Whatever the correct figures of attendance may have been, it is certain that the grand stands were jammed solid with cheering humanity, that men, women and children of all ages and types swarmed like a colony of ants through the various exhibits, and that automobiles of every kind known to the trade were paraded all over the parking space.
It was a happy, good-natured crowd, in which the millionaire rubbed elbows with the farm boy, and those who came by trolley had just as much chance for enjoyment as those who came in the most expensive touring car. To be sure, the horse is the star performer at Rockingham fair, but that is no reason why the other features should be overlooked, and they were not.
This was Governor’s day on the program, but in reality it might better have been described as Everybody’s day. At least, that is the way it looked to the visitor. Gov. Samuel D. Felker of New Hampshire was on hand, of course, with Mrs. Felker and members of his staff.
He was received fittingly with the customary brass band accompaniment, was whisked across the track in a miniature procession of automobiles and escorted to the grandstand. There he made an appropriate speech, or went through an animated pantomime, the impression differing with the distance the listener was from him. At any rate, the crowd judged him by his good intentions and applauded heartily. Gov. Foss was unable to be present, but was well represented by Mrs. Foss and his two pretty daughters.
“Something doing every minute” seems to have been the motto of the fair management, and the motto was well observed. Apart from the racing, the fair has enough attractions to keep a visitor busy for a couple of days at least, and then said visitor would be better satisfied if he could possess himself of an extra set of eyes.
The effect of the place is kaleidoscopic, or rather that of a talking moving picture run wild. It is a perfect jumble of color and sound. Bands are playing, husky barkers are shouting, bulls are bellowing, cows are lowing, sheep are baaing, hens are cackling, auto horns are tooting--all off the key but in a pleasant discordance.
And people--as an exhibit of the plain people and of the varnished people, too, the place has few rivals. There is the man from back in the hills, whose bucolic chin whisker wags in rapture over some particular breed of hogs, and there is the landed proprietor, who is as interested as an amateur in some particular strain of stock. You see an overalled individual drawling casual orders to a stolid yoke of oxen, and then, turning again, you come upon Arthur Waldo in the pink of sartorial neatness, sizing up a prize sheep.