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injures a man's prospects in life more than a bad name. My father, an honest, good man, never could rise above it, it depressed him to his dying day. His name was Pan, and no one ever spoke to him without some small joke, a thing which my father's sensitiveness could not bear. He was a gardener and sent the finest of vegetables to market, striving to excel all others—I presume that my taste for horticulture arose from this circumstance.

Adjoining our garden was one that belonged to a man by the name of Patrick O'Brien; he likewise raised fruits and vegetables for sale, and there was a constant strife between him and my father as to who should get the pre-eminence; but it so happened that, although my father had the greatest abundance of large and fine specimens, yet Patrick O'Brien had the largest for the monthly exhibitions. My father was not of a jealous nature, yet he did envy his friend's success; and there is no knowing whether a breach might not have been made in their long tried friendship but for my excellent mother. She always begged my father to try and try again; and, above all, to try for the yearly fair.