SOILS. 71 



No long time ago, and while the judges at a 

 flower-show were making their awards, I strolled 

 with two other exhibitors, 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 conversation, ruddy with health, lithe and 

 elastic as a hunter in condition ; the other ponder- 

 ous, morose, flabby — complexion, gamboge and 

 green. Not knowing their real appellations, I 

 named them in my own mind, Doleful and Gaylad, 

 after two fox-hounds 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 simulta- 

 neously, but in an opposite direction, went away 

 with his 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 



growth of stock, scion, and flower is vigorous, upon the excellent 

 principle of letting well alone. 



