“I HAVE MADE COUNTLESS CHILDREN CLAP THEIR LITTLE HANDS WITH GLEE.”
“I HAVE MADE COUNTLESS CHILDREN CLAP THEIR LITTLE HANDS WITH GLEE.”
Since I have gotten into a reflective mood I should like to say something about the work of a clown that I don’t think the average person who goes to the circus comprehends, and it is this: the clown’s art has endured through all the years because it is clean. This is a very simple but a very powerful reason. Amusement vogues come and go, for the taste of the man who wants to be diverted is fickle. He is always craving something new. He may be interested for a brief time in the sickly atmosphere of a problem or an erotic play, but he soon tires of it. So with many other forms of entertainment. The vaudeville which is now having its hour of glory will pass away. But clowning is done out in the open air, where the winds of heaven blow about you! It is clean, morally and physically. It has no ambition to appeal to the senses; it has no elevating purpose; its sole idea is to amuse. In this it has achieved permanency.
Perhaps nothing in all my long antic before the public has given me a keener pleasure than the realization that I have given delight to children. The sight of their little faces, beaming with happiness and stretching up, row behind row, to the very top of the seats, has always filled me with renewed zeal for my work.
Nothing so attracts the small boy as the circus. I have strained my conscience many a time by letting a ragged urchin slip under the canvas and get a seat in the cherishedparadise. This reminds me of an incident that always gives me satisfaction to rehearse.
Eighteen years ago the Ringling show was at Binghamton, N. Y. It was a very hot day, and I stood outside the dressing tent to get a breath of air. As I stood there a little boy came up and eyed me eagerly. I was dressed for the afternoon performance, and thought he was merely staring at me out of boyish curiosity. Then I saw tears and a very wistful look in his eyes. I have always loved children, and this little chap made me think of my own dead boy. I walked up to him, and putting my hand on his head, said:
“What’s the matter, sonny?”
“I want to see the circus,” he replied.
“Have you no money?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, and fell to weeping.
Something in the lad’s manner touched me deeply. I saw that he really wanted to see the show, so I took him by the hand and led him to where he could find his way to a good seat. He was radiant with pleasure as I left him.
The years passed, and I forgot all about the incident. A few seasons ago we again showed at Binghamton, N. Y. Once more it was a scorching hot afternoon, and curiously enough I stood outside the dressing tent before the time came for me to go on. A fine-looking young man came up to where I was standing, and said:
“I beg your pardon, but I am looking for a clown who befriended me fifteen years ago. I heard someone then call him ‘Jules.’ Can you tell me if he is still with the show?”
I said to him:
“You don’t have to look far, for I am Jules.”
With that he reached forward, seized my hand and shook it warmly. Then he said:
“I have waited a long time to thank you for that kindness of long ago. It may have seemed a small thing to you, but it meant a lot to me. I want you to take dinner with me to-night.”
I went downtown with him after the performance, and we had a fine talk. He had become an electrical engineer and was doing well. He had always missed our circus when it showed at Binghamton. He made me promise to send him a picture of myself.
“IT IS GOOD TO BE A CLOWN.”
“IT IS GOOD TO BE A CLOWN.”
My life is dotted with experiences of this kind. Can you wonder, then, that I am proud and glad to be a clown? In one of his plays Shakespeare says:
“It is meat and drink to see a clown.”
I should change it so as to read:
“It is meat and drinkTO BEa clown.”
I have saved my money, and I own a house out in a Missouri town, where I go every winter after the circus season closes. I also have a farm in North Dakota, where I can see green things grow. I know that whatever may befall me I have a roof of my own which will shelter my last years. But I never expect to stop clowning as long as I am able to work.
Since I have spoken of the origin of the clown it might be well for me to speak of his end. Few ever leave the circus. Once a clown, always a clown. It is best to die in harness.
I have enjoyed my clowning, and to be content with one’s work is a great satisfaction. It does not come to all. I know at least that I have caused many people to forget their troubles, and I have made countless children clap their little hands with glee.
It is good to be a clown.
THE END