orists make them bloom out of
season."

"I hope you will tell us something about it," said Harry, as we rattled
swiftly over the rails in the steam-dummy; "that is, when we get out of
this noisy old trap."

In a few minutes we alighted at the city line, and Harry, taking my arm,
declared himself ready for more "flower talk."

"Suppose," said I, "that a florist wishes to have several thousand
plants in bloom for Easter, does he allow them plenty of water and
sunshine, and opportunity to bloom several months in advance of the day?
No; he stows them all away to rest, or sleep, as he calls it, for weeks
and weeks, in cool, dry, shady places, some on shelves, some in sand,
and some in pots 'in cool houses.'

"After a time the bulbs are taken out of the sand, and placed in earth,
and with the other plants are allowed to enjoy a little warmth and
sunshine.

"The rose-bushes are pruned, bound, and tied in trim forms, and placed
in rows, and though destitute of foliage, look so healthy and neat one
can not but admire them. In a week or two, as if by magic, thousands of
buds are swelling and bursting into leaf on every stem.

"Five weeks ago I visited the greenhouses we are now going to, and as I
stood in the Easter 'roseries,' I thought it must be quite delightful to
be a young rose in training for Easter, the sunshine was so warm and
golden, the air so soft and dewy sweet. Every bush showed signs of
coming buds--very, very tiny, but they were there. The bulb houses were
stocked with rows and rows of cherry-red pots filled with rich brown
mould; in some the point of a tulip or hyacinth leaf peered up green and
bright, in others there were already brave crowns of strong leaves.

"'Ah,' thought I, 'these will surely please the florist's eye;' but I
assure you they had a very different effect, for he looked at them with
a frown that said, plainer than words, 'My brave young folks, wouldn't
you like to blossom before Easter, and spoil my fine show for me? Indeed
you shall not.' He thought that, of course; for the next minute he cried
out, 'John, take these forward bulbs and put them back in the "cold
house."'"

"What a pity!" murmured Nell.

"Not at all," replied I, "for soon they would have had spikes of fine
blossoms; then Madam Hyacinth and Mr. Tulip might bid farewell to all
thought of going to church on Easter-day, for long before that time
their gay clothes would be faded and spoiled."

"What is the 'cold house'?"