The Clio messenger. (Clio, Mich.) 1907-current, 1915-09-10

SAiuSS anu III oIucT pldCeS mas care
OF what he eats, to order one with the
rest of the crowd, and to work his
way along the street with 1t In his
hand, eating it as the others are do
Ing. Sometimes the faces above the
hot dogs seem incongruous enough
They are the faces Of those who are
intelligent as to dietetics, but have
been swept on past the bounds Of eau
ton by the enthusiasm of Coney's
surging multitude.
Mob Spirit and the Ticker.
The mob spirit in the place is con-
tagious. What else would have per
suaded that dignified, elderly man to
buy a ticket for the Mammoth Tick
Ter or for this contrivance which hurls
you about at break-neck speed, rack
ing your nerves as you sit crouched
in seats just large enough for two.
Sometimes the watchers see some OF
the merrymakers come off that roller
coaster with a white line about the
mouth and q strained look in their
eyes. 1t Is not their instructive idea
Of pleasure to be rushed down a steep
slope with such terrible force that
their breath is beaten out of them and
they gasp and cringe. But what II
they are pale and shaky as they step
off, there is an expression in the line
of their closely drawn lips which
shows that they have determined that
what must be must be, and they are
on pleasure bent, suffer what tortures
they may.
Here on the right is a moving-pi
ture show, and, not content with that,
the management has contrived to add
to it music, singing and dancing. No
where else than Coney can such conn.,
bination of pleasures be found. AS
one dances, it is the easiest thing in
the world to catch enough of a glimpse
of the picture over ones partners
shoulder, to follow the thrilling nara
tive OF the screen, and no one could
miss note Of the piercing ture which
the blonde at the plano is rendering.
Coney, on the afternoon OF a June
Sunday, is a gay and thrilling place
gay and thrilling for grownups. Just
there is the secret 1t is the fairyland,
the place where adults may have
perpetual picnic. To tell the truth,
children do not care so much about it.
Given a pail and shovel out on the
sands, the small child will be happy
the whole day long at Coney, but the
grownup must needs enter tia aide
shows and ride the coaster.
Playground Of Adelts.
The fact that this was the playland
Of adults came over me after seeing
some hundreds OF children on this
particular Sunday afternoon, who were
plainly there just because their IA.
theirs and mothers had wanted to
come. Never have I seen such utter
boredom and WEAKNESS written on any
faces as was depicted on those of the
many children who pushed their tired
way along, down among the knees Of
the crowd, while their elders, with
their heads In the air, took in the de-
lights Of the place. Some we're being
carried, too utterly exhausted to do
anything but droop heavily over their
fathers shoulder, not caring to open
an eye to see the snake-charmer as
the parent stopped fascinated before
her.
You couldn't help seeing on the
train coming home that 1t was the pa
rents, not the children, who must have
wanted to come and for whom Coney
Island was a wonderland. The former
lay limp In their parents laps, sound
asleep. while the grownups talked and
laughed over their heads. II was the
children who had been patient and
and it was the parents
who had really enjoyed themselves.
A small boy, with light hair, snub
nose, and a freshly freckled face.
bries his head deeper Ia the curve OF
his mothers arms and gives a long,
sleepy sigh as his parents cruncs
crackerjact over his unconscious III
tie head.