"Thank you so much." He followed the directions, keeping an eye out for the lady with a dog. Nevertheless he stared with wonder at the things he saw as he threaded through the gay crowds. He did see a dog, but it was a seeing-eye dog—and that was a great wonder, too, for the live clear eyes of the dog’s master could and did see anything that was going on around him, yet the man and the dog traveled together with the man letting the dog direct their way, as if no other way of travel were conceivable, or desired, by either one.
He found himself in Canal Street presently and the illusion was so complete that it was hard to believe that he had not been transported to New Orleans. Carnival was at height; it was Fat Tuesday here; the crowds were masked. He got a mask from a street vendor and went on.
The hunt seemed hopeless. The street was choked by merry-makers watching the parade of the Krewe of Venus. It was hard to breathe, much harder to move and search. He eased into Bourbon Street—the entire French Quarter had been reproduced—when he saw the dog.
He was sure it was the dog. It was wearing a clown suit and a little peaked hat, but it looked like his dog. He corrected himself; it looked like Bindlestiff.
And it accepted one of the frankfurters gratefully. "Where is she, old fellow?" The dog woofed once, then darted away into the crowd. He tried to follow, but could not; he required more clearance. But he was not downhearted; he had found the dog once, he would find him again. Besides, it had been at a masked ball that he had first met Martha, she a graceful Pierrette, he a fat Pierrot. They had watched the dawn come up after the ball and before the sun had set again they had agreed to marry.
He watched the crowd for Pierrettes, sure somehow that the dog’s mistress would costume so.
Everything about this fair made him think even more about Martha, if that were possible. How she had traveled his territory with him, how it had been their habit to start out, anywhere, whenever a vacation came along. Chuck the Duncan Hines guide and some bags in the car and be off. Martha . . . sitting beside him with the open highway a broad ribbon before them ... singing their road song America the Beautiful and keeping him on key: "—thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears—"
Once she had said to him, while they were bowling along through—where was it? The Black Hills? The Ozarks? The Poconos? No matter. She had said, "Johnny, you’ll never be President and I’ll never be First Lady, but I’ll bet we know more about the United States than any President ever has. Those busy, useful people never have time to see it, not really."
"It’s a wonderful country, darling."
"It is, it is indeed. I could spend all eternity just traveling around in it—traveling in elephants, Johnny, with you."
He had reached over and patted her knee; he remembered how it felt.
The revelers in the mock French Quarter were thinning out; they had drifted away while he daydreamed. He stopped a red devil. "Where is everyone going?"
"To the parade, of course."
"The Big Parade?"
"Yes, it’s forming now." The red devil moved on, he followed.
His own sleeve was plucked. "Did you find her?" It was Mrs. Evans, slightly disguised by a black domino and clinging to the arm of a tall and elderly Uncle Sam.
"Eh? Why, hello, Mrs. Evans! What do you mean?"
"Don’t be silly. Did you find her?"
"How did you know I was looking for anyone?"
"Of course you were. Well, keep looking. We must go now." They trailed after the mob.
The Big Parade was already passing by the time he reached its route. It did not matter, there was endlessly more to come. The Holly, Colorado, Boosters were passing; they were followed by the prize Shiner drill team. Then came the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan and his Queen of Love and Beauty, up from their cave in the bottom of the Mississippi ... the Anniversary Day Parade from Brooklyn, with the school children carrying little American flags ... the Rose Parade from Pasadena, miles of flowered-covered floats ... the Indian Powwow from Flagstaff, twenty-two nations represented and no buck in the march wearing less than a thousand dollars’ worth of hand-wrought jewelry. After the indigenous Americans rode Buffalo Bill, goatee jutting out and hat in hand, locks flowing in the breeze. Then was the delegation from Hawaii with King Kamehamela himself playing Alii, Lord of Carnival, with royal abandon, while his subjects in dew-fresh leis pranced behind him, giving aloha to all.
There was no end. Square dancers from Ojai and from upstate New York, dames and gentlemen from Annapolis, the Cuero, Texas, Turkey Trot, all the Krewes and marching clubs of old New Orleans, double flambeaux blazing, nobles throwing favors to the crowd—the King of Zulus and his smooth brown court, singing: "Everybody who was anybody doubted it—"
And the Mummers came, "taking a suit up the street" to Oh Dem Golden Slippers. Here was something older than the country celebrating it, the shuffling jig of the masquers, a step that was young when mankind was young and first celebrating the birth of spring. First the fancy clubs, whose captains wore capes worth a king’s ransom—or a mortgage on a row house—with fifty pages to bear them. Then the Liberty Clowns and the other comics and lastly the ghostly, sweet string bands whose strains bring tears.
Johnny thought back to ‘44 when he had first seen them march, old men and young boys, because the proper "shooters" were away to war. And of something that should not be on Broad Street in Philadelphia on the first day of January, men riding in the parade because, merciful Heaven forgive us, they could not walk.
He looked and saw that there were indeed automobiles in the line of march—wounded of the last war, and one G.A.R., hat square, hands folded over the head of his cane. Johnny held his breath and waited. When each automobile approached the judges’ stand, it stopped short of it, and everyone got out. Somehow, with each other’s help, they hobbled or crawled past the judging line, under their own power—and each club’s pride was kept intact.
There followed another wonder—they did not get back into the automobiles, but marched up Broad Street.
Then it was Hollywood Boulevard, disguised as Santa Claus Lane, in a production more stupendous than movieland had ever attempted before. There were baby stars galore and presents and favors and candy for all the children and all the grown-up children, too. When, at last, Santa Claus’s own float arrived, it was almost too large to be seen, a veritable iceberg, almost the North Pole itself, with John Barrymore and Mickey Mouse riding one on each side of Saint Nicholas.
On the tail end of the great, icy float was a pathetic little figure. Johnny squinted and recognized Mr. Emmett Kelly, dean of all clowns, in his role as Weary Willie. Willie was not merry—oh, no, he as shivering. Johnny did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Mr. Kelly had always affected him
that way.
And the elephants came.
Big elephants, little elephants, middle-sized elephants, from pint-sized Wrinkles to mighty Jumbo . . . and with them the bull men, Chester Conklin, P. T. Barnum, Waffle Beery, Mowgli. "This," Johnny said to himself, "must be Mulberry Street."
There was a commotion on the other side of the column; one of the men was shooing something away. Then Johnny saw what it was—the dog. He whistled; the animal seemed confused, then it spotted him, scampered up, and jumped into Johnny’s arms. "You stay with me," Johnny told him. "You might have gotten stepped on."
The dog licked his face. He had lost his clown suit, but the little peaked cap hung down under his neck. "What have you been up to?" asked Johnny. "And where is your mistress?"
The last of the elephants were approaching, three abreast, pulling a great carriage. A bugle sounded up front and the procession stopped. "Why are they stopping?" Johnny asked a neighbor.