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BUFFALO BILL'S WILD WEST SHOW.

There are, take them all in all, wonderfully few shows one could visit with pleasure twice in one day; Barnum and Bailey's perhaps, provided one sat at a different end of the building the second time, and then one would see a perfectly different performance in another ring. But with Buffalo Bill's show, spectacle, entertainment, what you will, one could really go again and again. And, indeed, it is a debateable point whether one should go in the afternoon or evening. At the matinee one realizes more the details, get hold, so to speak, of the finer points, but in the evening there is the element of weirdness, almost of mysticism. One sees the electrics flashing on the bare skins of the Indians, sees their wonderful adornment of feathers silhouetted against the dark background; then the horses, they seem to gallop even faster as they dart from the light of one lamp to another, and there can be no question that the shooting display both of Buffalo Bill, and of that prince of marksmen Johnny Baker, is even more attractive by night than in the sunlight. One sees the glass balls gleaming against the darkness, to be shattered in a moment into thousands of glittering, flashing fragments before the unerring aim of the marksmen.

It is indeed hard to realize that almost twenty years have elapsed since Colonel Cody first showed Europe what riding and shooting and life in general had been in the Far West. When we saw that wellnigh imperial figure prancing into the arena at the head of his motley troupe of diverse nationalities, we felt that time had not altered, but only [fellowed?] him and his marvellous show. True, the flowing locks are white now, but the figure on the horse is as upright as of yore, the shooting as accurate as ever, and though we must stifle a pang of regret when we reflect that this is really his final tour in Europe, we can but remember that our loss is his gain, and can but hope that many a year may be left him to enjoy the western prairies that he loves so well.

But what of the show? what is it that twice a day is drawing thousands of Dresdeners to the Ostra Gehege? Is it really worth a visit? one can but say that the enthusiasm of the multitudes who have crowded to the initial performances, and one hopes, the satisfactory results from Colonel Cody's box-office, supply a sufficient answer. Worth it? of course it is! The show is stupedous, unique, it never drags; the whole performance is takenat a gallop, as it were; no sooner is one item over, than the curtains or canvass that have veiled the retireing performers are flung wide again to admit the next ones.

Hardly have the strains of the "Star-spangled banner," played by the cowboy band, died away, when the whole troupe of Redskins, Cowboys, Cossacks, Arabs, Japanese, Indian squaws come gallopping into the Arena; but the cheers are reserved for their leader Colonel Cody, who comes in last

BUFFALO BILL'S WILD WEST SHOW.

There are, take them all in all, wonderfully few shows one could visit with pleasure twice in one day; Barnum and Bailey's perhaps, provided one sat at a different end of the building the second time, and then one would see a perfectly different performance in another ring. But with Buffalo Bill's show, spectacle, entertainment, what you will, one could really go again and again. And, indeed, it is a debateable point whether one should go in the afternoon or evening. At the matinee one realizes more the details, get hold, so to speak, of the finer points, but in the evening there is the element of weirdness, almost of mysticism. One sees the electrics flashing on the bare skins of the Indians, sees their wonderful adornment of feathers silhouetted against the dark background; then the horses, they seem to gallop even faster as they dart from the light of one lamp to another, and there can be no question that the shooting display both of Buffalo Bill, and of that prince of marksmen Johnny Baker, is even more attractive by night than in the sunlight. One sees the glass balls gleaming against the darkness, to be shattered in a moment into thousands of glittering, flashing fragments before the unerring aim of the marksmen.

It is indeed hard to realize that almost twenty years have elapsed since Colonel Cody first showed Europe what riding and shooting and life in general had been in the Far West. When we saw that wellnigh imperial figure prancing into the arena at the head of his motley troupe of diverse nationalities, we felt that time had not altered, but only [fellowed?] him and his marvellous show. True, the flowing locks are white now, but the figure on the horse is as upright as of yore, the shooting as accurate as ever, and though we must stifle a pang of regret when we reflect that this is really his final tour in Europe, we can but remember that our loss is his gain, and can but hope that many a year may be left him to enjoy the western prairies that he loves so well.

But what of the show? what is it that twice a day is drawing thousands of Dresdeners to the Ostra Gehege? Is it really worth a visit? one can but say that the enthusiasm of the multitudes who have crowded to the initial performances, and one hopes, the satisfactory results from Colonel Cody's box-office, supply a sufficient answer. Worth it? of course it is! The show is stupedous, unique, it never drags; the whole performance is takenat a gallop, as it were; no sooner is one item over, than the curtains or canvass that have veiled the retireing performers are flung wide again to admit the next ones.

Hardly have the strains of the "Star-spangled banner," played by the cowboy band, died away, when the whole troupe of Redskins, Cowboys, Cossacks, Arabs, Japanese, Indian squaws come gallopping into the Arena; but the cheers are reserved for their leader Colonel Cody, who comes in last