76 



-iARDENERS' CHRONICLE 



My Indian Rose Garden 



GEORGE CECIL 



INDIA essentially is the land of roses. They may 

 not be the choicest blooms ; the petals have an irri- 

 tating habit of parting company with the calyx: 

 and though, in the main, they resemble the European 

 variety, the gorgeous richness, or delicacy of coloring, 

 as the case may be, is lacking. Still, a rose is a rose — 

 whether it be a good or a bad specimen of its kind, 

 and there is no gainsaying the fact that in India, from 

 Cape Comorin to the borders of Afghanistan, they 

 grow in profusion all the year round. And both the 

 European and the native population glory in the pos- 

 session of rose gardens. 



When "stationed"' in the upper part of India, where 

 roses are almost as common as daisies are "at home," 

 I was the happy possessor of a perfect rose garden. 

 With its row- upon row of flowering trees and bushes, 

 its trim gravelled pathways and deep green turf, 

 which, elastically yielding to the footfall, made walk- 

 ing on the most appallingly hot day a joy, it was the 

 envy of my neighbors. But Fate, .alas ! conspired to 

 ruin my agreeable "scheme of things entire," and one 

 evening during the "rains," when the languorous air 

 was heavy with the scent of a certain indigenous per- 

 fume which a recent tropical shower had brought to 

 perfection, I received a "semi-official" letter and was 

 transferred to a frontier town. 



The thought of the roses, however, consoled me, 

 for I had been told that the North was the Paradise 

 of the rose-fancier. 



Upon reaching my destination, I was driven past 

 garden after garden gay with roses of every conceiv- 

 able variety. The trees were thick with them ; great 

 bushes grew high enough to hide the stooping bent 

 "bhistis" (native water carriers) as they manipulated 

 the goat skins containing the water which brought 

 life to the roses ; and many of the picturesque bunga- 

 lows were half-hidden by the clustering crimson ram- 

 bler. As I neared the end of the journey I had visions 

 of the rose garden which awaited me — for I made 

 certain that my house, like all those I had seen, would 

 be provided with so pre-eminently desirable an ap- 

 pendage. Judge, then, of the sorrow wdiich filled a 

 too confiding heart when T found myself relegated 

 to an ugly, bare bungalow far from the outskirts of 

 the "station," perched on a rock, and without the 

 slightest vestige of a garden. However. I was deter- 

 mined to have one. even if it was only an apology for 

 a garden ; and before twenty-four hours had flown I 

 arranged with a local "mali" to lay down innumer- 

 able cart-loads of earth and to transplant the required 

 number of trees. In fact, the same evening all was in 

 train ; and when I awoke the next morning the rocky 

 space round the little bungalow was several feet deep 

 in earth — abstracted probably from the "compounds" 

 (enclosed ground) oi other "Sahibs." 



By the time 1 had been a week in the new abode. 

 roses galore met my grateful eye. 



At first, everything went well. The roses flourished 

 like green bay trees in the wilderness, while the "mali" 

 (gardener) anrl the "bhisti" between them made the 

 little garden a thing of joy. But trouble, alas, was 

 brewing ; a cloud no larger than a pin's point ap- 

 peared on the horizon of my happiness, and soon de- 



veloped to its full extent. For some unaccountable 

 reason the roses drooped, the leaves turned a dull 

 myrtle green, and each tree and bush withered and 

 died. The occurrence was inexplicable, for gallons of 

 water were daily expended on the garden, and the 

 "mali" was unremitting in his attentions. Eventually 

 the murder was out. It appeared that the "bearer" 

 (colored valet) had a cousin, a ne'er-do-well, who, 

 when not actually doing time, was active engaged in 

 burglarious pursuits, and that, the thieving business 

 being slack, he was anxious to find his relative em- 

 ployment — as my "mali." To that end he plotted and 

 schemed as only a native can ; and when the villain 

 found that a desperate eiTort had to be made, stealing 

 out in the dead of night, he calmly severed the roots 

 of each tree. There was nothing to do but to order 

 a fresh supply — and to pray that they would take 

 kindlv to their new surroundings. 



What with the exasperating delay of the natives 

 employed in searching for rose trees and the unneces- 

 sary time taken by the railway company in delivering 

 a consignment from a "station" some miles away, I 

 had to possess my soul in patience for what seemed an 

 eternity. Most things, however, come to him who 

 philosophically waits, and a month after the disaster 

 I awoke one sultry day to find my garden blooming 

 once more, wdiile a crimson rambler gave promise of 

 rambling along the verandah railings. But I w-as 

 once again doomed to disappointment. On returning 

 to the flowery little fortress after putting in a week 

 at a distant race-meeting, I discovered that the rose- 

 garden again wore the dejected look which I had such 

 good reason to dread ; and a glance sufficed to show 

 that the cause was want of water. Subsequent en- 

 quiry elicited the fact that, taking advantage of my 

 absence, the trusted "mali" and "bhisti," sallying forth 

 to the "bazaar," had spent the time in drinking deep 

 i)f the wine which is so strictly forbidden by the prophet, 

 with the restilt that when the rose-trees most needed 

 iheir attention no water was forthcoming. 



Nor was this all, for when, after infinite care and 

 coaxing, the garden was once more got into order, 

 one by one, each tree manifested signs of diminished 

 vitality. It appeared that the "district" was infested 

 by ])orcupines, and that when these most unnecessary 

 animals grew tired of the varieties usually forming 

 their repast, they were wont to make a raid on some 

 "sahib's" garden, and to feast themselves, for choice, 

 upon the roots of the rose-trees. In my case the mis- 

 chievous brutes had, in this manner, killed every tree 

 and shrub to lie found on ni\- little (|uarter acre of 

 land. 



Tired of battling against destiny, I left the garden 

 to its own devices. And wdien, a month later, I found 

 myself back in Lucknow, and in my old bungalow, I 

 once more enjoyed the pleasures which had been mine 

 before 1 left for the "station" where rose gardens can 

 be both a joj' and a snare. 



Thus was destiny fulfilled. 



.^ Rue des T'yramides, T\'iri'^. \'T. 



How easy it is for one henevolenl being to diffuse 

 pleasure around him, and how truly is a kind heart a 

 fountain of gladness, making everything within its 

 \icinity tri freshen into >miles. — Washington Irving. 



