The Weekly Florists' Review* 



AN EVENING AT LONESOME- 

 HURST. 



The assertion that Jaggs couldn't go 

 from Detroit to Windsor without trav- 

 eling by way of the Hudson Bay route 

 is possibly an exaggeration, but it was 

 generally 'believed that he found it diffi- 

 cult to journey from Newark to Madison 

 mthout steering off towards Philadel- 

 phia, owing to a slight misunderstanding 

 with some lights of the profession in the 

 vicinity of Short Hills. Somewhere in 

 that neighborhood he had hypnotized a 

 guileless newcomer into making him fore- 

 man of a freshly-built range, a position 

 he supported with much dignity for up- 

 wards of forty-eight hours. The pro- 

 prietor was a youthful hardware man. 

 He had been told that there was a lot of 

 money in the florist business — a fact he 

 was ready to believe, after dropping most 

 of his own coin into it; the only trouble 

 being that he couldn't get any of it out 

 again. Jaggs never explained his early 

 separation from the hardware man ex- 

 cept to assert that unfortunate was not 

 what he called a thoroughbred. It ap- 

 pears, however, that in the ardor of cel- 

 ebrating his elevation. Jaggs traded oflf 

 a case of auratuni bulbs for a brindled 

 bulldog with a 10x12 pedigree, this ani- 

 mal being looted from a near neighbor, 

 who openly alluded to the hardware man 

 as a dog robber in consequence. The 

 fact that Jaggs potted a choice collection 

 of tuberous begonias on orchid blocks 

 caused no comment at the time, because 

 the hardware man didn't know the dif- 

 ference. He had been heard to remark 

 that in engaging a man like Jaggs he 

 was sure to acquire a vast fund of prac- 

 tical experience, and there is every rea- 

 son to believe that he did. 



When Jaggs drifted back to Lonesome- 

 hurst he did not at once ask for his old 

 Job. The boss first caught sight of the 

 prodigal melodiously whistling "The 

 Holy City," while removing a mealy bug 

 from a veteran stephanotis, this being an 

 occupation that would keep an active 

 man busy 367 days a year. The boss 

 said nothing, and about the only formal 

 welcome offered was from Carrie Nation 



and Dr. Parkhurst, a couple of disrep- 

 utable tame lizards which had a habit of 

 following the men about the warm 

 houses, where they were fed with casual 

 insects. When the potting shed parlia- 

 ment met in the evening, however, there 

 were two years' questions to ask. The 

 horticultural graduate had disappeared. 

 "Blessed if he ain't teachin' literature 

 in a bloomin' young ladies' seminary," 

 said Tommy Atkins, with disgust. 

 "What does a johnny like that try to 

 break into the flower trade for?" T'onj- 

 my himself had departed suddenly at the 

 outbreak of the South African war, re- 

 turning more than a year later, very 

 thin, very brown, and very uncommuni- 

 cative, with a slight limp and a surpris- 

 ingly accurate acquaintance with Trans- 

 vaal scenery. It was currently believed 

 that he had again adorned the British 

 army in the interval, and that his de- 

 parture from it had been effected quite 

 informally, but this, as Tommy had ob- 

 served with some emphasis, "wasn't 

 nobody's bloomin' business." 



After supper the men settled down on 

 an array of crates and boxes outside the 

 potting .shed. Davy was the last to join 

 them, his sandy hair wet and streaky 

 from a bath in one of the tanks; he sat 

 down without a look at Jaggs, and be- 

 gan to pack tobacco into his cutty pipe. 



"Nice, sociable way Scotty has, hasn't 

 he," observed Jaggs, admiringly. "But 

 ain't he a bit talkative?" 



Davy lighted his pipe solemnly, and 

 began to study an Australian paper sent 

 him by a wandering relative. "Will ye 

 be reading about that petrified Austra- 

 lian gum that they dug up over there?" 

 he observed to the company at large. 

 "Kauri gum. they call it— it's from 

 dead and gone fir trees, and they use it 

 for varnish — dig it up like ye dig coal." 



"Yes." remarked Jaggs, reflectively, 

 "it reminds me a bit o' that place out 

 Calgary way, in Northwest Territory, 

 where a chap got me into a scheme for 

 minin' petrified maple sugar." 



"Now, go light, old man." advised 

 Tommy Atkins. "Most of us has been 

 in Canada our own selves. Better stick 

 to Borneo." 



Jaggs paused to extract a wisp from 

 the potting shed broom, with which he 

 cleaned his pipe. Then, puffing furious- 

 ly to restore its impeded circulation, he 

 continued : 



"It was a chap from Southampton that 

 got me into the business ; said as he used 

 to be a missionary to the Indians up in 

 the Barren Grounds around Hudson 

 Bay, but I reckon collections was slow, 

 and one winter his dog train ate the 

 church." 



"Sure it was a dog train?" inquired 

 Tommy, pleasantly. "Or was they os- 

 triches?" 



"His dogs," repeated Jaggs, firmly, 

 "ate the church, which was built, o' 

 course, of skins stretched over whale- 

 bone. They don't run to brownstone 

 fronts up in the Arctic circle. It was 

 when he was eomin' home as he struck 

 the maple sugar. He see a be,ar dig- 

 gin' up rocks, eatin' 'em and lookin' 

 pleased, which ain't natural for a bear. 

 He says the bear looked at him and 

 winked, which maybe he did. Anyway, 

 when the old chap strolled off, Higgin- 

 son, which was the reformed missionary, 

 took hold o' the rock, and sees it was 

 maple sugar- — a .regular mine of it. It 

 was all in blocks." 



"One-pound bricks, none genuine with- 

 out maker's guarantee, I suppose," ob- 

 served Tommy. 



"Lookin' as fresh as paint," continued 

 Jaggs, fi.xing Tommy with a disapproving 

 glare. "Higginson says he thought on 

 the dot his fortune was made — all he has 

 to do to lap up simoleona by the barrel- 

 ful was to get that sugar on the market. 

 Higginson wanted to label it 'Pure Ver- 

 mont Maple Sugar,' but I says 'No. 

 Higginson,' I says, 'the truth or noth- 

 ink for me.' One o' them scientific 

 chaps tell me afterwards as how them 

 prehistoric maples had a toss-up with an 

 earthquake and a volcano or two, until 

 the sugar was filed away like coal. We'd 

 made a lot o' dough if it hadn't beeri for 

 a man from Ohio." 



"Got there first, I s'pose?" said the 

 fireman. 



"He loaded the market with pure ma- 

 ple sugar made o' sorghum flavored with 

 maple chips and aniline dye — put it up 

 in fancy packages with colored labels 

 and a lot o' south wind about the pure 

 products o' nature. Course we hadn't 

 no chance. Last I hear o' the mission- 

 ary chap he was shootin' biscuits at a 

 railroad restaurant, and talked about 

 joinin' the Salvation Army. I reckon he 

 must have a grudge against them Salva- 

 tionists. 



"It was right after that I went rose- 

 growing with a natural hot- water plant; 

 had a range o' modern houses built over 

 a geyser, you know. A chap from East 

 Pohannock, Me., started it. He says all 

 you have to do is to make sure you've 

 got a reliable geyser, and then arrange 

 your flow and return accordin'. Great- 

 est scheme on earth. No coal bills, no 

 cinders, no fireman — makes natural gas 

 look like 30 cents." 



"Did it work?" inquired the fireman. 

 with natural interest in the subject. 



"For a while," responded Jaggs, 

 thoughtfully. "The trouble was that we 

 didn't get a reliable geyser. It used to 

 sulk some days, and lower the pressure, 

 and then it would turn on a full head 

 o' steam when we was trvin' to cool off- — 

 didn't seem to take kindly to harness, I 

 thought. Poor Hiram, he was a good 

 chap, though he couldn't grow Beauties." 

 Jaggs picked up his cap, which gave 



