ut a forlorn appearance when compared with
its more blooming companions. He replied: "This rose-bush is my _own_;
papa gave it to me in spring, and promised that no one else should touch
it. I have taken great pains with it; and as it was covered with
beautiful roses last summer, I hoped to have had many fine bouquets from
it; but all my care and watching have been useless: I see I shall not
have one full-blown rose after all."

"And yet," said I, "it appears to be as healthy as any other bush in the
garden: tell me what you have done for it, as you say it has cost me so
much pains?"

"After watching it for some time," he replied, "I discovered a very
great number of small buds, but they were almost concealed by the leaves
which grew so thickly; I therefore cleared away the greater part of
these, and my little buds then looked very well. I now found, as I
watched them, that though they grew larger every day, the green outside
continued so hard that I thought it impossible for the delicate
rose-leaves to force their way out; I therefore picked them open; but
the pale, shriveled blossoms which I found within never improved, but
died one after another. Yesterday morning I discovered one bud which the
leaves had till then hidden from me, and which was actually streaked
with the beautiful red of the flower confined in it; I carefully opened
and loosened it, in the hope that the warm sun would help it to blow: my
first thought this morning was of the pleasure I should have in
gathering my _one_ precious bud for mamma--but look at it now!"

The withered, discolored petals to which the child thus directed my eye
did indeed present but a melancholy appearance, and I now understood the
cause of the looks of disappointment which had at first attracted my
attention. I explained to the zealous little gardener the mischief which
he had unintentionally done by removing the leaves and calyx with which
nature had covered and inclosed the flower until all its beauties should
be ready for full development; and having pointed out to him some buds
which had escaped his _care_, I left him full of hope that, by waiting
patiently for nature to accomplish her own work, he might yet have a
bouquet of his own roses to present to his mother.

As I pursued my walk, it occurred to me that this childish incident
suggested an answer to the question asked by Dr. Johnson, "What becomes
of all the clever children?" Too often, it is to be feared, are t