HOW I BECAME A HORTICULTURIST. 15 



the acre, or the pounds to a vine, or the price per pound, 

 all on paper, like many another fruit crop, but I do know 

 that before he got through with his wild, enthusiastic ha- 

 rangue he had me so excited over grape-growing that I was 

 prepared to throw cotton and real estate to the winds and 

 grow grapes galore. And thus while fishing for trout with 

 shrimps, I was caught myself, with a bait of grapes. Little 

 did the old man think that day that, like the Apostles of 

 old, he had turned out a ''fisher of men." And what, indeed, 

 are we all but fishermen, wandering along the stream of 

 life with rods in hand, and hooks baited for each other ? 

 Whether it be stocks or bonds, cotton or corn, money or love, 

 we all have baits out for somebody, in which the hooks are as 

 carefully concealed as those in the shrimp, and, whether by 

 accident or design, somebody is always being caught. 



Well, the time had passed quickly, though the fishing was 

 bad, and, after thanking the old man for his pleasant chat, I 

 bade him good-bye, and never saw him again. 



In our journey from the cradle to the grave, our paths 

 crossed but a single time, and yet in those few hours he had 

 completely changed the whole course and future of my life. 

 On my way home, I stopped in the different book stores to 

 hunt for lore on the grape, and bought the only two books 

 they had. These were soon at my fingers' ends, and not sat- 

 isfied with learning something about grapes, a desire sprang 

 up to know something about all other fruit/s and flowers as 

 well, and everything I could find was read. While now com- 

 pletely infatuated with horticulture (and it is wonderful how 

 completely it does capture some people), it is doubtful whether 

 I would ever have made it a business, unless unfortunate spec- 

 ulations in cotton and real estate, just prior to the storm and 

 yellow fever epidemic of '67, had decided the question for me. 

 Those events left me with no bank account against which to 

 draw, so I concluded at once to follow my inclinations, and 

 draw on the sand banks of Galveston Island. Just how those 

 banks will honor a draft, if properly indorsed with manure and 

 industry, I leave the old vegetable dealers and residents of 

 the city, who used to visit my home in the West End, to say. 



