers feeling at that moment, that television simply "couldn't miss." The lost puzzle piece had magically been discovered. No longer would the actors and singers have to wear black lipstick as the perspiration poured down their faces. This wild idea of adding bodies and faces to the radio voices, wasn't simply another pipe dream. Like the myriad of other early technical television innovations, this new discovery - an extremely light-sensitive tube - would bring the dream of commercial television one step closer to reality.

It wouldn't be long before that odd little contraption would begin to draw big-name stars away from their radio microphones and off their vaudeville stages. They would transform from vivid mental "radio pictures" and colorful stage performers, into tiny black and white characters trapped inside a small glass world. As they changed, hundreds of thousands of Americans would excitedly peer into that tiny world to follow their transformation. Like other fledgling entertainment forms, television fell back on early types of amusement to recruit its performers. The new media's first celebrity, had roots in both radio and vaudeville. In fact, the programs given out to his early television studio audience, listed his show as the "Texaco Star Theater Vaudeville Show."

Within less than a year of his June, 1948 premier, Time Magazine listed Milton Berle as "the undisputed No. 1 performer on U.S. TV." Between eight and nine o'clock on Tuesday nights, the streets of America's towns were nearly empty. Restaurant owners looked sadly across their vacant tables. A manager of an Ohio movie theater hung a sign on the door saying: "Closed Tuesday - I want to see Berle too!" The city of Detroit even reported a sizable drop in the water levels of their reservoirs between 9:00 and 9:05 p.m. because people waited for Berle's show to end before heading to their bathrooms.

"Mr. Television," as he was soon known, was reputed to have single-handedly been responsible for selling more television sets than any advertising campaign in history. Parade magazine reported an increase from 190,000 sets to twenty-one million during Berle's TV reign. However, fellow comedian, Joe E. Lewis, couldn't resist wisecracking just a little. "Berle is responsible for more television sets being sold than anyone else," he observed. "I sold mine, my father sold his... "

Like nearly all the other "overnight successes," Berle's overnight actually lasted for many years. He had entered show business at the age of six as the endangered child in the famous silent movie, The Perils of Pauline. Although he would appear in several other silent films, he never quite made the grade to star status. Between the movie appearances, Milton and his mother hit the vaudeville circuit. As he sat in cheap hotels watching his mother cook their meal over a portable gas burner, the prospect of becoming the superstar of a new entertainment medium would likely have seemed a little dim.

When his chance came to crawl into the little glass tube, Berle brought with him his years of vaudeville experience. One of the tricks of the trade of the vaudeville world he was so familiar with, was to keep up a wild and frantic pace. The audience wouldn't have time to be bored if they were bombarded with a steady stream of non-stop entertainment. Milton paced his new television show at that breakneck vaudeville speed, and was soon known as "Public Energy Number 1." Between the acrobats, singers, unicycle acts and dancing dogs, Berle might show up as a Mexican bandit, Sherlock Holmes or possibly even a French can-can dancer. As he donned his fake noses and bizarre costumes, the studio audiences collapsed with laughter.

Sometimes the laughter wasn't exactly planned in those days of live television. It echoed through the studio once when a backdrop rolled upward, caught Berle's costume, and lifted him high above the stage. On another occasion, during an elephant act, the audience not only collapsed with laughter but the camera man laughed so hard the picture started shaking. As the elephants patiently awaited their turn backstage, the huge beasts were apparently experiencing some severe digestive difficulty. Not only did they perform a rather tasteless and discordant impromptu "concert" as they waited to appear, but they left behind on the stage, an unwelcome obstacle course for the sophisticated dance act that followed.

Berle's uninhibited nonstop antics propelled his ratings through the roof. During the 1950-51 season, his program was on top of all three rating systems - the Nielson, Hooper and Trendex. His vaudeville-type formula seemed unbeatable. Like vaudeville itself however, it would soon be viewed as a little too unpolished for the country's increasingly more sophisticated tastes. The same press that had christened him "Mr. Television," turned on him without warning. "Suddenly," Berle reflected, "everything they originally liked about me, they didn't like anymore."

During Berle's unchallenged reign, the landscape of the television scene had changed. Just as he had been wooed by the glow of the little tube, a host of other performers had also followed its beam. Suddenly, there was no shortage of talent, just waiting in the wings. As "Mr. Television's" ratings dropped, his competitors were only too happy to step into the lead.

One of these contenders seemed to be a mirror-image of Berle. While Milton was running around wearing can-can skirts and eating fruit out of Carmen Miranda's hat, Arthur Godfrey simply sat and chatted with his friends. He wasn't hilariously funny or full of unbridled energy. He simply liked people and enjoyed talking to them. He was the amiable next-door neighbor who leaned up against the picket fence to pass the time of day. By the 1951-52 television season however, this nextdoor neighbor had claimed the number one rating slot with Arthur Godfrey's Talent Scouts. As if this wasn't enough, his Arthur Godfrey and his Friends show hit the number-six position. There obviously was something compelling about his genuine lack of show biz razzle dazzle.

When Orson Wells chilled the radio waves as The Shadow, the listeners knew he didn't really talk that way to his friends back home. And when "Little Egypt" shimmied and shook, the audience could assume she probably didn't do much of that at hometown PTA meetings. They had learned not to expect "real people" as their entertainers. When the lights dimmed and the curtain rose, they knew they would be transported to another world...the world of "show business." Suddenly though, here was someone who seemed as real as the barber down the block.

Godfrey was simply a "regular person." He also seemed to value the regular people in his audience. Once when a scheduled guest wasn't able to appear on Talent Scouts, he turned to his studio audience and asked if anyone wanted to perform. A lady raised her hand and asked if she could sing. Godfrey let her. And she was terrible! Realizing she was not exactly a "star-to-be," Arthur smiled and made the observation, "That's America for you. Someone comes into your home and wants to sing, and she sings." He then turned to her and said, "You sang that with great sincerity, and I thank you."

In 1951, when Godfrey visited Florida, someone handed him a note requesting an audition for a friend. A Brooklyn kid stationed in the Navy in Pensacola had a good singing voice, and his buddy felt Godfrey might consider him. Later Arthur invited him to audition, which he did. But as luck would have it, the film from the audition was later ruined. When he learned about this, Godfrey arranged for a leave for the young man and invited him to come to New York to appear on his radio show.

Young Julius LaRosa couldn't believe his luck. He had come from nowhere and was now minutes away from singing on a national program. Once again however, fate was not on his side. The show ran overtime and as LaRosa sadly waited for his chance on the national airwaves, the minutes allotted for his number slowly ran out. Godfrey simply had his leave extended, and booked him on a later show. Good fortune had finally smiled on LaRosa. Not only did Arthur ask him back for his Christmas special but during that show - right on the air - he announced that "When Julie gets out of the Navy, he'll come and see us." Julius eventually returned and became a regular on the show.

Like Milton Berle's wild success on the new entertainment medium, it seemed that Arthur Godfrey's reign would stretch out through the years. His Talent Scouts show had introduced the country to such great new entertainers as Pat Boone, Patsy Cline, Tony Bennett and Rosemary Clooney. LaRosa and the rest of his "friends" were becoming public figures. Both of his shows were riding the crest of popularity. His radio show also reached across an appreciative nation. America, it seems, had welcomed a life-long friend into their living rooms.

In the midst of this "happy little family" however, something was happening to its previously good-natured father figure. Godfrey suddenly began making the headlines by firing one member of his staff after another. In 1953, Arthur decided his staff should take ballet lessons to improve their "physical grace and carriage." Not everyone was excited about the prospects of learning to twirl on their toes. When they resisted, Godfrey interpreted this as a mutiny, and posted a notice that they would attend ballet classes "or else."

LaRosa was among the dissenters and told Arthur that he couldn't attend the next class due to "family problems." Feeling that the matter was settled, he appeared on the show to sing as he always did. As he stepped away from the microphone, Godfrey turned to him saying, "Thank you Julie. And that, folks, was Julie's swan song." Apparently since he had hired him on the air, Arthur felt it would be appropriate to fire him that way as well. The only saving feature for LaRosa's self-esteem was the fact that he didn't have a clue what a "swan song" was.

The press didn't share Godfrey's opinion that his actions were appropriate and soon railed against his ill-timed on-the-air dismissal of the young singer. During the next few years, Godfrey continued his tirade against members of his previous family. He fired writers, producers, singers, and orchestra leaders. No one seemed certain what had made such a major change in the amiable next-door neighbor, but some felt it was the psychological result of a lifetime of pain. He had been in a terrible head-on car wreck as a young man, which left him with crushed kneecaps, a pelvis broken in twenty-seven places and pain that would never leave.

Godfrey's popularity dropped and his ratings plummeted. As before, a growing circle of competing shows vied for the top of the heap. The program destined to move into the top rating slot however, had a concept that television executives were sure the audience simply "would not buy." The whole idea was preposterous. After all, why would a beautiful red-headed American movie star marry a Cuban bandleader? Lucille Ball, a young actress from Buffalo, had made the tough climb up the show business ladder. She had landed roles with the Marx Brothers and the Three Stooges, and ended up on CBS radio's popular show, My Favorite Husband. Desi Arnaz, meanwhile, had also scaled the steep slope of success. He had been discovered by Xavier Cugat who had helped him open doors to the top nightclubs on the circuit.

In 1940 they married, and continued in their own fields. Ten years later, CBS executives decided it was time for the audience to see My Favorite Husband rather than simply hear it. When they told Lucille and the rest of the radio cast they would be moving to television, Lucy refused. After all those years of separate careers, she wanted a job that she and Desi could share. Although they were married in real life, the CBS executives argued that the television public just wouldn't accept them as husband and wife. To prove them wrong, Lucy and Desi put together a stage show of slapstick vaudeville routines and headed across the country on a whirlwind twelve-week tour. By the end of the tour, they found out what the public thought of them - they loved them!

The rave reviews from their tour attracted television interest. NBC directors made them an offer. Not wanting to lose Lucille, CBS ultimately gave in and offered the couple their own show. The network officials liked The Lucille Ball Show as a title. Once again, Lucy balked. She wanted Desi's name to come before hers. But the CBS folks just wouldn't buy The Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball show. It looked as if they had run up against another wall when someone finally devised a way to work Desi into the title first. He would obviously be the "I" if they called it "I Love Lucy."

In the pilot episode, they essentially played themselves. A spokesman for their sponsor, Philip Morris, felt the characters were too difficult for most viewers to identify with. "If you can create characters for yourselves with whom the average person can associate," he advised them, "everyday people, not Lucille Ball the movie star and Desi Arnaz the $150,000-a-year bandleader - we'll make a commitment here and now."

Together with the show's writers, they brought the characters down to earth. Adding theater and movie actress Vivian Vance and vaudeville and movie actor William Frawley to the cast, they were ready to roll. And they "rolled" on Monday, October 15, 1951. The critics instantly recognized a hit. The show promised to "take TV out of its present rut," reported Variety magazine. And by the end of the 1951-52 season, Time magazine declared that Lucy's "Low-comedy antics, ranging from mild mugging to baggy-pants clowning, have dethroned such veteran TV headliners as Milton Berle and Arthur Godfrey."

Then, just when the show was in front of the pack, Lucy found out she was going to have a baby. No problem. The television executives knew just what to do. They would simply shoot enough episodes during the next couple of months to fill in while she was visibly "in a family way." Desi however, thought it was time for America to grow up. He was proud and happy that they were going to have a baby. Why shouldn't they share their joy with the viewers? Somewhat reluctantly, CBS directors decided to go along with the idea. But just for safety sake, they tested each script dealing with the pregnancy, on a Catholic priest, a Protestant minister and a Jewish rabbi before airing it.

Desi's hunch was correct. A handful of complaint letters arrived at the network, but the overwhelming majority of viewers were delighted that Lucy and Desi were sharing such a special moment with them. Each episode became the talk of the town. Newspapers ran pools on the baby's sex. It wasn't simply Lucy and Desi's experience - America was "having a baby." The episode "Lucy Goes to the Hospital" aired on January 19, 1953 and gained an incredible 71.7 Nielson rating. The impact was increased by the fact that in real life, Lucy was having a Caesarian delivery and the date had already been set for the same day. They had filmed the TV delivery ahead so she could have a baby "twice" on that date. The next day, two important television events transpired. Eisenhower was inaugurated as President, and the world was introduced to Desi and Lucy's real baby. Ike drew an audience of 29 million viewers. "Little Ricky" garnered 44 million.

Despite America's affection for Lucy and her television family, an ominous situation was developing that could have severed the country's affections for her in a split-second. In 1953 the country was caught up in Senator Joe McCarthy's witch hunt for Communists. His committee had discovered that twenty years previously, Lucille Ball had registered her intention to vote the Communist ticket. She had met the charges head on, explaining to the committee that she had only registered to humor her harmless grandfather. They seemed to understand and had given her the impression they would drop the matter. She was shocked when columnist Walter Winchell later drug out the story, writing: "Lucille Ball Named Red."

Desi and Lucy both knew this could topple everything they had built. On the same day the column ran, they had a live show to film, so there wasn't time to let it "blow over." They quickly scheduled a news conference before the filming and explained the harmless incident in detail. Later that evening, they nervously faced the studio audience. The quick-thinking Desi introduced Lucy with: "I want you to meet my wife, my favorite redhead. In fact, that's the only thing red about her, and even that's not legitimate." Their forthright approach had worked. The crowd stood and gave Lucille an ovation that clearly told her they didn't believe the charge and would continue to "love Lucy."

Lucy and Desi had shown the television executives that the viewers didn't always require high-toned heroes on their TV screens. They also enjoyed watching common people they could identify with. It was becoming clear that this new world of entertainment could accommodate a vast assortment of characters. If they could identify with a small-time bandleader and a wacky housewife, what about introducing a group of even more "salt of the earth" characters? Why not a bus driver and a sewer worker?

The DuMont television network had been searching for a permanent host for the Cavalcade of Stars program they had launched in 1950. They were looking for someone who knew the entertainment field inside and out. Their choice, Jackie Gleason, not only knew the field, he had played on most of it. Early in his career, Gleason had bounced around from roadhouses to circuses to night clubs. Like so many other entertainment pioneers, his path led through quite a few valleys before it ascended to stardom. He grew up in a poor tenement railroad flat in Brooklyn, surrounded by poverty. Looking back on his childhood, he once said, "A buck never threw its arms around my parents."

Slowly, he would crawl up and out of his surroundings using his show business talents. Jackie would however, never forget the colorful characters who inhabited his old neighborhood -Brooklyn's rough and tumble Chauncey Street. They would eventually transform into Ralph and Alice Kramden, and Ed and Trixie Norton - the zany cast of characters on The Honeymooners. Originally, The Honeymooners began as a short skit on his variety show. During the first skit, Gleason and actress Pert Kelton, who played the role of his wife Alice, argued about whether or not he should go to the store. In the middle of their quarrel, she threatened to jump out the window. In a sarcastic voice, Gleason simply urged her on. Then, returning his sarcasm, she turned away from the window saying, "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction." At the end of the skit, Art Carney briefly appeared as a policeman.

This back-and-forth squabbling remained a hallmark of The Honeymooners. As the audience reaction warmed to the uninhibited antics of the New York couple who loved each other and loved to argue, the skits stretched out and became more elaborate. Art Carney soon became Kramden's sewer-worker neighbor Ed Norton, and Joyce Randolph was chosen to play Ed's wife Trixie. When Gleason moved to CBS, Pert Kelton had to leave due to poor health. The role of Alice fit her replacement, Audrey Meadows, like a second skin.

Some viewers grew so involved in the Honeymooners' stories they apparently forgot the Kramdens and Nortons only lived in the tiny glass TV world. Several fans sent curtains through the mail so Alice Kramden could dress up her modest little apartment. One simply sent money, writing, "It would be difficult for me to send a curtain rod through the mail." Honeymooner's buttons and comic books graced store shelves.

Children begged their parents for a Honeymooner's toy bus or board game. Just as they had done for Berle, Godfrey, and Lucy and Desi, fans set aside The Honeymooners time-period as "sacred time." Georgia retired daycare teacher, Joan Goodwin, was shocked to learn what an ardent Honeymooners fan her mother, Eleanor, had been. "I found out she refused to go to the hospital to have me until The Honeymooners episode she was watching had finished!" Then smiling, she added, "Maybe that's why even today, I always watch a television show to the end."

As the patchwork variety of television programs continued to grow, the viewers would set aside another piece of "sacred time." This was reserved for an unlikely program that would eventually grow into the all-time leader of variety shows. It would turn Sunday evening into America's favorite "really big shew" for twenty-three years. That "shew," however, was almost never born. During a meeting of CBS executives in 1948, the topic had centered on their need to compete with NBC's popular Texaco Star Theater. Milton Berle had captured such a large segment of the audience that they were stymied. Who could possibly give him a run for his money?

Worthington Miner was in charge of finding new programs for CBS. He had already been successful with several choices and had scored big with the warm and funny series The Goldbergs. Not only had he ushered in the popular dramatic serie,s Studio One, but had even worked on it as a producer and writer. But finding a competitor for Milton Berle! After all, Berle was in the process of becoming "Mr. Television." As the executives leaned back in their chairs to hear his suggestion, they were prepared to learn about some energetic young razzle dazzle showman who could out-sparkle Berle.

Miner knew however, that nobody could do that. The only chance he had was for the show itself to be the competing factor, rather than the star. The emcee had to be someone with excellent taste in talent, and the power to draw them in. Then, unlike Berle, he would need to simply fade into the background as they performed. As Miner tentatively surveyed the anxious faces of the CBS directors, he explained his theory to them. Then, taking a deep breath, he bravely presented his choice: Broadway newspaper columnist Ed Sullivan.

As he remembered later, "They were bored stiff. Everyone thought I had gone off my rocker." Frank Stanton, who was the executive vice president, quietly dismissed the topic, saying somberly "Well, let's move on to some of the other matters we have to cover." At that moment however, CBS president Bill Paley walked into the meeting and asked who they had come up with to rival Berle. Miner explained his concept and offered Ed Sullivan as the "non-performing" emcee. After a long pause, Paley said simply, "I like it."

Through the years to follow, millions of Americans would slowly begin to "like it" as well. Not everyone was sure exactly how to take Ed's self-conscious nervous mannerisms however. He was not exactly the easygoing debonair host. As viewers watched him fidget and grimace, more than one wrote in to applaud Sullivan's valiant struggle over "facial paralysis" or a "twisted spine," Just as Miner had predicted however, Sullivan began to draw celebrities to the show like a magnet.

His new program, originally called Toast of the Town, would become the gathering place for famous-name performers from around the world. Even his premier show was packed with stars. Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein appeared. Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis added their comedy skills. And in the well-balanced style that would typify his show throughout the years, Sullivan included concert pianist Eugene List, singer Monica Lewis and a New York City fireman-singer John Kokoman.

Not only were celebrities flocking to perform on Toast of the Town, but the other shows in the little glass world were also beginning to pull them in. They came from all parts of the entertainment world. Radio actors were watching Berle and Lucy and the rest and wondering if they could add their faces to the voices their fans admired. Vaudeville stars and traveling actors who played to audiences of a few hundred started to dream of being broadcast to hundreds of thousands simultaneously. Once they moved to television however, they soon realized that TV bits, unlike the vaudeville skits and plays, couldn't be repeated in a hundred different theaters. They found this new medium devoured material as soon as it could be written. Comedian Ed Wynn once referred to television as "the glass furnace" because it incessantly burns up scripts and talent.

Because of TV's insatiable appetite, literally hundreds of different program concepts have lit up its tiny screen. And each one of them created a golden memory for its fans. Shows like Sid Ceasar and Emogene Coca's Your Show of Shows bring back reflections of classic comedy and pantomime sketches. Their admirers fondly recall their zany spoofs of old movies like From Here to Eternity and Samson and Delilah. And today's adults drift back into warm reflections of childhood at the mere mention of Howdy Doody. Suddenly their conversation shifts from football scores or stock market statistics to Buffalo Bob, Clarabel the Clown and princess Summer-Fall-Winter-Spring. Before you can stop them, they begin singing the Howdy Doody theme song.

Then, without warning, they usually drift further into a world of childhood fantasy populated by cowboy heroes like Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers and The Lone Ranger. Or they will regale you with tales about cleaning up their room in record time so their mother would let them watch Kukla, Fran and Ollie. As the years rolled on, the creative writers and producers would feed the "glass furnace" with everything from talking horses to flying nuns. Some of the program ideas that have left us with warm television memories were born in a flash of inspiration.

TV writer Paul Henning remembers driving through the South in the late 1950's, visiting Civil War sites with his mother-in-law. He suddenly turned to her saying "Wouldn't it be interesting to transpose someone from that era into this modern situation, speeding along a highway at sixty miles per hour in an air-conditioned car?" As his imagination shifted into high gear, he continued, "Take someone who has never been exposed to modern life and suddenly put them down in a sophisticated community."

As he continued his trip, he began to crystallize the image. "First I thought of New York," he recalled. Then he realized that would be an expensive location to shoot the program. Beverly Hills would serve the same purpose. From the start, he pictured Buddy Ebsen in the show. He had seen him on Davy Crockett, and felt he was the "perfect hillbilly." Later, Actress Irene Ryan happened by his office. Henning remembers watching her walk by and thinking, "Gee she could be Granny." So he stopped her and asked if she could play a hillbilly character.

"Why sure," Irene replied, and related a story about some hillbillies she had run across in Arkansas. She had been part of a traveling theater company. It was nearly time to raise the curtain and Irene peeked out through the side. There was no one in the audience! "We had seen people standing out in front, so we knew that we should have an audience," she recalled. So she asked the theater owner why he didn't let the people in. He told her he wouldn't let them in until they were ready to raise the curtain. "If I do," he explained, "they'll whittle away the seats!"

Henning's instant inspiration not only produced the popular Beverly Hillbillies show, but several years later, it would inspire Jay Sommers, a writer who had worked with Henning. Sommers would flip the idea inside out and develop Green Acres - the story of city slickers who were transposed to the country.

On September 27, 1954, another television classic was born. A young Steve Allen met the audience of the debuting Tonight Show and told them that NBC had selected the theater they were broadcasting from for a specific reason, "because it sleeps, I think, about eight-hundred people." Then he made a prophecy, which seems to be fulfilling itself: "I want to give you the bad news first. This program is going to go on forever."

One of television's darker memories was made during TV's love affair with game shows. During the 1950's, programs like The Big Surprise and The $64,000 Question held the viewers on the edge of their seats as contestants matched their wits for huge sums of prize money. Game show host, Jack Barry, helped create a similar show called Twenty One. He remembered that several times during the first few weeks, the contestants missed almost every question. It made for some very boring shows. Barry said the sponsors called him saying, "Don't ever let that happen again!" Barry remembered his earlier experience as a radio announcer and master of ceremonies. "On any informational program," he said, "the participants were given help in one form or another. It was done purely to make the shows more appetizing." So, remembering his sponsor's demands, he and the other producers of Twenty One began to help some of the contestants.

Contestant Charles Van Doren had been so successful on the show, that he began to be viewed as a national celebrity. As he was basking in the glory however, one of his previous competitors was wallowing in sour grapes. He publicly accused the producers of rigging the show in Doren's favor. When the press questioned Van Doren, he admitted that he had indeed been given information that had helped him win. When the news broke, CBS president Frank Stanton decided to remove any opportunity for "rigging" the game shows. "With one fell swoop," he related, "I took off, I think, ten hours a week of game-show programming. I took them off on a Friday and started with a whole new ten hours of programming the next week." Popular programs like The $64,000 Question were swept away with his "fell swoop" even though there had been no allegations of any tampering.

The mental scrapbook of each early television viewer is filled with thousands of different pictures. Nearly all of them however, will have a snapshot of Groucho Marx talking to that silly duck on You Bet Your Life. Or a vivid image of Kate Smith standing alone on the stage and belting out "God Bless America." And of George Burns walking out of the scene to join them for a private chat about Gracie's latest hair-brained scheme. In fact, the pictures in most of these scrapbooks are so universal that they can link together Oklahoma farmers, New York firemen and California college professors. A mere mention of Bob Hope entertaining troops in some far off battlefield will have them all thumbing through their mental collection to share a quick one-liner from their favorite "snapshot." And a quick reference to Jack Benny will send them flicking through those scenes to recall their favorite joke about his penny-pinching ways.

Those mental scrapbooks are also filled with serious pictures - like images of first-person accounts of Edward R. Murrow grilling Senator Joe McCarthy about his radical witch hunts. And close-up shots of Dr. Martin Luther King's determined face as he marched through America's tense southern cities. In fact, those pictures sometimes took them all places they didn't want to go. They riveted their tear-filled eyes on a stoic Jackie Kennedy as she watched her fallen husband's funeral procession. They flashed graphic scenes in front of their eyes that wouldn't let them turn their faces away from the bloody jungles of war-torn Vietnam.

Those pictures however, have also brought them within inches of gleaming Olympic gold medals as young athletes tried unsuccessfully to stifle a tear while their country's national anthem filled the air. And of course, they eventually transported them through the black vacuum of space where together, they would breathlessly await Neal Armstrong's "giant step for mankind." When that lone rider in Madison Square Garden lit a solitary candle, it seems he lit up a lot more than the tiny image on the small glass screen. That little flame would eventually illuminate the entire world. Perhaps that's why his poor perspiring horse was so incredibly patient. Maybe he knew that all along.
THE "TALKIES" FIRST WORDS

When the Celluloid Silence Was Broken

"Maybe we win," mumbled one of the perspiring brothers, trying half-heartedly to comfort the other three. Without even looking, he knew they were as nervous as he was about the outcome of the next few minutes. He didn't need to see their white-knuckled fingers digging into the cloth theater seats. He just had to remember their twenty-year uphill struggle to make a name for themselves in the movie business. And now that they had finally carved their family name into the hallowed halls of the movie industry, they were going to gamble it all - everything they had worked for. In one hour, when the flickering projector stopped, the nervous Warner brothers would either be cheered as the pioneers of a new age of motion pictures, or jeered as the lunatics of moviedom.

And it wasn't as if they actually had the kind of money needed to take this gamble. Their independent movie company had more than once teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. Yet there they sat, in their New York theater on the sixth of August, 1926, ready to view an hour-long movie that had cost them over two-million dollars to bring to the screen. As they sat fidgeting, they tried hard not to remember that they had merely made commitments to pay off much of the money since...they didn't exactly have over two million dollars. But the time for nervous rumination was behind them. As the theater lights dimmed, all they could do was take a deep breath, sit back in their seats and hope for the best.

Suddenly, a white beam of light pierced the darkness of the hushed theater. Words were projected onto the draped stage curtains. Then, as the curtains parted, the familiar printed subtitle, like those that had graced the silent movie screen for so many years, disappeared. It was replaced with a picture of a man facing the audience. And that's when it happened, as he was strolling forward. Had it been their imaginations? Was it actually someone else in the audience? No, as they surveyed their excited theater-mates, they could see that everyone in the theater had witnessed it. As the man on the screen had approached them, they had all heard it. He had definitely done it. He had cleared his throat!

As the "throat-clearer," Will H. Hays, the president of the Motion Picture Producers Association, came closer, he began a short speech about the show to follow. "No story written for the screen is as dramatic as the story of the screen itself," he proclaimed. But the astounded audience wasn't concerned about what he was saying. They were riveted on the fact that he was saying it. Some of them had heard about the experiments of adding sound to pictures, but they were simply not ready for this! It was almost as if the huge projected image in front of them was actually present.

At the end of Hay's short talk, the audience found themselves, almost unconsciously applauding the towering black and white figure. His presence in the theater was further enhanced as he magically acknowledged their applause with a sedate bow - which ignited another ovation. Although this was only the beginning of the film, the brothers could release their grips on the theater seats. They had already received their answer. The little theater was filled with magic and everyone knew it. Just as the mumbling brother had quietly hoped, they had definitely "won." There was no maybe about it.

As the show continued, the little first-night audience was treated to a performance by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. The magical spell which had been cast by the soft clearing of a throat had not died away. It only grew stronger as the camera focused in on the individual musicians as their music poured out from the previously silent screen. As the final note died away and the orchestra leader turned to face the theater audience, he was greeted, like the earlier announcer, with an eruption of spontaneous applause.

That applause, to the delight of the anxious brothers, continued as other instrumentalists and vocalists filled the screen with their images and the room with their music. By the time the final celluloid frame flashed past the smoking light and the synchronized yellow wax disk fell silent, the excited audience knew they had just witnessed history. The next day, the press spread the news to the rest of the country. The New York Times reported that during an instrumental performance by Roy Smeck, "every note appeared to come straight from the instrument." As Giovanni Martinelli sang an aria from I Pagliacci, the reporter wrote that "the singer's tones appeared to echo in the body of the theater as they rose from a shadow on the screen." Variety headlined their story with, "Vitaphone Bow Is Hailed As Marvel."

In the midst of the praise, however, one reporter couldn't resist becoming the first critic to turn his poison pen on the new marvel. While filming Marion Talley, the "Kansas City Canary," he felt the producers made the mistake of allowing the camera to come too close. "Long shots - and good, long ones," he observed, "were just invented for that girl." On the whole though, the media concluded that the "talkies," as the public immediately christened them, were a raving success.

Although the word spread quickly about the Warner Brother's successful exhibition, it would be no easy matter to simply make movies start talking across the country. For one thing, the apparatus required to record and later play the synchronized sound was not exactly cheap. Then there was another problem. The silent movie industry already had a strong foothold and for years actors had been hired on their physical attributes and their ability in the art of pantomime. Some of them, in fact, probably couldn't even speak well!

Even the Warner Brothers themselves weren't immediately aware of the true value of the new talkies. A year before their New York showing, Sam Warner had traveled to New York to attend an experimental viewing of sound movies at the Bell Telephone Laboratories. He had always had a strong interest in the technical side of film-making and was intrigued about the rumors he had heard. In fact, he had heard so much recent promotion about how great these new "talking pictures" were, that he had become a little cynical. He had more than once heard exaggerated claims of marvelous innovations that fell a little short of "marvelous" when he had actually witnessed them. His cynicism, however, dissolved as he watched their filmed presentation of a twelve-piece orchestra.

"I could not believe my own ears," he later remembered. "I walked in back of the screen to see if they did not have an orchestra there synchronizing with the picture. They all laughed at me." He hurriedly informed his brother Harry, who was the financial manager of the group. Harry was ecstatic over the news. He quickly began to dream up methods to market the new concept. They could sell a "canned" concert or vaudeville show which would allow a small one-man theater to compete with the major music halls. Also, he predicted, the small theater owners could save money by doing away with the house orchestras and piano players who routinely accompanied their silent movies.

"But don't forget," Sam broke in, "you can have actors talk too."

Harry's response to Sam's suggestion was not exactly destined to be inscribed into the Hall of Fame of Hollywood innovators He turned to Sam and snapped, "Who the hell wants to hear actors talk?"

Although it wouldn't be too long before that question would be enthusiastically answered by millions of Americans, Harry did have a point. Some of the early attempts at putting words in actor's mouths hadn't met with tremendous success. Their 1926 special was definitely not the first effort made toward creating sound movies.

In fact, as early as 1889, Thomas Edison was mixing movies with sound. He had recently invented the phonograph and was intrigued with the possibility of adding moving pictures to it. He turned the project over to his creative assistant William Dickson. During one of Edison's overseas trips, Dickson created a test film synchronized with a phonograph recording. When Edison returned, Dickson asked him to sit down in front of a small screen and put a nearby phonograph's listening tubes in his ears. As Edison watched the screen, a small picture of Dickson appeared and tipped his hat to him.

"Good morning, Mr. Edison, glad to see you back," the tiny image greeted him. "Hope you will like the Kinetophone."

Edison did like it and continued to work on the concept for the next twenty-years. By 1913, he felt he was ready to show the new wonder to the public. Unfortunately, the public did not agree with him. They were disappointed with the poor audio quality, and his performance drew boos and criticism. Within a couple of years, he dropped the project and never returned to it. Although Edison gave up on the idea, the possibility of adding sound to the silent movies was just too intriguing not to attract other experimenters. During the next decade they tested everything. Some gave up on the mechanical version and simply hired actors to hide behind the screen and recite the character's lines.

In many cases, a phonograph was placed in back of the screen so the sound would appear to be coming from the actors. Unfortunately there was usually only one person running the projector, so he also had to operate the phonograph with a system of cords and pulleys. Needless to say, it was a little tricky to synchronize the sound and the action. This synchronization problem continued to plague the talkies for years to come. For many fans of the early talkies, however, the faulty synchronization provided them with some of their fondest memories. Florida artist, Ila Goodwin, remembered the mismatched sound and pictures during many of the early western movies. She chuckled as she recalled that "You just got used to hearing the horses talk."

As more and more talkie pioneers worked on the new creation, they slowly worked the bugs out of the process. Through the years, the audio quality was improved and more sophisticated synchronization techniques began to slowly silence the "talking horses." This new gadget seemed to be showing some real possibilities after all. As the talkies became more practical, popular stage entertainers began to turn their attention toward the new medium. Traveling musicians and singers figured that if they could make a couple "short subject" films a year, they could add the royalties to their touring salaries. Ironically, few entertainers realized until it was too late that by doing this they would sometimes end up "competing with themselves." When they played towns that were running their movie shorts, the public would often choose the less expensive filmed version over their live performance.

An October, 1926 headline in Variety likely alerted some of the live entertainers to the growing threat. Commenting on a second special put on by Warner Brothers, a front-page banner headline read: "Better than Vaudeville." Suddenly this infant form of amusement was being compared to time-tested live entertainment. Not only did the second show draw rave reviews, but one of the entertainers on that special was destined to step off his familiar live stage and into the movie history books. One year and a day after the special, on October 6, 1927, that singer, Al Jolson, would premier in the first full-length talking movie. The movie, The Jazz Singer, would start the new entertainment form on a course bound for the stars.

Despite the expense of converting the silent movie houses to sound, and the resistance by many of the silent stars, the public apparently did "want to hear actors talk" after all. Year by year, the attendance rose and the profits mounted. Clearly, this new form of entertainment was not going to be a momentary flash in the pan. That flash would eventually outshine most of the live entertainment that proceeded it. Just as the early radio shows had drawn people back into the comfort of their living rooms, and television would soon lure them toward the glow of its little glass world, the talkies would begin to pull the audiences out of the tent shows, circuses and burlesque halls.

As strips of celluloid, and waves of sound and light began to replace the living, breathing entertainers, the theater owners and station managers were delighted. They wouldn't need to wait for the big-name acts to pull into town. They could simply turn a couple knobs and push a button or two and the stars would magically appear. In fact, as the new electric marvel progressed, they wouldn't even need to worry about the mishaps and mistakes that had been part of the early world of live entertainment.

If an opera singer inhaled an insect during her aria, or the elephants deposited unwanted gifts on the stage floor or a cabin door stuck shut on the stage - they could just reach for a few more buttons and knobs. With the magic of pre-recorded shows, they could simply do another "take." The audience would never even know what had happened. They would see a pure unblemished performance. But it's lucky for us that those knobs and buttons weren't invented any earlier. They might have erased all the colorful glimpses of the fascinating days of brass

bands and snake oil stands.
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