twenty-two thousand pots in it the other day; several thousand have been
sold, several thousand have been brought in, and the number at this
moment cannot be computed. Our farmer has no time for speculative
arithmetic; he deals in produce wholesale. Telegraph an order for a
thousand _crispums_ and you cause no stir in the establishment. You take
it for granted that a large dealer only could propose such a
transaction. But it does not follow at all. Nobody would credit, unless
he had talked with one of the great farmers, on what enormous scale
orchids are cultivated up and down by private persons. Our friend has a
client who keeps his stock of _O. crispum_ alone at ten thousand; but
others, less methodical, may have more.

Opposite the door is a high staging, mounted by steps, with a gangway
down the middle and shelves descending on either hand. Those shelves are
crowded with fine plants of the glorious _O. crispum_, each bearing one
or two spikes of flower, which trail down, interlace, arch upward. Not
all are in bloom; that amazing sight may be witnessed for a month to
come--for two months, with such small traces of decay as the casual
visitor would not notice. So long and dense are the wreaths, so broad
the flowers, that the structure seems to be festooned from top to bottom
with snowy garlands. But there is more. Overhead hang rows of baskets,
lessening in perspective, with pendent sprays of bloom. And broad tables
which edge the walls beneath that staging display some thousands still,
smaller but not less beautiful. A sight which words could not portray. I
yield in despair.

The tillage of the farm is our business, and there are many points here
which the amateur should note. Observe the bricks beneath your feet.
They have a hollow pattern which retains the water, though your boots
keep dry. Each side of the pathway lie shallow troughs, always full.
Beneath that staging mentioned is a bed of leaves, interrupted by a tank
here, by a group of ferns there, vividly green. Slender iron pipes run
through the house from end to end, so perforated that on turning a tap
they soak these beds, fill the little troughs and hollow bricks, play in
all directions down below, but never touch a plant. Under such constant
drenching the leaf-beds decay, throwing up those gases and vapours in
which the orchid delights at home. Thus the amateur should arrange his
greenhouse, so far as he may. But I would not have it understood that
these