ave the relics, the
spinning-wheel, the flax-hackle, and the bunch of dusty tow that nobody
knows how to spin in these degenerate days; the old flint-lock rifle,
and the powder-horn; the tinder-box, and the blue plate, "more'n a
hundred years old;" the dog-irons, tongs, poker, and turkey-wing of an
ancient fireplace--around back of the Old Settlers' Cabin all the early
part of the day a bunch of dirty canvas has been dangling from a rope
stretched between two trees. It was fenced off from the curious, but
after dinner a stranger in fringy trousers and a black singlet went
around picking out big, strong, adventurous young fellows to stand about
the wooden ring fastened to the bottom of the bunch of canvas, which
went over the smoke-pipe of a sort of underground furnace in which a
roaring fire had been built. As the hot air filled the great bag, it was
the task of these helpers to shake out the wrinkles and to hold it down.
Older and wiser ones forbade their young ones to go near it. Supposing
it should explode; what then? But we have always wanted to fly away
up into the air, and what did we come to the Fair for, if not for
excitement? The balloon swells out amazingly fast, and when the
guy-ropes are loosened and drop to the ground, the elephantine bag
clumsily lunges this way and that, causing shrill squeals from those who
fear to be whelmed in it. The man in the singlet tosses kerosene into
the furnace from a tin cup, and you can see the tall flames leap upward
from the flue into the balloon. It grows tight as a drum.

"Watch your horses!" he calls out. There is a pause.... "Let go all!"
The mighty shape shoots up twenty feet or so, and the man in the singlet
darts to the corner to cut a lone detaining rope. As he runs he sheds
his fringy trousers.

"Good-by, everybody!" he cries out, and the sinister possibilities in
that phrase are overlooked in the wonder at seeing him lurch upward
through the air, all glorious in black tights and yellow breech-clout.
Up and up he soars above the tree-tops, and the wind gently wafts him
along, a pendant to a dusky globe hanging in the sky. He is just a speck
now swaying to and fro. The globe plunges upward; the pendant drops like
a shot. There is a rustling sound. It is the intake of the breath of
horror from ten thousand pairs of lungs. Look! Look! The edges of the
parachute ruffle, and then it blossoms out like an opening flower. It
bounces on the air a little, and rocking gently