ell
me I was "doing fine," and that I should have four dollars instead of
three and a half. This made the work easier than ever, and my fingers
flew happily till six o'clock. Then we cooked dinner as we did our
luncheon, but we took only half an hour for our evening meal, so as to
get off at half-past nine instead of ten. At night the work was harder,
as the room became terribly hot from the gas-jets and from the stoves
where the rose-makers heated their tools. The faces grew tired and pale,
and the girls sang to keep themselves awake. "The Rabbi's Daughter,"
"The City of Sighs and Tears," and "The Banquet in Misery Hall" were the
favorite songs. A rising breeze swept up Broadway, now almost deserted,
and rushed through the windows, setting all our blossoms fluttering.
Outside a soft, warm spring rain began to fall on the tired, sleepy
city.

One week, two weeks, passed in these pleasant surroundings. I was still
"slipping up" poppies all day long, and every evening till half-past
nine. Then I went home to the little cot in the dormitory of the "home."
It would seem that all the world's wife and daughters were to wear
nothing but poppies that season. But ours was only a small portion of
Rosenfeld's output. Violets, geraniums, forget-me-nots,
lilies-of-the-valley, apple-blossoms, daisies, and roses of a score of
varieties were coming to life in this big garden in greater multitudes
even than our common poppies. Forty girls worked on roses alone. The
rose-makers are the swells of the trade. They are the best paid, the
most independent, and always in competitive demand during the flower
season. Any one can learn with patience how to make other kinds of
flowers; but the rose-maker is born, and the thoroughly experienced
rose-maker is an artist. Her work has a distinction, a touch, a "feel,"
as she calls it, which none but the artist can give.

The star rose-maker of the shop, next to the forewoman (who was reputed
the finest in America), was about twenty-five. Her hair was fluffy and
brown, and her eyes big and dark blue. She was of Irish birth, and had
been in America about fourteen years. One day I stopped at her chair and
asked how long it took her to learn.

"I'm still learning," she replied, without looking up from the tea-rose
in her fingers. "It was seven years before I considered myself
first-class; and though I'm at it now thirteen, I don't consider I know
it all yet." She worked rapidly, flecking the delicate