File:The American florist - a weekly journal for the trade (1901) (18111062436).jpg

Title: The American florist : a weekly journal for the trade
Identifier: americanfloristw22amer (find matches)
Year: 1885 (1880s)
Authors: American Florists Company
Subjects: Floriculture; Florists
Publisher: Chicago : American Florist Company
Contributing Library: UMass Amherst Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: Boston Library Consortium Member Libraries

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igoi. The American Florist. 114!)
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FERN GROTTO AT CHESTNUT HILL, PA., ONE YEAR AFTER PLANTING. Musings of a Fool. \_7he editor does not endorse this contribution. His first itnputse was to consign to the '^Balaam," .but rememoering the old adag^ about babes and fools he reluctantly decided to Itt his readers judge it Jor themseh'es. Otherwise this sort of thing could not appear in the columns of a serious (journal,—Ed. ) ! There was a time when I thought I might pass ia the chorus as a wise man —a modest conceit that has long since 'been relegated to the limbo of discarded delusions and is now comfortably cob- webbed in the dust of I dare not think how many years. Dear friends did their utmost to separate me from my Imp and, although the operation was painful and humiliating, the subsequent relief amply rewarded me for my sufferings. One peculiar thing about it was that the dearer the friend the more the delight in seeing me squirm. If there be any echoes of horse-sense still left .about me I am now confident they will disappear in time if my intimates retain their health—and at present they are distractingly healthy and vigorous, praises be. Having no reputation for wisdom has many advan- tages which will readily occur to you. lOneofthera I have found especially use- ul. It is the happiness of being able to mingle among your compatriots and touch lightly on "the events of the day with the assurance that you will only be ■amusing and never offensive. When one ?ets riled they all say, "what's the mat- er;it's only the Fool," and it is astonish- ng how quickly the clouds roll by after t that. So now you know all about me and will no doubt do your best to grin and look pleasant if I happen to bruise an Easter lily. Be thankful that I do not break down the whole bench. "Ga-licks, Ga-lacks. Ga-locks. Smi-licks, Smi-lacks, Snii-locks, ^\'e sell it by the box If you sendoii the rocks. Ga-licks, Ga-lacks, Ga-locks." Isn't that lovely? _ Just read it over once or twice and see if it isn't the dar- lingest jingle, ever. "Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenjaire" isn't in it. Nor do I re- member anything more transcendent even among the gems of the sage of Darby Road. Me do it! Alas, no, I have not yet reached that stage of beatitude! The being that produced that deserves to be canonized. Even the late lamented smilax king in the palmiest days of his foolishness never equalled that jingle. "Ga-licks, Ga-lacks"-Oh dear, it will never leave me. Quoth the Raven, never-more. "Quotation from Euripides: 'I had fourteen boarders and a dog in the fam- ily, and so help me God, on a Saturday night the dog was the decentest one in the lot.' Moral: Get on to the dog; don't let him get on to you." At least thej' said that was the moral at the beef- steak dinner of happy memory. I thought I knew my Euripides and made a grab for it first chance, but could find neither quotation nor moral. It will be an expurgated edition I have, to be sure. Like my Rabelais. It was the only Craig who first showed me what a fool I was for fooling with an edited edition. There were other things at that beef- steak dinner that appealed to me as almost foolish enough to mention. There was John Young, for instance, made left steerer. Who ever heard of John Young being left? And C. Weathered, middle steerer. Middle, indeed! It's the north- west corner he ought to have been in. Anyhow, there were no bunco steerers there so far as known, unless the man who stole the patriarch steer from his happy home for that occasion may be classed in that category. Who got up the programme, I wonder? Bet you it's somebody posing as a wise man still, although he is almost fit to don the cap and bells and charm the ears of kings with "Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles; Smiles that han^' on Hebe's cheek"— and—I forget the rest, but you'll find it in John Milton. They don't expurgate him. Hasn't this been a vsrinter of essays among the florists' clubs! By hatchets. Mr. Editor, but you have my sympathj-! Essays to right of you, essays to left of you, stormed at from near and far, inno- cent you sit and still, bagfulls fit to kill, dozens and hundreds—and if we exceot Willis N. Rudd's and one or two otliers there isn't a decently foolish one among the lot. How grave and serious we all sit as the essayist wades through reams and reams, his every sense on the alert

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