
YONE. 165 
Gallio Noodle, sightless and noseless so far as flowers are concerned, 
yawning over “‘ the Six of Spades,” and saying, ‘‘ whart a delightful 
convocation of snorbs! Parson smoking clay pipes with groom, and 
dram-drinking with the rest of the company, while melodious. gent, 
who has been digging all day, and has come in, I dare say, all over 
worms, is holloaing Bacchanalian songs.” Let him sneer, as he tosses 
the poor FVorist. down, and goes off with his cigar to the stables, for I 
am perfectly unconcerned and happy,—happy in my earnest hope that 
they, whose sympathies alone I craye, will recognize in our little 
assemblies that brotherly goodwill and amity, whereof themselves, know 
from experience the excellent power and, sweetness, and whereby the 
true lovers of a garden are united in a friendship, as stedfast as it is 
pure, and as universal-as Divine Beauty itself. 
These lovers of the garden know well, that as ‘‘ one touch of Nature 
makes the whole world kin,’’ so one truthful instance of a floral. taste,, 
one hearty expression of horticultural loyalty, 1s acknowledged at once 
and echoed instantly by a thousand kindred souls. They know of signs 
and pass-words more powerful than those of the Freeest Masons, the 
Oddest Fellows, the most Ancient Druids,—a cosmopolitan clanship, 
accredited throughout the world. 
‘Rather flowery,” I hear it suggested. Well, yes, I think so; and, 
therefore, let us put aside the figurative, and illustrate our theme by 
fact. One hit, straight and home, is worth half an hour of sparring. 
~ Returning, not long ago, from a. visit to some distant frends, I 
arrived at their nearest station four seconds after the departure of the 
train; and, the engine-driver, to whom I bellowed piteously, not bemg 
of a floral mind, and coarsely refusing to come back, 1 was left, with 
another of the guests, to amuse ourselves for three hours as best we 
could. What was to be done? It was ten minutes’ walk to the town, 
and to the town we went, Here was a fine old church, recently 
restored; but it was locked, of course, and both of us were afraid of 
Bedels. ‘*‘ Was there a billiard-table?”’ we enquired of the postman. 
“No, but there was a bagatelle-board at the ‘Cock and Trumpet,’ ”’ 
an alternative which did not allure us. So to the chief hotel for 
luncheon, though we had scarcely breakfasted two hours ago; and here 
we imbibed some fearful sherry, the which, I verily believe, is lurking 
in my system now. A cigar;.and we seemed entirely forlorn and 
prostrate ; when suddenly my thoughts emerged from their gloominess, 
like railway-carriages from a tunnel into sunshine. 
«« Are there any nursery gardens in the neighbourhood?” I inquired 
of the waiter, just bringing us with the best intentions a copy of The 
Times, which we read two days ago. | 
. Oh yes, sir,” he responded to my great refreshment, ‘‘ Budd and 
Packe’s, sir, late Twig, sir. Anybody will show you the way, sir.” 
Away I sped, my companion following reluctantly, for he was no 
horticulturist, and having referred to ‘‘ anybody,” in the person of an 
intelligent baker, we soon reached the gardens; and, in five minutes, I 
was perfectly at home and happy in the congenial society of Messrs. Budd 
and Packe. We sauntered through the houses; we peeped into the 
frames ; we wandered among squares of ever verdant trees, phalanxe 
of flowering shrubs, and regiments of the deciduous order. We 
