THAT WOULD MAKE THE FORTUNE OF AN
AMERICAN MINSTREL."]

A look at the outside of the Soudanese theater is enough for the
ordinary curiosity-seeker. It is a little round hut of bark in a dark
corner of the Egyptian enclosure. Mahomet Ali sits at the receipt of
custom exchanging pleasantries with dusky flower girls whose home is by
the orange market beyond the Kase el Nil, who know more French than
English, and more deviltry than either; who sing "Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay,"
and know how to solicit backsheesh to perfection. The theatricals here
are simplicity brought to perfection. It is said their language consists
of only a hundred words. If you were to paint your face black, look
wild-eyed, stiffen your hair in many strands, array yourself in a cotton
garment that revealed more than it concealed, and then were to jump
straight up and down to the music of a dolorous chant you would not be
far astray. Add to this a whining and interminable appeal for backsheesh
and you might be very near the mark indeed. But there is one Soudanese
performance you could scarcely hope to equal, unless you were to learn
some sort of devil's chant, gird your loins with a loose belt of shells
and by rapid contortions of your body make these primitive cymbals
accompany your chant. This is the star of the troupe.

Romantic people, who like to think of dancing as the poetry of motion,
can get a liberal education in muscular poesy by making the rounds of
the Midway Plaisance. They may see sonnets in double-shuffle metre,
doggerels in hop-skip iambics, and ordinary newspaper "ponies" with the
rhythm of the St. Vitus dance. Slices of pandemonium will be thrown in
by the orchestras for the one price of admission, and if the visitor
objects to taking his pandemonium on the installment plan, he may get it
in job lots down at the Dahomeyan village.

In their "dance," as it is termed, they take a step forward with the
right foot, and drag the left after it. This is repeated until they stub
their toes on the orchestra, when they swarm back and go through the
difficult feat of advancing by a series of hops on one foot. All of this
is to the discordant pounding of drums and scrap-iron, where tune could
not be discovered with a search warrant.

That evening Fanny visited the C. C. of C. C. and arranged for a family
picnic at Washington Park the next day. She was to be hostess, and they
were to have an outing with her in the city's artificial fields and
forest