72 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



No long time ago, and while the judges at a flower-show 

 were making their awards, I strolled with two other exhi- 

 bitors, gardeners, into a small nursery -ground, not far 

 distant. My companions were strangers to me, but still 

 more strange to each other, for they seemed to differ in 

 all points, as much as two men having the same vocation 

 could. The one was of a cheerful countenance and con- 

 versation, ruddy with health, lithe and elastic as a hunter 

 in condition ; the other ponderous, morose, flabby — com- 

 plexion, gamboge and green. Not knowing their real 

 appellations, I named them in my own mind, Doleful and 

 Gaylad, after two foxhounds of my acquaintance. Doleful 

 soon found the fox he wanted, — something to decry and 

 depreciate ; and he gave tongue with a deep melancholy 

 howl, which might have been the last sad wail of poor 

 Gelert. Gaylad simultaneously, but in an opposite direc- 

 tion, went away with Jiis fox, — something to admire and 

 praise ; but his tone was full of mirth and music, and he 

 seemed thoroughly to enjoy the sport. Doleful had just 

 growled to me in confidence that he " wouldn't have the 

 place as a gift," when Gaylad pronounced it ''a jolly little 

 spot," and told the occupier, who was hard at work, that 

 his nursery did him credit. I found out, as we returned, 



