that the tulip borrows its colors from the elements; perhaps
we should give him pleasure if we were to maintain and
establish that nothing is impossible for a florist who
avails himself with judgment and discretion and patience of
the sun's heat; the clear water, the juices of the earth,
and the cool breezes. But this is not a treatise upon tulips
in general; it is the story of one particular tulip which we
have undertaken to write, and to that we limit ourselves,
however alluring the subject which is so closely allied to
ours.

Boxtel, once more worsted by the superiority of his hated
rival, was now completely disgusted with tulip-growing, and,
being driven half mad, devoted himself entirely to
observation.

The house of his rival was quite open to view; a garden
exposed to the sun; cabinets with glass walls, shelves,
cupboards, boxes, and ticketed pigeon-holes, which could
easily be surveyed by the telescope. Boxtel allowed his
bulbs to rot in the pits, his seedlings to dry up in their
cases, and his tulips to wither in the borders and
henceforward occupied himself with nothing else but the
doings at Van Baerle's. He breathed through the stalks of
Van Baerle's tulips, quenched his thirst with the water he
sprinkled upon them, and feasted on the fine soft earth
which his neighbour scattered upon his cherished bulbs.

But the most curious part of the operations was not
performed in the garden.