62 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



For the flirt, for the faint-hearted, for the cox- 

 comb, who thinks that upon his first sentimental 

 sigh she will rush into his arms and weep, she has 

 nothing but sublime disdain. 



Of this, and before I speak upon Soil^ let me 

 submit an illustration. i 



Not many summers since, three individuals, of 

 whom I was one, were conversing in a country 

 home. One of my companions was about to suc- 

 ceed the other as tenant of the house in which we 

 were met, and was making anxious inquiry about 

 the garden in general, and concerning Roses in 

 particular. ''Oh!" said our host, ** the place is 

 much too exposed for Roses. No man in the 

 world is fonder of them than I am, and I have 

 tried all means, and spared no expense ; but it is 

 simply hopeless." '^ Mtist have Roses," was the 

 quiet commentary of the new-comer ; and two 

 years afterwards I met him at the local flower- 

 show, the winner of a first prize for twelve. " My 

 predecessor," he said, '* was no more the enthusiast 

 which he professed to be about Roses, than that 

 Quaker was an enthusiastic alms- giver who had 

 felt so much for his afflicted friend but had not felt 

 in his pocket. The pleasure-grounds, it is true, 

 are too bleak for prize blooms, but in the large, 

 half-cultivated kitchen-garden, I found the most 



