I never knew a man who loved flowers with such tenderness as did this queer, old coachman. His garden, principally laid out in lard-pails, tomato-cans, and an occasional soap-box, filled my heart with envy by its astounding mass of beautiful bloom. Even the gardeners used to grunt unwilling admission of his wonderful luck. ’Twas all fish that came to John’s net. Sunflowers or daisies, lilies or morning-glories, pinks or japonicas--everything he could beg, buy or pick up--he so craved, so longed for flowers. As a chicken will rush for a crust of bread, so would “Old John” rush when sick or dying plants were cast from the greenhouse. He always gathered them up and carried them out of sight, to make his examinations in private and decide upon the course of treatment necessary. A bit later he could be seen, happy and perspiring, filling yet another lard-pail with leaf-mould, etc., a big dog on each side watching with restless, inquiring eyes each movement, and sniffing with infinite curiosity at every article used, while John worked on and conversed affably with them all the time about the nature of the plant and his hopes for its future. One of his great successes was the wonderful restoration to life and opulent beauty of a pair of castaway begonias, almost leafless, entirely yellow, and sick unto death. They were thrown out bodily, and when “Old John” picked them up he was greeted with a roar of laughter from the gardener. The old man was nettled, but he only remarked: “Suppose ye wait a bit now, and by-and-by I’ll be laughin’ with ye--perhaps.” A long time after, as he helped me dismount one day, he asked me “wouldn’t I go down to his room a minute, he wanted to show me something.” And there, in riotous health and beauty, stood two rarely fine begonias, presenting a mass of foliage and a prodigality of bloom only to be found in “Old John’s” garden. I was frankly envious, to his great pride. One plant was loaded with great, coral-like clusters. The other dripped clear, white, waxen blossoms from trembling pink stems, and wore such an air of united purity and abundance, that, almost without thought, I exclaimed: “That flower should be dedicated to the Virgin Mary!” John gave me a startled glance, and said, “Why-y-y, why, madam! you’re a Protestant!” “Well?” I asked, “and because I am a Protestant am I to be denied the privilege of loving and honoring the immaculate mother of our Lord?”