§ 363 The Prize Smell of the Circus
Harry Dickson, the writer, probably knows as much about the Southern negro as any white man can ever expect to know. But even so, in his search for local color and quaint lines with which to illuminate his stories, he constantly is striking a new angle of thought or a new angle of observation on the part of some one or another of his dusky neighbors down in Mississippi.
Once upon a time Dickson was on a hunting trip in a remote county. While there, he met an old negro guide, a bear-hunter of superior attainments and a person of a quaint and an original philosophy. All his life the old man had been buried at the back edge of the canebrakes. Only once or twice had he been to a large town. The dream of his life, it developed, was to see a circus. He had heard of circuses, he had talked with persons who had seen circuses and he treasured a tattered program of a circus performance which a white man had given him. But the marvels of the red wagon and the white top never had revealed themselves to him.
Learning of the old man’s ambition, Dickson had an inspiration. It was an inspiration born partly of philanthropy and partly of selfish and mercenary motives; for he scented a chance to get some prime material for one of his stories. He promised Uncle Jim that when next the circus visited Vicksburg, he, Uncle Jim, should see it.
In the middle of the following summer Ringling Brothers came along with their show. Dickson sent Uncle Jim money for his railroad fare and bade him be in Vicksburg at daylight of a certain morning. He met Uncle Jim at the train.
That day was probably the most crowded day and the most eventful in Uncle Jim’s entire life. His patron took him up into the yards to see the circus unload from the cars, and took him thence to the show lot to watch the raising of the tents. Under escort of Dickson the old negro viewed the street parade, the afternoon performance and the side-show and heard the concert. He saw it all—menagerie, hippodrome, freaks and the rest of it. His widely popped eyes and the look on his face testified to his enthrallment at beholding these wonders, but not a word either of commendation or admiration fell from his lips. Harris was rather disappointed. He had expected a constant flow of “copy.”
Still maintaining his silence, Uncle Jim trailed Dickson to his home when the day was ended. He had dinner in the kitchen with the servants and a little later was to be taken to the train which would carry him back to his home in Sunflower County. Toward dark Dickson went to the back of the house to bid his guest farewell.
Uncle Jim, with his shoes off, sat on the lowermost step of the porch easing his tired feet.
“Uncle Jim,” said Dickson, “I’m afraid you haven’t enjoyed your trip very much.”
“W’y, Mist’ Dickson,” said Uncle Jim, “whut meks you think dat? I ain’t never gwine furgit whut I seen to-day ez long ez I lives, an’ I’s always gwine be grateful to you, suh.”
“But you haven’t said anything about the circus. What made you so dumb?”
“Well, suh, my eyes beheld so much dat it seem lak my tongue forgot to wag.”
“Oh, that was it? Well, of all the things you’ve seen to-day what impressed you most?”
“All of it ’pressed me—frum de start to de finish.”
“Yes, I know, but there must have been some one thing that stands out in your mind above all the others—something that seemed to you more amazing than anything else. Think the whole day over, now, and see if you can tell me what that thing is.”
“Well, suh, Mist’ Dickson,” said Uncle Jim, after a period of reflection, “ef it comes down to jes’ one thing, I’d say de thing w’ich hit me de hardest was dat air beast w’ich dey calls de camel. Uh,—dat camel!”
“Why the camel particularly?” asked Dickson.
“Mist’ Dickson,” said Jim, “he’s got such a noble smell!”