A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



see where this goes." The wilder and rougher it was 

 the greater his joy. He would stop to listen to a 

 brook or pluck some wild flower for his buttonhole. 

 No matter what flower it was, wild or cultivated, he 

 would always look at it a moment and say, "That 

 is the most beautiful flower that grows." Once with 

 my wife I was in Chicago on New Year's Day. We 

 went out to get what she loved best, a single Amer- 

 ican Beauty rose. The florist said that one could 

 not be found in town, and asked, "Do you know that 

 they are worth $30 to $40 a dozen?" I asked why. 

 He said that farmers all over the country had sent 

 in so many Christmas and New Year's orders that 

 everything was cleaned up at enormous prices. I told 

 the story to Mr. Armour. In a flash he said, "Let 

 us build greenhouses out at the farm. We go out 

 there now and shiver around in the winter looking 

 at the cattle, but with a flower business we could 

 enjoy the cattle in the summer and the flowers in 

 winter." His health, however, was failing fast, and 

 I had to find a delay for not going ahead. 



He was a remarkable combination of gentleness, 

 aggressiveness and public-spiritedness, with much 

 of the far-sightedness of his uncle Philip D., by 

 whom he was loved as a son. He was easily Kansas 

 City's greatest and most beloved citizen. The mourn- 

 ers who stood, tear-stained, as the last words were 

 said, "Dust to dust," numbered as many of the lowly 

 as of the high, and in their hearts it was pure gold 



[94] 



