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HERE have been warm winds out of the south for several days, soft rains have teased the daffodils into blossom along the fences, and this morning I heard the first clicking of a lawn-mower. It seems but yesterday that winter was tugging at the chimneys, that March freshets were brawling in the gutters; but with the shifting of the cock upon the steeple the spring came gaily from its hiding in the hills. At this moment, to prove the changing of the season, a street organ plays beneath my window. It is rather a miserable box and is stocked with sentimental tunes for coaxing nickels out of pity. Its inlaid mahogany is soiled with travel. It has a peg-leg, and it hangs around the musician's neck as if weary of the road. Master, it seems to say, may we sit awhile? And yet on this warm morning in the sunlight there is almost a touch of frolic in the box. A syncopation attempts a happier temper. It has sniffed the fragrant air and desires to put a better face upon its troubles.

Susan, the housemaid next door, hangs out the Monday's garments to dry, and there is a pleasant flapping of legs and arms impatient for partners in a dance. Must a petticoat sit unasked when the music plays? Surely breeches and stockings will not hold back when a lively skirt beckons. A slow waltz might even

tempt Aunt Bertha's nightgown off the line. If only a vegetable man would come with a cart of red pie-plant and green lettuce and offer his gaudy wares along the street, then the evidence of spring would be complete.

But there is even better evidence at hand. This morning I noticed that a circus-poster had been pasted on the billboard near the school-house. Several children and I stopped to see the wonders that were promised. Then a bell rang, and they dawdled off. Were there circus bill-boards in the days of Stratford? There, also, it seems, the schoolboy with his shining morning face crept like snail unwillingly to school. This morning it will be a shrewd lesson to keep the childrens' thoughts from leaping out the window. It will hardly keep their truant noses on the desk.

On the bill-board there is the usual blonde with pink legs balanced on one toe on a running horse. The clown holds the paper hoop. The band is blowing itself very red in the face. An acrobat leaps headlong from a high trapeze. There are five rings, thirty clowns, an amazing variety of equestrian and slackwire genius, a galaxy of dazzling beauty, and every performance includes a dizzy, death-defying dive by a dauntless daredevil on a bicycle from the top of the tent. And of course there are elephants and performing dogs and fat ladies. One

day only, two performances, rain or shine.

Does not this kind of bill-board stir the blood in these adventurous days of spring? It is a gay tonic on the sober street. It is a shining dial that marks the coming of the summer. In the winter let barns and fences proclaim the fashion of our dress and tease us with their bargains, but in the spring, when the wind is from the south, fences have a better use. They announce the circus. What child now will not come upon a trot? What student can keep to his sober book? There is a sleepy droning from the school-house. Must the boundaries of Siam be kept indoors to-day? The irregular verbs, lawless rascals doubtless who have sowed their oats, chafe in their dull routine. The clock loiters through the hour.

It was by a mere coincidence that I stopped last night on my way home at a news-stand for a daily paper, and saw a periodical by the name of the "Paste Brush." On a gay cover was the picture of another blonde, a sister, maybe, of the lady of the bill-board. She was held by an ankle over a sea of upturned faces, but by her happy, inverted smile she seemed unaware of her danger.

ONE WEEK ONLY

The "Paste Brush" is new to me. I bought a copy, folded its scandalous cover out of sight, and took it home. It proves to be the trade journal of the circus and amusement-park interests. It announces a circulation of seventy thousand, which, I fancy, is largely among acrobats, magicians, fat ladies, clowns, liniment-venders, lion-tamers, Caucasian beauties, and actors on obscure circuits.

Now, it happens that among a fairly wide acquaintance I cannot myself boast a single acrobat or professional fat man. A dear friend of mine, it is true, swells in that direction, but it is as yet his unwilling avocation, and he rolls nights and morning as corrective. I did once, also, pass an agreeable hour at a county fair with a strong man who bends iron bars in his teeth. He had picked me from his audience as one of convincing weight to hang across the bar while he performed his trick. When the show was done, he introduced me to the bearded lady. One of my friends, also, has told me that she is acquainted with a lady, a former pupil of her Sunday-school, who leaps from a parachute in the park on holidays. The bantam champion, too, many years ago lived behind us, around the corner, but he was a distant hero for our youthful worship. But these meetings are exceptional and accidental. Most of us, let us assume, find our acquaintance in the usual walks of life. Last night, therefore, having laid by the letters of Mme. d'Arblay, on whose seven volumes I have been engaged for a month, I took up the "Paste Brush," and was carried at once

into another and unfamiliar world.

The frontispiece is the big tent of the circus, with side-shows in the foreground. There is a great wheel with its swinging baskets, a merry-goround, a funny castle, and a sword-swallowers' booth. By a dense crowd around a wagon I am of

opinion that nothing less than red lemonade is sold. Certainly Jolly Mause, that mountain of flesh, holds the distant crowd against the ropes.

An article, "Freaks I have Known," is worth the reading. You may care to know that a celebrated missing link-I withhold the lady's name plays solitaire in her tent as she waits her turn. Bearded ladies, it is asserted, are mostly married, and have a fondness for crocheting out of hours. The three-legged boy tried to enlist for the war, but was rejected because he broke up a pair of shoes. The wild men of Borneo lived and died in Waltham, Massachusetts. If the street and number were given, it would tempt me to a pilgrimage. Have I not journeyed to Concord and to Plymouth? Perhaps an old inhabitant, an antique spinster or whiskered grocer, can still remember the pranks of the wild men's childhood.

sofa pillows with pictures of Turkish beauties.

But let us suppose, my dear sir, that you are one of those seventy thousand subscribers and are by profession a tattooer. On the day of publication with what eagerness you scan its columns! Here is your opportunity to pick up an improved outfit-stencils and supplies complete, with twelve chest designs and a picture of a tattooed lady in colors for display. Send for price-list. Or, if you have skill in charming snakes and your stock of vipers is running low, write to the Snake King of Florida for his catalogue. "He treats you right." Here is an advertisement of an alligator farm. Alligator-wrestlers, it is said, make big money at popular resorts on the Southern circuit. It needs only a moderate skill to seize the fierce creature by his tail and haul him to the shore. A deft movement throws him on his back. Then you tickle him under the ear to calm him, and pass the hat.

Here in the "Paste Brush" is an announcement of a ship-load of monkeys from Brazil. Would you care to buy a walrus? Or perhaps you are a glassblower with your own outfit, a ventriloquist, a diving beauty, a lyric tenor, or a nail-eater. If so, here is an agent who will book you through the West. The small cities and large towns of Kansas yearn for you. Or if you, my dear madame, are of good figure, the Alamo Beauties, touring in Mississippi, want your services. Long season. No back pay.

Would you like to play a tuba in a ladies' orchestra? You are wanted in Oklahoma. The Sunshine Girls, famous on Western circuits, are looking to augment their number. "Wanted: Woman for Eliza and Ophelia. A child for Eva. Must double as a pony. State salary. Canada theatres."

It is affirmed that there is money in box-ball, that hoop-la yields a fortune, that "you mop up the tin" with a Huckley-buck. It sounds easy. I wonder what a "Huckley-buck" is like. I wonder if I have ever seen one. It must be common knowledge to the readers of the "Paste Brush," for the term is not explained. Perhaps one puts a Huckleybuck in a wagon and drives from town to

I'll buy tickets and take my nephew, little Nepos"

town. Doubtless it returns a fortune in a county fair. Is this not an opportunity for an underpaid school-teacher or slim seamstress? No longer need she subsist upon a pittance. Let her write to-day for a catalogue. She must choose a Huckley-buck of gaudy color, with a Persian princess on the side to draw the crowd. Let her stop by the village pump and sound a stirring blast upon her megaphone.

Or perhaps you, my dear sir, have been chafing in an indoor job. You have been hooped through a dreary winter over a desk. If so, your gloomy disposition can be mended by a hoop-la booth. "This way, gentlemen! Try your luck! Positively no blanks. A valuable prize for everybody." Your stoop shoulders will straighten. Your digestion will come to order in a month. Or why not run a stand at the beach for walking-sticks, with a view in the handle of a "dashing

French actress in a daring pose, or the latest picture of President and Mrs. Wilson at the peace conference"? Or curiosities may be purchased-"twoheaded giants, mermaids, sea-serpents, a devil-child, and an Egyptian mummy. New lists ready." A mummy would be a quiet and profitable companion for our seamstress in the long vacation. It would need less attention than a seaserpent. Let her announce the dusty creature as a daughter of the Ptolemies. When the word has gone round, she may sit at ease and count the dropping nickels.

She will take to her thimble with vigor in the autumn.

Out in Gilmer, Texas, there is a hog with six legs, "alive and healthy. Five hundred dollars takes it." Here is a merchant who will sell you "snake, frog and monkey tights." After your church supper, on the stage of the Sunday school, surely you could draw a crowd. Study

the trombone and double your income. Can you yodle? "It can be learned at home, evenings, in six easy lessons."

A waffle-machine will be shipped to you on trial. Does no one wish to take the road with a five-legged cow? Here is one for sale, an extraordinary animal that cleaned up sixty dollars in one afternoon at a county fair in Indiana. "Walk up, ladies and gentlemen! The marvel of the age. Plenty of time before the big show starts. A five-legged cow. Count them. Answers to the name of Guene

vere.

Shown before all the crowned heads of Europe. Once owned by the Czar of Russia. Only a dime. A tenth of a dollar. Ten cents. Show about to start."

Or perhaps you think it more profitable to buy a steam calliope. Some very good second-hand ones are offered in the "Paste Brush"-"and tour your neighboring towns. Make a stand at the cross-roads under the soldiers' monument. Give a free concert. Then, when the crowd is thick about you, offer them a magic ointment. Rub an old man for his rheumatism. Throw away his stick, clap him on the back, and pronounce him cured. Or pull teeth at a dollar each. It takes but a moment for a diagnosis. When once the fashion starts, the profitable bicuspids will drop around you."

And funny castles can be bought. Perhaps you do not know what they are. They are usual in amusement parks. You and a favorite lady enter, hand in hand. It is dark inside, and if she is of an agreeable timidity, she leans to your support. Only if you are a churl will you deny your arm. Then presently a fiery

devil's head flashes beside you in the passage. The flooring tilts and wobbles as you step. Here, surely, no lady will wish to keep her independence. Presently a picture opens in the wall. It is souls in hell or the Queen of Sheba on a journey. Then a sharp draft ascends through an opening in the floor. Your lady screams and minds her skirts. A progress through a funny castle, it is said, ripens the greenest friendship. Now take the lady outside, smooth her off, and regale her with a lovers' sundae. Funny castles with wind machines, a Queen of Sheba, almost new, and devil's head, complete, can be purchased. Remit twenty-five per cent. with order, the balance on delivery.

Perhaps I am too old for these high excitements. Funny castles are behind me. Ladies of the circus, alas! who ride in golden chariots are no longer beautiful. Cleopatra in her tinsel has sunk to the common level. Clowns with slapsticks rouse in me only a moderate delight.

At this moment, as I write, the clock strikes twelve. It is noon, and school is out. There is a slamming of desks and a rush for caps. The boys scamper on the stairs. They surge through the gate. The acrobat on the bill-board greets their eyes, the clown also, the lady with the pink legs. They pause. They gather in a circle. They have fallen victims to her inverted smile. They mark the great day in memory.

The wind is from the south. The daffodils flourish along the fences. There will be parade in the morning. The great show starts at two. I'll buy tickets and take my nephew, little Nepos.