ome of the houses are planted with tiny cuttings just lifting little
tender sprays above the warm, moist soil. Men are at work here and there
with hammers and nails, repairing any slight damage that may have been
done in previous months. Hose-pipes coil over the floors, and one must
walk by them daintily. In other houses one would exclaim with pleasure
at finding one's self in a wilderness of roses, pink, yellow, and white,
only to be told, rather contemptuously, "_That_ is nothing. There are no
roses here now. You must wait till winter if you want something worth
seeing. We have roses as large as tea-saucers then, and any quantity of
them."

Outside the buildings, and fairly surrounding them, are large square
beds of hybrid roses of many varieties, each sort planted in separate
rows by itself. There are beds of cuttings also, and one long, narrow
bed of red hybrids running the entire length of the greenhouse.
"Catherine Mermet," "La Reine," "Adam," "Paul Neyron," the exquisite "La
France," "John Hopper," the "Duke of Connaught," "Niphetos," and "Perle
des Jardins" are here in profusion, with others of every shade and tint,
too numerous almost to count, and the perfume arising from beds and
hot-houses is intoxicating in its strength and sweetness. Some bushes
are merely set in earthen pots out of doors; and these are supposed to
be in a dormant state, undergoing the process of "drying off," or
"hardening," receiving very little water, and are to be so kept until
September, when they will be repotted and "started" for growing,--thus
illustrating the truth of the saying that there is a blessing for those
who only stand and wait. But one could not help pitying them, when one
thought how their more fortunate companions with their uncramped roots
were exploring underground passages and enjoying all the freedom and
moisture of the rich soil.

"During the fall and winter we are very busy in a different way," said
Thomas Devoy, as he displayed his treasures. And then he told me how
every day in the later months all hands are occupied in tending,
cutting, and packing the roses which are daily expressed to a certain
New York florist. The beautiful half-blown buds are carefully cut, with
long, leafy stems, and laid in the great market-baskets standing on the
table ready to receive them. Row after row and layer after layer are
laid in, sprinkled until leaves and petals sparkle with a diamond dew.
Only buds at a certain stage of un