The local flower-show, that institution so much loved by villagers, working-men's clubs and sentimental novelists, is about to , begin its usual summer season. I wish it were possible to prophesy that it would not be characterized. by the usual atrocious dahlias and vegetable marrows and still more by the usual dishonesty and humbug. But the facts of a long tradition are against me. In addition to the frilling and grooming of asters and sweet-peas, as though they were pet pups, there will be the usual practice, long since winked at, of exhibiting as own-grown produce and flowers bought from work-mates and neighbours. And the humbug and stupidity of committees will. I fear, be as much in evidence as ever—as in the case of a head-gardener of my acquaintance who, after spending a day in judging and making awards, was astounded to find that the prize cards had been changed about ; and was told, on protesting, that he had committed the unpardonable error of not awarding prizes to Mrs. A. and Mr. B and Miss X, who were all long and untiring workers On the committee.