98 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



the summer in 1868, I watched day after day— nay, week 

 after week— with a patience worthy of that deaf old gentle- 

 man who listened for three months to catch the ticking of 

 a sun-dial, or of him who undertook the tedious task of 

 teaching a weather-cock to crow ; and at last, feeling sure 

 of my shower, wheeled barrow after barrow with my own 

 hands, not seeming to have time to call for help, over the 

 little bridge, and distributed it as a Lord Mayor turtle to 

 recipients more greedy than aldermen. Soon the big rain 

 came dancing to the earth, and when it had passed, and I 

 smoked my evening weed among the Rose-trees, I fancied 

 that already the tonic had told. At all events, it is written 

 in the chronicles of the Rose-shows how those Roses sped. 



If only one application of manure is considered to be 

 expedient, I would advise a liberal supply of farmyard 

 dung well decomposed, and that this should be dug in, or, 

 still better (in the case of light soils particularly), left upon 

 the surface, after the Rose-trees are pruned in March. If 

 not dug in, I should myself be inclined to defer the fruition 

 of this powerful diet for a month or so ; that just as the 

 lanky schoolboy, outgrowing his strength, is placed upon a 

 regimen of boiled eggs and roast beef, Allsopp and Bass, so 

 the Rose-trees may have "good support," these nursing- 



