I found one in Piccadilly the other day. She had taken up a stand on a street refuge, from which she could command sight of her former pitch.
"No, dearie," she said. "Piccadilly's gorn to the dorgs, strite it 'as. Life ain't what it was, nor never will be agin with this squarin' of a plice what was meant to be a circus. It ain't right. Who'd 'ave thought we should leave the Fountain—ever. Some say we can go beck there when they've done messin' it about, but I don't believe it. I'm Mrs. Wise I'm am. There ain't no green in my eye....
"And this job ain't what it once was—not by half. No, dearie! In the old days every kebbie had his buttonhole, and no gent was dressed unless he had one too. And the drivers of the old horse omnibuses! They were rare customers—nice, pleasant men, too, who liked to pass the time of day with you and talk. Now there's no time for talk or flowers."
She nodded enigmatically.
"Young men don't like to be seen carrying flowers to-day, but I can tell you their fathers didn't mind—and better men they were, if I'm any judge of a man, and I ought to be, seeing I've been sat in Piccadilly Circus all me life...."
Then she said something that sent a chill to my heart:
"My gels ain't going to waste their lives sitting here, I can tell you. Emma going into pickles, and Maud, she's in millinery."
This, of course, is the end! A flower girl's calling is hereditary. It descends through the distaff side. The next generation of "girls" are, it appears, going into commerce, and there will be none to follow on.
It is sad. If I were a millionaire I would subsidize them and buy a hansom cab and an old pensioned cab-horse to stand there too.
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