February 1,1883. ] JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AND COTTAGE GARDENER. 
95 
I have never found that the Japanese are worse to keep than 
the incurved section. I have found that there are certain varieties 
in all the sections less liable to damp than others. What is the 
cause of the complaint of some flowers damping, or, indeed, decay¬ 
ing at the earliest stages of their blooming ? Has not high feed¬ 
ing with artificial manures much to answer for this? Many of 
the varieties named by your correspondent have excellent qualities, 
but Laciniatum is more curious than useful ; it is, to say the least, 
a shy bloomer, of small size, and is surpassed by numbers of 
others.—J. W. M. 
[Accompanying this communication were several blooms, the 
majority of them Japanese.j 
MY BOX OF TWENTY-FOUR. 
[By C. II. HAWTREY, condensed from the “ Itosarians’ Year Book.] 
“ Ethel comes this afternoon, so please be in about four o’clock— 
don’t forget.” 
Ethel Craven is my niece—stay—let me first re-introduce myself, 
John Briggs, of the Lodge, Crawford, and my wife, who has just 
spoken. 
Ethel is the daughter of my eldest sister, who years ago married 
the vicar of a country parish in Cornwall. My brother-in-law is a 
first-rate fellow, but, like many a country parson, he is not blessed 
with a superabundance of this world’s goods. 
Capital friends are my niece and myself, for we have a common 
bond of union—namely, Roses. And it is partly to this that we owe 
the pleasure of her visit at this time of the year, for at the end of this 
week the Great County Rose Show is to be held at Caitham, which 
all the world knows is the principal town of Marlshire, where the 
Assizes, the Hunt Ball, and the Agricultural Shows are held—and I 
wish to have the benefit of her aid and good taste. Besides the 
classes for Roses, which are, of course, to m} r mind the principal part 
of the show, there is a prize for the best table decoration, and in thi 3 
particular line Ethel is very difficult to beat. 
“No,” I reply, “I won’t forget—I think I’ll just go out now and 
have a look at the Roses.” 
Smart is now my gardener ; and since he has been with me the 
garden has indeed thriven. How Greybridge could have parted with 
such a treasure I cannot think. 
I find Smart busily engaged with two lads brushing green fly off 
the Roses. 
“ Good morning, Smart. How are the Roses ? Do you think we 
shall show well on Saturday ?” 
“ Oh, us’ll be right enough, sir. The best of ’em ’ll have to be 
prutty handy to beat we this time.” 
“Remember, it’s a box of twenty-four. We’ve never been so 
ambitious before.” 
“ Ah, but then you see, sir, you’ve so many more to pick and choose 
from this time. ’Taint as if w r e was how we was at the 4 Parliss.’ 
Us was terrible bad there, sir. Just an orsight long o’ they others.” 
Smart must mean “ eyesore ” I think ; but I cannot agree with 
him that our Roses were that, though I own they were not good. 
“ Well, Miss Ethel is coming to stay this week, so she will help us 
and do the table decoration.” 
“ Is she now ? Well, I be main glad to hear that, sir.” 
On my way back to the house I meet James Greybridge coming 
across the lawn. James is to dine with us this evening. I trust he 
is not going to disappoint us, as there is nothing that upsets Mrs. 
Briggs more than having the arrangements of her little dinner parties 
disturbed. 
“ Morning, old chap,” he cries. “ Thought I should find you 
muddling away at the Roses, so came straight out here. Got any¬ 
thing to do on Thursday ?” 
“ Thursday, let me see. No. We’re disengaged on Thursday ? ” 
“ Well I wish you’d do something for me. You know we’ve got a 
cricket match for Thursday against Murchison’s people. Quite forgot 
that I’m engaged to play lawn tennis at old Boffer’s. Got a sporting 
match on with old Tiddywhack himself. Can’t disappoint Boffer, 
you know. Would you mind just seeing after the cricket match for 
me ? ” 
* * * * * 
“ And now,” cried Ethel, “ do let us go out to the Roses. I long 
to have a good chat with Smart.” 
The interval until it was time to go in to dress for dinner was most 
agreeably spent by Ethel and myself. There were the blooms to be 
inspected ; the new Roses too, and the Briars that were nearly ready 
for this year’s budding. 
Of course the great object of interest was the prospect for the fol¬ 
lowing Saturday. We could count fifteen or sixteen buds which we 
thought would be just right; and if the weather was hot why there 
would be plenty more. If it was cold, then w r e hoped that the'more 
forward buds would not be gone by. 
The prospect was hopeful. A thrill of pride and anticipation was 
making my blood tingle, when I was startled by a cry from Ethel. 
“ Good gracious ! Uncle John, what have you got here 1 I didn’t 
think it of you. I didn’t indeed.” 
I was at this time inspecting a bud of A. K. Williams, which I had 
been counting on, and which to my disgust I found had lately been 
devoured on the under side by a grub and rendered perfectly useless. 
I hurried on at once. 
“ What is it ?” I asked. 
“ Look,” she said. “ I wonder what Mr. Camm would say.” 
Well, they were beautiful plants. Nobody could deny that. And 
I dislike Paul Neron as much as anybody does; but then an exhibitor 
must grow as many sorts as possible, and even Paul Neron is not to 
be despised when you don’t know how to make up your box. 
“ Ah,” says Smart, “ wery prutty I calls it, sometimes. You 
minds, sir, when — ” 
“ Pretty, Smart!” says Ethel; “ it’s hideous !” 
There they stood, eighteen great fine plants. The foliage was 
splendid, and one or two huge blooms appeared amidst it. But these 
blooms were as nothing compared to what were to come. The buds 
were like cricket balls ; and I noted the fact privately, and I know 
that Smart had noted it too, that they would be “ in ” on Saturday. 
And if it should happen that we should be short, of course—why, we 
should have to—well, there was no need to say anything about that 
at present. 
“ Uncle John, can’t you get Mr. Greybridge as a favour to accept 
these plants next autumn ? If not, we will subscribe and pay some¬ 
one to take them. Or, as a last resource, we might send them to 
Major Milman to be planted in the west of Ireland.” 
***** 
The next day I am quite myself again. Well, yes, I confess I am 
excited about to-morrow’s contest—awfully excited. The weather 
has been favourable, and I certainly never had any Roses to compare 
with these. Ethel and I are having a quiet look at them this even¬ 
ing, and we can cut to-morrow morning. 
Good gracious ! Here comes Greybridge ; what on earth does he 
want ? He hangs about me like an influenza cold at Christmas¬ 
time. 
“ Good evening. Miss Craven,” he says. Then turning to me, “Well, 
old chap 1 Now for the Roses ! ” 
* * * * * 
We walk down the cinder-path which divides the Rose garden. 
Presently we come to the Paul Nerons. Well, upon my word, they 
are wonderful : one has often seen them like saucers : these are like 
soup plates. Coarse ! I should think so ! I was going to say that 
coarse is not the word. But it is; that is just exactly what it is. 
Coarse is the only word that describes them. Utterly, frightfully, 
hideously coarse. 
James eyes them ; he stops ; he leaves the path. He walks round 
those eighteen plants pthen he looks up at me and says, with great 
solemnity, 
“ Briggs, old chap, you’ll win that cup to-morrow. I’m blowed if 
you w T on’t.” 
****** 
Smart and I got the twenty-four ready, while Ethel was preparing 
for the dinner-table decoration. James followed her about, held 
flowers for her, and, in short, did exactly what he was told. I don’t 
suppose anybody who knows James will believe this ; but I can’t 
help that. It is a fact. He did what he was told. 
Only once did he take any interest in what Smart and I were doing. 
It was when we came to the Paul Nerons. He walked across to see 
them cut. I passed them. 
“ Hullo,” he said ; “ ain’t you going to cut these ? ” 
“ No,” said I ; “ I don’t think we shall want them.” 
“Humbug!” he answered ; “you won’t win the cup without these. 
Cut them at once, Smart,” he went on in his old imperious manner. 
“ They’ll do for spares, sir,” said Smart to me, apologetically. I 
am aware that Smart has a sneaking fondness for the hideous 
monster. 
So they were cut and put into the spare box. 
Everything was ready in good time, and I was in high spirits, for 
the Roses surpassed all my expectations. It must be a real good 
Twenty-four to beat me to-day. 
***** 
I gloated over every bloom. How exquisite the Devoniensis looked 
between Prince Camille and Charles Lefebvre. The grub-eaten A. K. 
had quite gone by, but here was another, rather small perhaps, but 
such perfect form. There was not another Catherine Mermet in the 
show like mine ; of that I was certain. And then Emilie Haus- 
burg, so much undervalued by those who don’t know a good Rose 
when they see one, and so much prized by those who do. 
And these were only some of the especial beauties in my Twenty- 
four. Marie Baumann was grand; so was Louis Van Houtte ; the 
Baroness splendid ; Thomas Mills a marvel of brightness. In fact 
there was not a bad bloom in the box. No room for Paul Neron 
here. It would have been a real case of Beauty and the Beast. 
“ Well, Smart, what is it? ” I asked. 
“Come to see how you was a-getting on, sir,” answered Smart. 
“ They don’t seem to want I down there, so I come along.” 
“ Not much doubt about the cup this time, Smart,” I exclaimed. 
“ No-o, blesh you, sir. We’re right this time. I see’d ’em a looking 
precious sly at we when the cover was took off of the box.” 
“ Ah, well, there’s many a slip,” said I, trying to control my 
excitement; but the fact was, we were clearly best—at least, I 
thought so—clearly, clearly best. 
The bell rang. One last look, just to sec that the names were all 
right. 
