Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1911 (Heft 36))

On the day of the meet the arena was crowded to bursting point. Some
enthusiasts even attempted to climb trees, so as to see a bit of the excitement.
Nothing was spoken of but the debut of the quocker.
The singing began, but—amazing!—the most famous asses received no
attention whatever. Ears and eyes were closed to them by eagerness for the
event of the day.
At length HE stepped forward. Frenzied applause, hisses and cat-calls
as furious greeted him. Quite serious-minded and respectable asses came to
loggerheads with one another over him, and bandied Billingsgate. “ Faker—
Ignoramus — Scoundrel — Grafter — Academician — Degenerate”—were the
mildest of the compliments.
Sweet as the twittering of birds, clear as a battle-cry, tuneful as “Natoma,”
the quocker’s song rang out above the din.
Scarcely had he finished, when the two parties came to blows. First,
long ears were whipped across opposing pates, until the straw flew. Then, all
decorum was cast to the winds and hoofs came into play. Many the jaw-
bone cracked across! Many the tail torn from its socket! Many the costly
thistle trampled under foot! Finally, the quockians carried the day.
Then was their hero borne aloft by his youthful followers, and whosoever
ventured his native He-haw—albeit ever so faintly—was driven forth from
communion with all true and right-minded asses; and all his doings were as
mush.
Sir Jack Quock, however, remained the “Liberator of Art”; until-
it occurred to another ass to bray “Ba-aa, ba-aa.”
R. Schumacher.*

• Translated from the German, by Herbert Small.