TRIALS OF A CITY HORTICULTURIST.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XVIII, Issue 6255, 3 December 1881, Page 7

TRIALS OF A CITY HORTICULTURIST.

" I ain't having as good luck with my plants this year as usual," sighed Mr. Miles, as he dodged a blacking brush and contemplated the wreck of a geranium bed on which the missile landed. "Why not?" asked a friend who had dropped around to 3ee the garden. "Because,"said Mr. Miles, as a boot flew past his ear, and knocked over a beautiful passion flower, " because when I use the hose to sprinkle the shubbery the people upstairs can't net any water. You'd better stay under the arbour," he continued, as an ink bottle hissed through the air and crashed through a rose bush. "They are doing that to attract my attention and make me turn the water off. If you should go out there you might get hurt." "But I should think it would injure your flowers " suggested the guest. "It don't do 'em any good," groaned Mr. Miles, eyeing an old oil can as it ricochetted through a patch of fuschias. "But whit is a fellow to do ? Plants must have -water. By Jove ! there goes my Japanese lily!" and he contemplated the soap dish that broke it with a melancholy glance. " I don't see any use in that. These folks have got all day to wash in, and yet they grudge me a few hours in the morniug and a few more at night." "Can't you make some kind of arrangements with them?" "I haven't vet," replied Mr. Miles, turning the hose-pipe toward a glorious bed of verbenas. "There is—whoop ! there goes my calla !" he exclaimed as a ..uspidor smashed to fragments against the fence. "I thought a good deal of that lily, but I reckon it ain't ni"ch good now." "But 1 wouldn't allow anybody to ruin my garden like that!" exclaimed" the guest indignantly. "I know, but if I make any fuss they'll cut up all the worse," moaned Mr. Miles, as a boot-jack caught him in the small of the back. "That was lucky, wasn't it?" he grinned. "If it hadn't been for me—halloa! that pink has outlived its usefulness !" he exclaimed, as a hammer dropped down on it. "What I'm most afraid of is that they'll get to heaving furniture and clocks and looking-glasses down here." "Why on earth dou't you turn off the water and save your flowers ?" "Can't! If I don't water 'em they'll die anyway, and I'm in hopes the people will dislocate their arms. Holy smoke! There's my heliotrope busted!" and he gazed on the stair-rod that did the damage with tearful eyes. " I've spent hundreds of dollars on this garden, and I hate to see it bowled over like ten-pins. There goes a dahlia ! but I don't mind that so much." "Did your folks break in your hothouse panes like that?" asked the visitor. "Oh, I don't know!" sighed Mr. Miles. "I guess a cat fight got in there. The cats are most as bad as the family. When one ain't shying bric-a-brac, the other will get up a prize row. and between 'em it puts me to expense. Whew! that ends my tube rose," he murmured as a stove-lid banged through it. "I guess I'll let up now, or there won't bo anything left to water to-morrow." And Mr. Miles coiled up his hose, and with a parting look at his wretched flower beds, dodged a door-knob, and wen t mournfully to his supper.—Brooklyn Eagle.