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Some years ago when I was spending a winter in Sarasota, Florida, I was a frequent visitor at the beautiful estate of Mrs. Potter Palmer, a fine location fronting Sarasota Bay and in sight of the Gulf of Mexico, a charming tropical section known as “Osprey” six miles down the bay from Sarasota. Here is where her winter habitation was for many years – pretty vine-covered house affording her every luxury. Fifteen or twenty servants were employed on the place during the winter season, and I learned to know some of them, especially the butler, who was a big fine, jovial fellow with a heart full of kindness and love for everything on the Palmer premises, and always willing to do favors for the many tourists who visited the place. It was my custom when I would land with a party at the private pier to stop inside and ask for a guide before permitting the excursionists to enter the grounds.

On one occasion, to my surprise, when our boat pulled up to the landing, I stepped to the door, as usual, to get a guide. Mrs. Palmer, graciously and pleasantly met me, and said: “In the future, Mr. Hubbard, you need not go to the trouble to ask for a guide. I will make you the guide for all the Ohio people that you bring to my home, and also any other of your tourist friends.”

In a very few days following this privilege, I landed at the Palmer private dock with a boat filled with Logan County people and others from Ohio. There were 70 in all and as we went along the many walks we were attracted by a parrot sitting upon a branch of an orange tree and it was calling, “wattah!” “wattah!” and we all stepped up and admired the beautiful bird, when a Bellefontaine woman exclaimed, “What a shame that they don’t give it a drink when it calls for water! If I can find something that will hold water I will go and get it a drink.”

All aboard the boat had taken baskets filled with eatables for the picnic feast, and Mrs. Palmer, noticing that we had our baskets and boxes, thermos bottles, etc., came to us and said, “You may spread your eatables on the ground and enjoy them picnic fashion if you wish to do so, and I would suggest the grounds surrounding the tea house. You have such a fine view of the bay from that point.”

Accordingly, we were soon unpacking our baskets and boxes near the tea house and felt thankful to Mrs. Palmer for permitting us to eat our lunch at a place that was about as near paradise as could be found upon earth. After we were through with the picnic, I suggested that we carefully gather up all the refuse and carry it to our boat, to be unloaded after we got further down the bay.

“Let us not leave as much as a toothpick upon the ground,” I said to the excursionists. At once all got busy and gathered everything that could possibly mar the appearance of the grounds. Some of the ladies opened their umbrellas and filled them with empty boxes, orange peelings, etc., and carried them to the boat, and later, when we were going sightseeing down the bay, we emptied the matter into the bay.

The next day following this experience, my surprise can well be imagined when one of Mrs. Palmer’s agents stepped up to me and said: “I very much regret, Mr. Hubbard, that the Ohio people you took down to Mrs. Palmer’s home yesterday, incurred her displeasure and caused her to give orders to the servants not to permit any more Ohio excursionists to step from the boat when at her pier. One of the servants reported to Mrs. Palmer after you were gone yesterday, he found that many of the ladies had left the grounds with their umbrellas loaded with oranges and fruit taken from the Palmer trees.”

I soon explained the matter and he was certainly glad to hear that it was all a mistake and he laughed heartily over it. “I’ll tell you what to do; telephone Mrs. Palmer and explain it just as you have to me, and it will certainly please her just the same as it had me.”

I lost no time in calling Mrs. Palmer. “Yes,” she answered, “the servants report that a number of the women carried away fruit and flowers in their umbrellas. I am so pleased to hear the true report of the affair. The Ohio people, especially those from your section of the state, have always been so respectful while at my home, and always conducted themselves to my liking, and I was always pleased to have them come. Well, I am glad to hear the truth of the matter. I really have felt right along that it surely must be a mistake. Come as often as you wish in the future. You will all be welcome.”

On one of the occasions to a trip to her home, Mrs. Jennie Jordan, of Bellefontaine, was in the party, and taking especial notice of Mrs. Jordan, Mrs. Palmer placed one of her arms about her at her home.

When this noble, good woman, known all over the world, died a few years ago at her Sarasota home, it was a personal grief with all the Bellefontaine people who had spent so many happy hours at her ideal summer home in Sarasota – one of the most beautiful in all Florida.

Her fine old father, Mr. Honore, then 93 years of age, frequently visited his daughter during the winter months, and many of us learned to know and revere him also. He was as handsome as a picture, genteel in his appearance, and of remarkable personality. It was a custom of Mr. Honore to light a cigar, and with his daughter upon his arm, daily walk among the flowers and through the orange groves, and all other attractive places about the home. One day I met him on the street in Sarasota and he recognized me and we visited together for some little time. In parting he laid his hand upon my shoulder and said, “My friend, it is true as I tell you, this country is upon the eve of prosperity, and we should all be thankful that we are alive.”

One day a guest at a hotel in Tampa found herself in the presence of Mr. Honore, not knowing who the distinguished gentleman might be. She had occasion to remark to him that she had been over to Sarasota and had called at the lovely home of Mrs. Potter Palmer, “and we met Mrs. Palmer and she was so charming.”

The surprise of the lady was great indeed when Mr. Honore proudly said, “I have the honor of being Mrs. Palmer’s father.”

(Editor's note: Unfortunatley, the rest of this article is missing, however, we at least have an interesting insight into life at "The Oaks")

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