The Day lowa State’s Flower Gardens Were Devastated by a Frost Rumor

October 15, 1897

Dearest reader,

On this day in Ames, Iowa, a tale of horticultural havoc unfolded at the respectable gardens of Iowa State College, courtesy of a rogue crowd, a cold snap rumor, and a perilous lack of garden etiquette.

The headline nearly writes itself: “Crowd Ruins Iowa State's Flower Plots.”

The culprit?

An unfounded whisper that, due to impending frost, the college gardens were open for free picking.

Oh, the thrill of rumor, and the mischief that dances in its wake!

What followed was a spectacle not seen before: a mob—150, perhaps 200 strong—descended on the horticulture plots and, with little regard for signs or sensibility, stripped the flowers, pulled up shrubs, and generally carried on as if the gardens were a grand buffet at a society wedding.

Only the intervention of the Ames police brought reprieve, and even then, many blossoms met an untimely end in eager hands.

One wonders, dear reader, what sweet madness overtakes a crowd on the promise of free flowers—does autumnal desperation sway the soul, or is it simply the mysterious power of chrysanthemums after all?

For not only were the flower beds emptied, but the loss was felt most sharply by those devoted to research and education.

The horticulture department lamented that these flowers, including chrysanthemums gifted by E. G. Kraus of the University of Chicago, were not mere ornamentals, but subjects in delicate test plots, measuring resistance to cold and fueling academic progress.

A ruined experiment may not prick one's purse, but oh, the sting to a scientist’s pride!

Does this not beg the question: can a flower ever truly be “free,” or must it—and those who cultivate it—always pay a hidden cost?

Of particular note was the college rose garden, one among sixteen in a national program. Its carefully bred blooms—never allowed to be picked, and heavily guarded by signage—were not spared.

College policy has long forbid plucking, yet visitors have always been welcome to admire.

Is it possible, then, that admiration slipped so easily into appropriation because gardeners are forever at odds with human curiosity, which, like ivy, cannot resist forbidden ground?

The aftermath was confusion and chagrin.

College officials could not fathom the origins of the reckless rumor, nor explain the sudden passion for flowers among both modest townsfolk and learned staff. The scene rounded off with a touch of irony: Professor E. C. Volz found himself besieged at his office by prospective flower-seekers, eager for directions—as though blooms might be dispensed like penny candy, fresh from the counter.

College officials were at a loss to explain how the rumor might have started and said it was the first time the gardens ever had been invaded by any sizeable number of flower pickers. 

Ames townspeople and Iowa State college staff members were among those who went through the gardens on the picking spree, police said. Professor E.C. Volz reported that more than a dozen persons, some from nearby towns, stopped at his office Monday to find out where they might get flowers.

So, dear reader, let us muse: Is the greatest tragedy the lost flowers, or the lost lessons in respect and stewardship?

When next one is tempted by the allure of an autumn garden, remember—beauty that is freely offered asks only for appreciation in return.

To take more is to trespass into the delicate dance of science and nature, and, who knows, to invite a touch of public scandal!