FIRST FIGHT IN THE WARS OF THE ROSES. 211 



failing joy; and happiest be who bends to admire 

 the commonest, the lowliest flower, the wee, modest 

 daisy, rather than not admire at all. 



Continuing my retrospect, I am now reminded of a 

 most impressive epoch, my first debut as an exhibitor 

 of roses. For I, like Norval, " had heard of battles," 

 and the time came when my father, like Mr. Norval, 

 senior, found it quite impossible " to keep his only 

 son, myself, at home," or prevent me from sallying 

 forth to fight in the wars of the roses. The Eeverend 

 Jones, my neighbour, had long maintained an ab- 

 solute monarchy at all our country flower-shows, and 

 it was time to hurl the tyrant from his throne. I 

 am afraid that I was jealous of Jones. To see him 

 smiling and purring over victorious roses, surrounded 

 by no end of pretty girls ; to hear the latter praising 

 and extolling Jones, as though he had made the roses 

 himself, was rather more than I could stand. He 

 was a formidable foe ; but I felt myself aggrieved, 

 like the old lady's parrot, and thirsted for Jones's 

 gore. You know the story of the old lady's parrot 

 how he escaped from, his cage, and wandering into 

 the inn yard opposite, was immediately attacked by 

 a gigantic raven ; and how his alarmed mistress, 

 espying the battle from afar, rushed to the rescue, 

 caught up her bleeding favourite, and was astounded 

 to hear his plucky expostulations, " Set me down, 

 missus, set me down. Big brute has broke my leg. 

 I'll have a go at him. I'll have a go at him." So 

 with me; if Jones broke not my leg, he meta- 

 phorically trod upon my most sensitive corn, and 

 I determined to " hare a go at Jiini." 



