72 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES. 



occupier, who was hard at work, that his nursery 

 did him credit. I found out, as we returned, that 

 these two men were competitors in the same class ; 

 and I found, as I anticipated, on entering the show, 

 that Gaylad was first and Doleful nowhere. Sub- 

 sequently, at the dinner, and as I again expected, 

 Mr. Doleful informed us that his defeat was to be 

 attributed entirely to the wretched nature of his 

 soil ; a remark which was received with a grace- 

 ful silence by the company in general, and by Mr. 

 Gaylad in particular with a festive wink. 



Some soils, we all know, are naturally more 

 beneficent than others, but gardening is an art; 

 its primary business 



"To study culture, and with artful toil 

 To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil;" 



and its success certain, wherever this cura 

 cole7tdi is undertaken by working heads and hands. 

 I know of only one soil in which the attempt to 

 grow grand Roses would be hopeless — a case of 

 '' Patience sitting by the pool of Despondency 

 and angling for impossibihties," with never a 

 nibble — and that is the light barren sand called 

 " drift" and *' blowaway," of which the clay farmer 

 said derisively that " it might be ploughed with a 

 Dorking cock and a carving-knife !" Mud, we 



