Struggles and Triumphs P. T. Barnum (the beginning after the end read novel .TXT) 📖

the walks and lawns, by taking water from the fountain-basin with his trunk; carried all the children to school, and put them to bed at night, tucking them up with his trunk; fed the pigs; picked fruit from branches that could not otherwise be reached; turned the fanning mill and corn-sheller; drew the mowing machine, and turned and cocked the hay with his trunk; carried and brought my letters to and from the post-office (it was a male elephant); and did all the chores about the house, including milking the cows, and bringing in eggs. Pictures of Barnum’s plowing elephant appeared in illustrated papers at home and abroad, and as the cars passed the scene of the performance, passengers’ heads were out of every window, and among many and varied exclamations, I heard of one man’s saying:

“Well, I declare! That is certainly a real elephant and any man who has so many elephants that he can afford to work them on his farm, must have lots of wild animals and curious critters in his Museum, and I am bound to go there the first thing after my arrival in New York.”

The six acres were plowed over at least sixty times before I thought the advertisement sufficiently circulated, and I then sold the elephant to Van Amburgh’s Menagerie.

A substantial farmer friend of mine, Mr. Gideon Thompson, called at Iranistan during the elephant excitement and asked me to accompany him to the field to let him see “how the big animal worked.” I knew him to be a shrewd, sharp man and a good farmer, and I tried to excuse myself, as I did not wish to be too closely questioned. Indeed, for the same reason, I made it a point at all times to avoid being present when the plowing was going on. But the old farmer was a particular friend and he refused to take “no” for an answer; so I went with him “to see the elephant.”

Arriving at the field, Mr. Thompson said nothing, but stood with folded arms and sedately watched the elephant for at least fifteen minutes. Then he walked out on to the plowed ground, and found it so mellow that he sank nearly up to his knees; for it had already been plowed over and over many times. As usual, several spectators were present. Mr. Thompson walked up to where I was standing, and, looking me squarely in the eyes, he asked with much earnestness:

“What is your object, sir, in bringing that great Asiatic animal on to a New England farm?”

“To plow,” I replied very demurely.

“To plow!” said Thompson; “don’t talk to me about plowing! I have been out where he has plowed, and the ground is so soft I thought I should go through and come out in China. No, sir! You can’t humbug me. You have got some other object in bringing that elephant up here; now what is it?”

“Don’t you see for yourself that I am plowing with him?” I asked.

“Nonsense,” said Thompson, “that would never pay; I have no doubt he eats more than he earns every day; you have some other purpose in view, I am sure you have.”

“Perhaps he does not eat so much as you think,” I replied; “and you see he draws nobly⁠—in fact, I expect he will be just the animal by and by, to draw saw logs to mill, and do other heavy work.”

But Uncle Gid., was not to be put aside so easily so he asked very sharply:

“How much does he eat in a day?”

“Oh,” I replied carelessly, “not more than a quarter of a ton of hay and three or four bushels of oats.”

“Exactly,” said Thompson, his eyes glistening with delight; “that is just about what I expected. He can’t draw so much as two pair of my oxen can, and he costs more than a dozen pair.”

“You are mistaken, friend Thompson,” I replied with much gravity; “that elephant is a powerful animal; he can draw more than forty yoke of oxen, and he pays me well for bringing him here.”

“Forty yoke of oxen!” contemptuously replied the old farmer; “I don’t want to tell you I doubt your word, but I would just like to know what he can draw.”

“He can draw the attention of twenty millions of American citizens to Barnum’s Museum,” I replied.

“Oh, you can make him pay in that way, of course,” responded the old farmer.

“None but a greenhorn could ever have expected he would pay in any other way,” I replied.

The old man gave a hearty laugh, and said, “Well, I give it up. I have been a farmer thirty-five years, and I have only just discovered that an elephant is a very useful and profitable animal on a farm⁠—provided the farmer also owns a museum.”

In 1851 I became a part owner of the steamship North America. Our intention in buying it was to run it to Ireland as a passenger and freight ship. The project was, however, abandoned, and Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt bought one half of the steamer, while the other half was owned by three persons, of whom I was one. The steamer was sent around Cape Horn to San Francisco, and was put into the Vanderbilt line.

After she had made several trips I called upon Mr. Vanderbilt, at his office, and introduced myself, as this was the first time we had met.

“Is it possible you are Barnum?” exclaimed the Commodore, in surprise, “why, I expected to see a monster, part lion, part elephant, and a mixture of rhinoceros and tiger! Is it possible,” he continued, “that you are the showman who has made so much noise in the world?”

I laughingly replied that I was, and added that if I too had been governed in my anticipation of his personal appearance by the fame he had achieved in his line, I should have expected to have been saluted by a steam whistle, and to have seen him dressed in a pea jacket, blowing off steam, and crying out