236 A BOOK ABOUT ROSES 



schoolboy who, having received a cake from home, 

 takes with him a last slice to his cubicle, awakes in 

 feverish repletion, turning painfully upon the crusty 

 crumbs, so shall this night of yours be fraught with 

 pleasure and with pain. Now shall you taste daintily 

 the candied peels, and now toss fretfully on piercing 

 grits. Now you shall sleep, and all shall be serene, 

 blissful. You are dreaming, so sweetly dreaming, the 

 happy hours away. The great day has come. 



' A happier smile illumes each brow, 

 With quicker spread each heart uncloses ; 

 And all is happiness, for now 

 The valley holds its feast of Roses.' 



Your own are magnificent, larger than those which 

 bloom in Manchester chintz above your slumbering 

 brow — nine inches in diameter. You reach the show ; 

 you win every prize, laurels enough to make triumphal 

 arches along all your homeward way. Suddenly a 

 change, a horrible change, comes o'er the spirit of 

 your dream. How the van, in which you are travel- 

 ling with your Roses, jumps and jolts ! how dark the 

 night, and how the thunder rolls ! Ah, tout est perdu ! 

 Crash fall the horses, or rather, the nightmares, down 

 a steep incline, and you find yourself standing, aghast 

 and hopeless, knee-deep in pot-pourri^ in a country 

 lane five miles from the show ! 



Awaking, for the sixteenth time, with a terrible 



