THE ROUND-UP 



he passes. On one of the days, from a specially con- 

 structed stand a great panoramic camera slowly swung 

 in revolution, recording the event ultimately in a 

 photograph thirty-two feet in length. 



Attention! In the arena the great megaphone vol- 

 umes out its great arc of sound. All the riders come 

 to a standstill, the great audience arises en masse, even 

 the horses seem unusually still and motionless. Every 

 hat is doffed, as for a whole full minute the arena is as 

 silent as the prairie at sunset, while the entire Round- 

 up pays silent tribute to Til Taylor whose spirit will 

 always ride abroad amongst the men who knew him. 



The grand finale of this spectacle occurred when the 

 entire cavalcade which had swung into line on the 

 other side of the track, swept like a prairie fire in a 

 terrific charge, with wild yells, over the fence, checking 

 their furious dash at the very feet of the spectators. 

 The stampede almost hits the entire grandstand in the 

 face with its overwhelming numbers. There was truth 

 in the remark of one of the noted spectators, Maynard 

 Dixon, the artist, when he said of this spectacle, "My, 

 you do get an eye full." 



Swinging out of the arena, the present occupants of 

 the country leave before you its former owners — the 

 Red Men. For a time the vast audience is held spell- 

 bound by the marvelous riot of color of the Indian 

 ceremonials — the crowning "glory" of the Round-Up 

 as one witnesses it within the great open-air stadium — 

 the magnificient pageant of the Red Man, pulsing with 

 the barbarous, rhythmic thrumping of Amerindian 

 drums. 



Listen! Through the curtain of settling dust, you 

 still hear that fascinating, rhythmic beat, that peculiar 

 sensate rhythm whose primitive prosody leaves no 



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