180 



The Weekly Florists^ Review. 



JULY 12, 1900. 



have not yet got the store you feel 

 secure in fixing up to suit the re- 

 ijuirements of the florist business of 

 to-day, lose no time in setting about 

 to get one. There is neither pleasure 

 nor satisfaction in being in anything 

 half-heartedly. The florists' business 

 is and will continue to be a good one, 

 one deserving all the ambition and 

 care it is possible to put into it. We 

 know of none who are too bright for 

 it, not one who has risen above its 

 requirements in art and refinement, 

 nor in energy or education. 



IVERA. 



PARIS. 



The Flower Market. 



I came through the market early in 

 the morning and was gazing at the 

 preparations for the great daily orgy 

 of Paris when I espied a crowd of 

 people bustling suspiciously in a 

 corner. A few lanterns threw a light 

 upon the crowd. Children, women 

 and men, with outstretched hands, 

 were fumbling in dark piles which 

 extended along the footway. I 

 thought these piles must be of rem- 

 nants of meat sold for a trifling price 

 and that all these wretched people 

 were rushing upon them to secure a 

 cheap meal. I drew near and dis- 

 covered my mistake. 



The heaps were not heaps of meat, 

 but piles of violets. All the flowery 

 poesy of Paris lay there on the 

 muddy pavement amidst mountains 

 of food. The gardeners of the suburbs 

 had brought their sweet scented har- 

 vest to the market and were dis- 

 posing of them to the hawkers. From 

 the rough fingers of their peasant 

 growers the violets were passing to 

 the dirty hands of those who would 

 cry them in the streets. At this 

 time (early spring) it is between 2 

 and 5 o'clock in the morning that the 

 flowers of Paris are thus sold at the 

 Halles. Whilst the city sleeps and 

 the butchers are getting all ready for 

 its daily attack of indigestion, a trade 

 in poetry is plied in dark, dank cor- 

 ners. 



When the sun rises the violets, 

 mounted on bits of osier, will gleam 

 softly- within their collars of green 

 leaves, but when they arrive in the 

 night they lay prone upon the foot- 

 way. I noticed just in front of me a 

 bunch that had slipped off a neigh- 

 boring mound and that was almost 

 bathing in the gutter, and picked it 

 up. Underneath it was soiled with 

 mud and the greasy, foetid water had 

 left stains upon the flowers. 



I wondered upon what woman's 

 bosom these wretched flowers would 

 open and bloom. Some hawker would 

 dip them in a pail of water, and while 

 this would remove some of the odors 

 of the Paris mud, but little of their 

 own fragrance would be retained, and 

 in the depths of each blossom a sug- 

 gestion of impurity would remain. 



To how many people would these 

 thousands and thousands of violets 

 go? In a few hours they would be 

 scattered to the four ccH'ners of Paris, 

 and for a paltry copper the p.isserby 

 would purchase a glimpse and a 

 whiff of springtide in the muddy 

 streets. 



The Central Market is an avenue 

 of flower stalls which runs through 

 the fruit pavilion. Here on either 

 hand, from end to end, big clumps of 

 flowers bloom as in the borders of a 

 garden walk. It is a double edge of 

 blossoms, sweet . with perfume. On 

 top of the tiers of stalls are arti- 

 ficial flowers with paper leaves upon 

 which drops of dew are simulated by 

 drops of glistening gum, and memor- 

 ial wreaths of black and white beads. 



The stall keepers go to the subur- 

 ban growers about 4 o'clock in the 

 morning and buy armfuls of flowers, 

 bundles of moss, bunches of fern 

 fronds and periwinkle leaves to gar- 

 nish their bouquets. On some days 

 more than a hundred thousand francs' 

 worth of cut flowers are sold on the 

 footways, and some of the dealers 

 make as much as 200 francs in a few 

 hours. I saw mounds of pausies, 

 mignonette, marguerites, and even 

 geranium flowers move at a good 

 price. I saw bouquets made up of all 

 colors and not always pleasing. Red 

 predominated, mottled with violet 

 tints of blue and yellow. I saw some 

 beautiful white lilac which sold in 

 bunches of eight or ten sprays at from 

 1.5 to 20 francs in the winter. I was 

 told that camellias were still more 

 costly and arrived in boxes of a 

 dozen, lying on beds of moss and 

 covered with cotton wool. 



One day I took a trip out to Fon- 

 tenoy aux Roses. The little path- 

 way skirting the hill was bordered 

 by large flelds of violets. In these 

 were some old women who with dry, 

 withered hands were hurriedly gath- 

 ering violets and throwing them into 

 large baskets. I called to one of the 

 women. "You want some violets?" 

 said she. "How much — a pound?" 

 Great heavens? She sold her flowers 

 by the pound, as we buy our eatibles 

 at the grocery! I thought of the 

 things I had seen in the Paris mar- 

 kets. E. R. TAUCH. 



"LAKEVIEW ON CHAUTAUQUA." 



Comparatively few persons outside 

 of those who have done business 

 with this estabiishment are aware of 

 the existence of this extensive, grow- 

 ing village of glass. Yet it is not a 

 village, for villages are composed of 

 detached buildings, and this is one 

 great, united block of glass. Within 

 a mile of beautiful Lake Chautauqua, 

 whose waters run to the Gulf of Mex- 

 ico, and within ten minutes' ride by 

 street car from the center of James- 

 town, N. Y., is situated this young and 

 vigorous enterprise. 



Who would have dreamed fifty 

 years ago that in what was then a 

 howling wilderness, which when the 

 timber was gone produced mostly bull 

 rushes and bull frogs, there would be 

 built, at a cost of what was then a 

 fortune, an industry to cater purely 

 to the beautiful and luxurious? Is 

 this not a progressive age? 



The Lake View Rose Gardens are 

 young — so young that one year ago 

 last September their site was a 

 swamp, and since then have been 

 filled in with a gravelly clay to a 

 depth of 10 feet and a spacious sewer 

 built, carrying the drainage away 

 1,500 feet to the low land on the 

 north. Here are a few of the figures 

 connected with this establishment, put 

 briefly: 



It covers five acres of ground, solid 

 glass, with a 50-acre farm to supply 

 the needed soil. It is over 200,000 

 square feet of glass, all 16x24. All 

 cypress lumber. There are 34 houses 

 in all. The rose houses are mostly 

 all long span to the south, 20 feet wide. 

 The carnation houses are equal span, 

 33 feet wide. 



It is heated by four boilers, each 

 100 horse-power, but two usually do 

 the work. A smaller boiler works 

 several pumps, among them one for 

 liquid manure. The central shed is 

 270 X 30, and this is roofed with glass, 

 used for young stock. There are 

 storerooms for many requisites. The 

 packing room is 60 x 40, with two 

 immense zinc covered tables. This 

 packing room is good enough for a 

 banquet hall and one of Warren 

 Ewell's famous orations would echo 

 through it in fine style. 



Close to the packing room is a large 

 cold storage, eight feet below tho sur- 

 face, and seven feet below that is 

 still another long cool room. There 

 are comfortable and clean toilet rooms 

 for both the men and women em- 

 ployed on the place. This is a depart- 

 ment that in som.e large places I have 

 visited is most lamentably absent. 

 In a nearby shed is a saw for cutting 

 or ripping up lumber, and a pipe cut- 

 ting and threading machine, all run 

 by an electric motor. 



Everywhere are dangling incan- 

 descent lights. Not that they are 

 used for stimulating growth, but how 

 handy when packing flowers or pot- 

 ting in the dark days of winter. The 

 smoke stack I must not forget, for it 

 is large — 100 feet high and IS feet in 

 diameter at the base; how much at 

 top I could not ascertain and did not 

 have time to climb up. There is an 

 average of 33 ■pfiir of hands employed. 



Now, this large place is almost en- 

 tirely devoted to roses and carna- 

 tions. There is one house of smilax 

 and one of asparagus and one large 

 bouse of palms, and scarcely any- 

 thing else. It is solely a cut flower 

 factory. When you realize that all 

 this was built in one year you could 

 hardly expect that last fall it would 



