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undeceive them. The paints are laid on pretty thick and to all intents and purposes make just as decent a covering as the average acrobat's costume. In the dances of the Sioux, which are from an ethnological point of view as interesting as anything to be seen in the Wild West or Midway plaisance exhibitions, the warriors are dressed or rather painted and be-feathered, just as they were in the famous ghost dances which led up to our last Indian war. Strictly speaking their single garment about the loins is about as large as a respectable handkerchief; blue, red, yellow, and green paint smeared carefully over every limb, with the feather head-dress complete the costume. Yellow paint, of the tint that has been popular of late for country villas, seems the favorite color with the Sioux. Jumping up and down, or sidling about like game roosters, the dancers are not terrible to look at, and the solemn, slow shuffle in close order which the blanketed squaws and children affect has its humorous side also, but the memory of what bloodshed these antics as part of a religious craze have often prefaced makes the spectator experience as creepy a sensation as if tomahawks were being sharpened and rifles loaded for a raid upon the grand stand.

When it is not being dragged around the arena the Deadwood stage quietly sojourns behind the Rocky mountains. By the way, Col. Cody's heart was nearly broken when a hotelman persisted in erecting an advertising sign on the top of his caravansary, so that it appears to be perched on the topmost peak of the Rockies. The persuasive powers of the whole Wild West were brought to bear on the hotel keeper to induce him to haul down the sign, but there is still stands. One wonders whether Princess May, the most gushed over bride of the season, as she rode in her coach of crystal, and crimson, and gold, drawn by the famous cream-colored horses through London's streets the other day, thought of her journey in the Deadwood stage. Maj. Burke says she enjoyed the trip behind the mules as much as any girl who has taken it, and expressed her delight with all a schoolgirl's enthusiasm.

The Wild West is not all mimicry by a long shot. There is a painful relaity about the accidents that frequently occur. In a stroll through the camp after the show the other day the writer saw half a dozen men who had come to grief in one way or another. A tall English lancer came out of his tent to show Maj. Burke his bandaged arm and explained the cause thus: "I was comin' out of the stable and one o' them bloody Indians' horses was comin' in and one of us 'ad to get 'urt, and 'e 'it my harm!"

Behind the scenes at the Wild West is not a very safe place while the show is on. The brochos run loose, and the riders can't be expected to take any better care of bystanders than they do of themselves. It is a great sight to see the Indians get up speed in less than fifty feet for their entrance a full gallop into the area in pursuit of the Deadwood coach. Also it is bad policy to be in their road at the moment.

The cowboys who ride the bukcing bronchos are not seldom in the list of injured and wounded. Bones are broken and limbs bruised when the rider of a bucker gets too close to the grand-stand fence, and more painful injuries, as one might expect, sometimes result to the daring riders of these wild horses. But these accidents are taken as a matter of course. The men who suffer and the others who look on, knowing that it may be their turn next, have learned to reach such mishaps as a part of the program in their life on the ranch.

It is a mighty pleasant thing for Americans to know that the cowboys are not only the most daring and the handsomest riders in the show, but the kindest to their horses. The Cossacks, who of the old world contingent approach nearest in horsemanship to the cowboys, are forever beating their horses with heavy sticks, and nearly all the other nationalities use spur and whip unmercifully. But the cowboy gets more work out of his pony by friendly urging with voice and hand than any other rider can with lash or steel. Perhaps that is why the cowboy mounted is next door to a centaur. Man and horse seem one in the wildest gallop, and both seem to enjoy in the same way the glorious exhilaration of rapid motion. No wonder grizzled army generals and young subalterns, unromantic business men, tender women, and tough lads go wild over the cowboys. The boy who doesn't solemnly swear to be a cowboy after his first visit to the Wild West needs looking to--there's something wrong with him.

The first tent of the row fronting the entrance is Buffalo Bill's. It is a modest little affair, hung about with pictures of Col. Cody's home in Nebraska, his horses and herds of cattle, and scenes from his last expedition on the war path against the ghost dancers of Pine Ridge. Talking of pictures, the best one Buffalo Bill has ever had made of himself will shortly be added to the attractions of the Wild West. When the show was last in Paris an old lady called upon Col. Cody, and made him jump a foot from the floor when she explained that she was Rosa Bonheur, the greatest animal painter now living. She took a violent fancy to the Wild West at once, and all the time it remained in Paris haunted its quarters. She wound up by painting Buffalo Bill himself mounted on the famous white horse, which has since died, and this picture, which Col. Cody and everyone about him declar is simply magnificient as a work of art, aside from the excellent likeness of the great scout it contains, will soon arrive from France. While she was painting it the only condition she insisted upon was that the Parisian public should not be told of her presence in the city. The old lady detests Parisian tuft hunters.

At this late day it is not much use attempting to tell anything new about the genius of the Wild West Buffalo Bill himself. One thing is pleasantly prominent in his make-up - he is the same to everybody, and doubtless makes no destinction between a crowned head and one in a crownless bat. They say that it is once a friend always a friend with him. This summer after spending the day at the world's fair Mrs. Crook, the widow of Gen. Crook, with whom Col. Cody served in many a campaign, paid a social call upon Buffalo Bill. They had a pleasant chat and exchange of reminiscences of the Sioux war of 1876, when Col. Cody was a special scout with Gen. Crook. The deep respect and solicitude for her comfort Col. Cody manifested touched Mrs. Crook greatly, and afterward she said to a friend: "There are a good many people who has difficulty in remembering me, but at the Wild West Lam always sure of the same reception as if Gen. Crook were still living."

undeceive them. The paints are laid on pretty thick and to all intents and purposes make just as decent a covering as the average acrobat's costume. In the dances of the Sioux, which are from an ethnological point of view as interesting as anything to be seen in the Wild West or Midway plaisance exhibitions, the warriors are dressed or rather painted and be-feathered, just as they were in the famous ghost dances which led up to our last Indian war. Strictly speaking their single garment about the loins is about as large as a respectable handkerchief; blue, red, yellow, and green paint smeared carefully over every limb, with the feather head-dress complete the costume. Yellow paint, of the tint that has been popular of late for country villas, seems the favorite color with the Sioux. Jumping up and down, or sidling about like game roosters, the dancers are not terrible to look at, and the solemn, slow shuffle in close order which the blanketed squaws and children affect has its humorous side also, but the memory of what bloodshed these antics as part of a religious craze have often prefaced makes the spectator experience as creepy a sensation as if tomahawks were being sharpened and rifles loaded for a raid upon the grand stand.

When it is not being dragged around the arena the Deadwood stage quietly sojourns behind the Rocky mountains. By the way, Col. Cody's heart was nearly broken when a hotelman persisted in erecting an advertising sign on the top of his caravansary, so that it appears to be perched on the topmost peak of the Rockies. The persuasive powers of the whole Wild West were brought to bear on the hotel keeper to induce him to haul down the sign, but there is still stands. One wonders whether Princess May, the most gushed over bride of the season, as she rode in her coach of crystal, and crimson, and gold, drawn by the famous cream-colored horses through London's streets the other day, thought of her journey in the Deadwood stage. Maj. Burke says she enjoyed the trip behind the mules as much as any girl who has taken it, and expressed her delight with all a schoolgirl's enthusiasm.

The Wild West is not all mimicry by a long shot. There is a painful relaity about the accidents that frequently occur. In a stroll through the camp after the show the other day the writer saw half a dozen men who had come to grief in one way or another. A tall English lancer came out of his tent to show Maj. Burke his bandaged arm and explained the cause thus: "I was comin' out of the stable and one o' them bloody Indians' horses was comin' in and one of us 'ad to get 'urt, and 'e 'it my harm!"

Behind the scenes at the Wild West is not a very safe place while the show is on. The brochos run loose, and the riders can't be expected to take any better care of bystanders than they do of themselves. It is a great sight to see the Indians get up speed in less than fifty feet for their entrance a full gallop into the area in pursuit of the Deadwood coach. Also it is bad policy to be in their road at the moment.

The cowboys who ride the bukcing bronchos are not seldom in the list of injured and wounded. Bones are broken and limbs bruised when the rider of a bucker gets too close to the grand-stand fence, and more painful injuries, as one might expect, sometimes result to the daring riders of these wild horses. But these accidents are taken as a matter of course. The men who suffer and the others who look on, knowing that it may be their turn next, have learned to reach such mishaps as a part of the program in their life on the ranch.

It is a mighty pleasant thing for Americans to know that the cowboys are not only the most daring and the handsomest riders in the show, but the kindest to their horses. The Cossacks, who of the old world contingent approach nearest in horsemanship to the cowboys, are forever beating their horses with heavy sticks, and nearly all the other nationalities use spur and whip unmercifully. But the cowboy gets more work out of his pony by friendly urging with voice and hand than any other rider can with lash or steel. Perhaps that is why the cowboy mounted is next door to a centaur. Man and horse seem one in the wildest gallop, and both seem to enjoy in the same way the glorious exhilaration of rapid motion. No wonder grizzled army generals and young subalterns, unromantic business men, tender women, and tough lads go wild over the cowboys. The boy who doesn't solemnly swear to be a cowboy after his first visit to the Wild West needs looking to--there's something wrong with him.

The first tent of the row fronting the entrance is Buffalo Bill's. It is a modest little affair, hung about with pictures of Col. Cody's home in Nebraska, his horses and herds of cattle, and scenes from his last expedition on the war path against the ghost dancers of Pine Ridge. Talking of pictures, the best one Buffalo Bill has ever had made of himself will shortly be added to the attractions of the Wild West. When the show was last in Paris an old lady called upon Col. Cody, and made him jump a foot from the floor when she explained that she was Rosa Bonheur, the greatest animal painter now living. She took a violent fancy to the Wild West at once, and all the time it remained in Paris haunted its quarters. She wound up by painting Buffalo Bill himself mounted on the famous white horse, which has since died, and this picture, which Col. Cody and everyone about him declar is simply magnificient as a work of art, aside from the excellent likeness of the great scout it contains, will soon arrive from France. While she was painting it the only condition she insisted upon was that the Parisian public should not be told of her presence in the city. The old lady detests Parisian tuft hunters.

At this late day it is not much use attempting to tell anything new about the genius of the Wild West Buffalo Bill himself. One thing is pleasantly prominent in his make-up - he is the same to everybody, and doubtless makes no destinction between a crowned head and one in a crownless bat. They say that it is once a friend always a friend with him. This summer after spending the day at the world's fair Mrs. Crook, the widow of Gen. Crook, with whom Col. Cody served in many a campaign, paid a social call upon Buffalo Bill. They had a pleasant chat and exchange of reminiscences of the Sioux war of 1876, when Col. Cody was a special scout with Gen. Crook. The deep respect and solicitude for her comfort Col. Cody manifested touched Mrs. Crook greatly, and afterward she said to a friend: "There are a good many people who has difficulty in remembering me, but at the Wild West Lam always sure of the same reception as if Gen. Crook were still living."