same rose. I have
not ventured to ask one of them to put up with a London garden as yet,
but I fancy one is coming to stay with me next year. Perversity haunts
the garden, and the dock always grows as near as possible to some plant
that you value. "Now then," says the dock, "if you dig me up, you'll
have to pay for it." But especially does perversity attach itself to
roses. What have I done for the perennial lupins? Nothing. And they have
given me numberless spikes of incomparable loveliness. What have I done
for the Canterbury bells? Nothing. And they also seem to like it. But I
did a good deal for that particular rose which I call Mabel, and then
there was a late spring frost. It was no fault of mine. I was not even
there when it was done. I was in bed at the time. But it annoyed Mabel.
She seemed unable to forget it. Why must those loathsome and
parthenogenetic green flies devour the tender roses? There is still a
certain amount of rhubarb in the garden, and they are welcome to it. I
would very much rather they ate it than that I should eat it myself. But
the green flies will not look at it. They cling to the rose and suck its
life out. Then, out of sheer devilry, they grow wings and migrate to
some other rose tree.

The queen demands homage, and the rose has received it to the extent of
countless volumes written by wise gardeners who have studied her
specially. Their learning appals. They almost deter the poor blunderer
in London from ever trying to grow a rose or to talk about one. A little
knowledge may be a dangerous thing, but the expert runs his risks also.
I was taken through a most beautiful rose-garden once, and I dared to
admire one particular bed. "Yes," said the owner of the garden almost
apologetically, "it's quite one of the old sorts." And then I was taken
to other beds in which was the very last word in roses--kinds that had
only been produced within the last year or so--and here the owner showed
more enthusiasm. Has it come to this then--that fashion is to stray from
the milliner's shop and find a place in the garden?

From motives of humanity I refrain from bringing out once more certain
over-worked quotations from Herrick and Omar; but in truth the poets,
like the scientific gardeners, have not spared writing materials where
roses were in question. They are ecstatic about the colour and
fragrance, and generally sentimental about the thorns, and never by any
chance allude to the culture. There is s