"I don't see what in sin's become of them dahlias I set out this
Spring," said Tapehorn, a retired slop-shop merchant, to his wife, one
morning a month ago, as he hunted in vain among the weeds and grass of
his garden, to see where or when his two-dollars-a-piece dahlia roots
were going to appear.
"Can't think what's the matter with 'em," he continued. "Goldblossom
said they were the finest roots he ever
old--ought to be up and in
bloom--two months ago."
"Oh, pa, I forgot to tell you," said Miss Tapehorn, "that our Patrick,
one morning last Spring, was digging in the garden there, and he turned
up some things that looked just like sweet potatoes; mother and I looked
at them, and thought they were potatoes those Mackintoshes had left
undug when they moved away last winter!"
"Well, you-a--" gasped Tapehorn.
"Well, pa, ma and I had them all dug up and cooked, and they were the
meanest tasting things we ever knew, and we gave them all to the pigs!"
Tapehorn looked like a man in the last stages of disgust, and jamming
his fists down into his pockets, he walked into the house, muttering:
"Tut, tut, tut!--thirty-two dollars and the finest lot of dahlias in the
world--gone to the pigs!"