For more than a century, the working classes have thrown their money away on the acreage along Dufferin, just south of Bloor. Nowadays they do it at a plasticized purveyor of the fruits of sweat-shop labour called the Dufferin Mall. Until 1955, it was at a racetrack run by, if you take Horse Feathers literally, a crooked bookie employed by an über-capitalist with a papier-mâché head so big he’d put your pup tent to shame.

For a kid-oriented production that’s meant to celebrate local history, the narrative is a total downer. A Neilson factory worker, a bricklayer and a salesman squander their earnings on the ponies. A pre-feminist is trapped in a domestic prison. Adorable talking horses complain of loneliness. Somebody dies. Then, abruptly, a mall developer ends this supposed golden age. Fortunately, there are no scenes at the glue factory.

But following the story too closely is to miss the point. Horse Feathers delights in clowning around. Colourful puppets, masks and props turn the park setting into a mini-carnival. The multi-talented performers sing, jump and prance around with all the energy needed to compete with the nearby basketball courts. The lively band has a banjo, saxophone and two, yes two, accordions. That’s almost as good as winning the trifecta.