DOROTHY: Barricaded? My house—my heart—behind them? That’s absurd. I don’t know what you mean.

YOUNG MAN: I know. They’re apparently such delicate, fragile creatures, these petunias, but they have a terrible resistance.

DOROTHY: Resistance to what, may I ask?

YOUNG MAN: Anything big or important that happens to come by your house. Nothing big or important can ever get by a double row of petunias! That is the reason why you are living alone with your canary and beginning to dislike it.

DOROTHY: Dislike my canary? I love it!

YOUNG MAN: Secretly, Miss Simple, you wish the birdseed would choke it! You dislike it nearly as much as you secretly disliked your petunias.

DOROTHY: Why should I, why should you, why should anybody dislike petunias!

YOUNG MAN: Our animosity and its resultant action is best explained by a poem I once composed on the subject of petunias—and similar flora. Would you like to hear it?

DOROTHY: I suppose I should, if it’s relevant to the case.

YOUNG MAN: Extremely relevant. It goes like this:

[Light music is heard.]

How grimly do petunias look

on things not listed in the book

For these dear creatures never move

outside the academic groove.

They mark with sharp and moral eye

phenomena that pass them by

And classify as good or evil

mammoth whale or tiny weevil.

They note with consummate disdain

all that is masculine or plain

They blush down to their tender roots

when men pass by in working boots

All honest language shocks them so

they cringe to hear a rooster crow

Of course they say that good clean fun’s

permissible for every one

But find that even Blindman’s Bluff

is noisy and extremely rough

AND—

[In a stage whisper.] —Not quite innocent enough!

What do you think of it?

DOROTHY: Unfair! Completely unfair!

YOUNG MAN [laughing]: To organized petunias?

DOROTHY: Yes, and besides, I don’t think anyone has the right to impose his opinions in the form of footprints on other people’s petunias!

YOUNG MAN [removing small package from pocket]: I’m prepared to make complete restitution.

DOROTHY: What with?

YOUNG MAN: With these.

DOROTHY: What are they?

YOUNG MAN: Seeds.

DOROTHY: Seeds of what? Sedition?

YOUNG MAN: No. Wild roses.

DOROTHY: Wild? I couldn’t use them!

YOUNG MAN: Why not, Miss Simple?

DOROTHY: Flowers are like human beings. They can’t be allowed to grow wild. They have to be—

YOUNG MAN: Regimented? Ahhh. I see. You’re a horticultural fascist!

DOROTHY [with an indignant gasp]: I ought to call the policeman about those petunias!

YOUNG MAN: Why don’t you, then?

DOROTHY: Only because you made an honest confession.

YOUNG MAN: That’s not why, Miss Simple.

DOROTHY: No?

YOUNG MAN: The actual reason is that you are fascinated.

DOROTHY: AM I? Indeed!

YOUNG MAN: Indeed you are, Miss Simple. In spite of your late unlamented petunias, you’re charmed, you’re intrigued—you’re frightened!

DOROTHY: You’re very conceited!

YOUNG MAN: Now, if you please, I’d like to ask you a question.

DOROTHY: You may. But I may not answer.