80

Cody is one of the most imposing men in
appearance that America ever grew in her
kindly atmosphere. In his earlier days a
hint of the border desperado lurked in his
blazing eyes and the poetic fierceness of his
mien and coloring. Now it is all subdued
into pleasantness and he is the kindliest
most benign gentleman, as simple as a village
priest and learned as a savant of Chartreuse.
I have just left bin in his beaded
regalia (which is not dress, but rest for him)
and I do not think I ever spent a more delightful
hour. His history, teeming with
romance, is familiar to everybody in two
continents, but his social personality is
known to a favored few, in which treasured
category I herewith enroll myself. All the
gray that has been thrust into bis whirlwind
life has centered itself in the edges of his
beautiful hair, For the rest he is ruddy,
straight as the sturdiest buck in is troupe
and graceful as an eagle. He talks in the
quaint mountaineer language which robs
English of all its proper crudities. It is a
lazy, melodious sort of drawl tremendously
fascinating and unapproachable except by a
thoroughbred trapper, a cool soldier and
American westerner.

His own tent at the show is a dream of
improvised luxury. There are couches of
tempting comfort and such a bewildering
plethora of Indian ornament that further
entertainment scarcely seems called for but
he thinks of a thousand charming favors
and offers them in such an everyday simple
manner that one scarcely appreciates
that there has been any effort made in courtesy.
Mr. Cody is perfectly natural, He
has acquired no alien airs or manner in his
marvelous travels and successes, has never
lost the atmosphere of the boundless
plains, the inspiration of discovery and attempt,
nor the honest bravery of a lonely
scout for nothing much more than hardy sustenance
and exciting adventure.

He has gathered about him a host of clever
men and all tongues are spoken under
the white tents of the "Wild West Show."

First I was presented to Rain-in-the-Face,
a mild inoffensive old warrior, who looked
as if he had never done anything more reprehensible
than eat oatmeal all his active
life. They all wanted to share with me
and seized my hand in a friendly way
smile large, oleaginous smiles at me and
looked straight into my eyes in rather an
informal but reassuring manner. Curly,
the only survivor of the unhappy Custer
massacre, accompanies Mr. Rain -in-the- Face
and a pleasant group of white men
headed by Wickham join the party in Sitting
Bull's cabin. Outside suddenly here
raises a fearful din, strange animal yelps
look pretty busy. She is the mother of the
entire camp and has been with Cody for fifteen
years. The Russian prince, Ivan Makharadze
Richter, a tremendously swell
vaquero and an expert bolas wielder are
in turn presented to me, and then the infinitely
more interesting groups of Indians
lounging about the tents close to the fires,
One changing characteristic of the fiery
untamed noarch of the plains is his prodigious
talent for resting. Indians can rest
more to the square inch therapy class of
royalty I ever ran across. The show is simply
tremendous. I can see how strangers
to such brilliant spectacular nature might
rave over it. I was born and raised where
occurrences identical with the dramatic incidents
of this exhibition were not at all unusual,
and the show is intensely exciting
to me. It is not theatrical, save that the
dramatic force of reality is always the most
thrilling achievement in stupendous spectacles.
As for the riding, the entire exhibition
shows conclusively that America possesses
not only the most daring but the
most graceful riders in the world. It is diverting
to note the difference in the seat,
carriage and management of horses in each
representative rider. An Indian hugs the
animal close, lifting the horse, instead of
bearing weight upon it. Every muscle of
an Indian's body trembles in response to
the horse's gait. He sticks to the saddle
or bareback by a sort of capillary attraction.
The cowboy and Mexican do not
touch a horse but wear him out. The rider
seems winged and has his hands full of ropes
and reins and everything but the expected.
Germans are huge, bulky riders, who bounce
and shake and take good care of their
horses. Cossacks ride a horse like it was
stationary and cast-iron and Arabs whirl.
about a mass of circling drapery and arms.
A Frenchman is always le beau sabreur,
but he can't ride even a rocking-horse. The
most beautiful and easiest riders in the
world are American cavalrymen. In Cody's
show they are magnificent. Handsome, of
course. I was assured to-day by a very insinuating
and att raçtive lieutenant of New
York's 8th, that American military men
are always handsome and brilliant and brave.

AMY LESLIE.