The inhabitants saw the gorgeous procession pass with
indifference, with a superior kind of air and without the least
enthusiasm.

On the evening of the first performance, in spite of the placards,
processions, bands, notices, and illuminations, nobody appeared at
the ticket-office of the theatre and they played to an empty
house.

"What," cried the impresario, tearing his hair. "Crowds flocked to
me in London, Paris, St. Petersburg, and New York. I have been
congratulated by the Shah of Persia, invited to lunch by the Grand
Turk, and this little hole despises me, mocks at me, considers me
a failure."

The lights out, Sir Booum spent a terrible night, wondering what
evil genius could thus attack his laurels. At dawn, worn out by
his sleepless night, he set out, eager to learn the cause of his
failure.

All those whom he met winked knowingly, laughing in their sleeves,
and courtesied to him without giving him any information. At last
one, touched by his despair, answered:

"Why should we come to you? We have here in this very place, where
we can see it for nothing, a marvel beside which yours are
commonplace. Have you in your menagerie a curly-haired hen?"

"A curly-haired hen!" cried Sir Booum. "Gracious, goodness me!