BLOOMING DATES 
I have read a thousand booklets, I have been to many a show 
And I’m really quite elated with the many things I know 
About growing gladiolus. From the time I break the ground 
’Till I pack away the bulblets, I’ve a working knowledge sound. 
I need not consult a chemist for my soils’ biennial test. 
I can score an unknown seedling: I can judge it with the best. 
But there’s one thing has me beaten, there’s one thing I can’t get straight 
About any gladiolus. That’s its pesky blooming date. 
This spring I went down to Benny’s with my watch and coat and vest 
And came back with forty dollars with which I bought ten “Mae West.*' 
“Mae,” I said, “is truly show^type; She’s a winner in all ways 
And the blooming date’s specific. Eighty three and two thirds days.” 
Then, by using reams of paper and a calibrated rule, 
And collaborating nightly with a girl who teaches school, 
We decided that the planting of that scintillating gem 
Would fall on a certain Tuesday, June the third at 2:00 A. M. 
• 
So behold me on that morning as, with palpitating breast, 
I strolled through the moonlit garden with one arm about Mae West. 
And I marveled at her beauty and I pondered on her worth 
And I breathed a prayer to Ceres as I covered her with earth. 
Then I swore “By Sweet Alyssum and by the Nine Gods of War, 
Now I’ll give those stupid judges something they’ve been looking for.” 
Then, in sure and sweet contentment, while the stars paled overhead, 
I replaced my hoe and shovel and went calmly back to bed. 
Then, with all the tried devices every flower fan should know, 
I began their daily grooming. One could almost see them grow. 
True to name, they loved the night life. Oh, the fast life that they led! 
Ere_,the exhibition started they had spiked—had bloomed—were dead. 
Other blooms were mediocre, some were bad and some were worse; 
How could I be blamed for using language both concise and terse 
When a girl of sixty summers with “a glad she didn’t know,” 
(Which, of course, was time worn Halley) won for “best spike in the show.” 
Oh, I know;my fertilizers. Cultivation is a joke. 
I’m a nut on hybridizing; (If I’m not I hope to choke.) 
Of the giant grandiflorus I know all its many whims. 
I know how to grow it larger. I know how to dwarf the prims. 
But the knowledge brings no pleasure, I can no more summon mirth, 
There’s a blue moon in the heavens, there’s no sunshine on the earth. 
Oh, my hat band’s not expanded and my chest no more inflates: 
There is one thing I can’t master; It’s those blooming blooming dates. 
Burton L. Spiller 
12 
