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terrace if the day was fine. His breakfast was modest, by the most austere standards. A small glass of pineapple juice generally sufficed, but if he was especially ravenous, he added a piece of toast and another martini to the menu. The liquor had no apparent efTect save to sharpen, ever so slightly, his usual morning good humor and enhance his appreciation of the California weather, which he loved. After breakfast, before going to work, whether he was employed at the studios or occupied with scripts at home, he walked over his grounds for an hour. He inspected his flowers, an exercise that became a guiding passion in his life. Fields was one of the great nature men of his generation. His cultivation of flowers and his pride at exhibiting them to guests were not affected ; he was happiest, some of his friends believe, when he was submerged in horticulture and removed from the strain of society. He had a tendency, however, to personalize his flowers, which occasionally plagued him as people did. He once called up Gregory La Cava, who devotes many hours, in the California manner, to watering plants, and said, "I want you to come right over here — I've got some Jack roses that are blooming as big as cabbages."
"Oh, nonsense," La Cava replied. "There isn't any such thing. I'm busy."
Fields insisted, with angry trumpetings, and La Cava left his house at Malibu Beach and drove over, a trip of several miles. The day was warm, the traffic brisk, and it was some time before he arrived. Fields growled at the delay, but ushered him swiftly down a lane toward the waiting exhibit. The roses had apparently made their bow for the morning; when their sponsor arrived with his guest they had retreated to small, tight buds. Fields was enraged. He ran up and down the lane, lashing at the offenders with a cane, and crying, "Bloom! Bloom, damn you! Bloom for my friend!"
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