the dizziness of revulsion that takes the breath like cold
water--who shall depict this and live? All I knew was that I
would have died then and there, cheerfully, for the funny man;
that I longed for red Indians to spring out from the hedge on the
dog-cart, just to show what I would do; and that, with all this,
I could not find the least little word to say to him.

Harold was less taciturn. With shrill voice, uplifted in solemn
chant, he sang the great spheral circus-song, and the undying
glory of the Ring. Of its timeless beginning he sang, of its
fashioning by cosmic forces, and of its harmony with the stellar
plan. Of horses he sang, of their strength, their swiftness, and
their docility as to tricks. Of clowns again, of the glory of
knavery, and of the eternal type that shall endure. Lastly
he sang of Her--the Woman of the Ring--flawless, complete,
untrammelled in each subtly curving limb; earth's highest output,
time's noblest expression. At least, he doubtless sang all
these things and more--he certainly seemed to; though all that
was distinguishable was, "We're-goin'-to-the-circus!" and then,
once more, "We're-goin'-to-the-circus!"--the sweet rhythmic
phrase repeated again and again. But indeed I cannot be quite
sure, for I heard confusedly, as in a dream. Wings of fire
sprang from the old mare's shoulders. We whirled on our way
through purple clouds, and earth and the rattle of wheels were
far away below.

The dream and the dizziness were still in my head when I found
myself, scarce conscious of intermediate steps, seated actually
in the circus at last, and took in the first sniff of that
intoxicating circus smell that will stay by me while this