A two foot blond was wailing at my feet. Having lost her mother amongst the myriad legs which stood like a forest around her, she given up in dispair, plumped down in the dust, her screams blending into the songs, her tears streaking through red mascara, raining like drops of blood on her legs.

Another midget, a boy this time, lollypop stuck to his palm, arms upheld by baloons tied to his wrists, ready for flight, came over to tend to his sister. For a moment there was a joyful reunion.

Then the Ill Wind died down and disappeared. In the lull the crowd which had been held together by the music, shattered, like mercury, into a hundred little globulets.

Cops drifted through the crowd sniffing like bloodhounds on the scent, but most of those who were so inclined had come stoned--it would have been almost crass to light up in public. By and large, however, the police seemed to be breaking in a new summer approach. They were being friendly. News must have reached them that the word was out in hippy havens across the country that when Berkeley dies Boston will come alive.

By mid-afternoon one of the policemen was squatting down next to some bearded youth having a butt and rapping amiably while two others were getting a free lunch at the hot dog stand. Even when Mr. Moynihan (former editor of the Nickle Muse and not to be confused with Daniel Patrick) and a ladyfriend tried to levitate three uniformed officers by dancing barefoot around them in a little known American Indian ritual--they were tolerantly bemused.

Only Stragglers

By early evening only the stragglers were left and the Common returned to its gutted, wasteland appearance. By then everyone, who was anyone, had made his appearance: General Waste-More-Land alias General Hershey-bar had convinced everyone that he should be interned at the earliest opportunity; and Evy (better known as Super-Fan) had graced the Fair with her presence to certify it as an event worthy of notice