ROSE -TIME 75 



of this book — these words have now evoked for you a Rose- 

 time inalienably and exquisitely your own. 



The rose-garden, however, is not merely a place over which 

 selfishly to wax rapturous. It is preeminently a possession to 

 use. Rose-time should make it turgid with the routine concerns 

 of daily life. You must, literally, people this garden of yours to 

 get the best out of it and out of the self that you have put in it. 

 What is the ideal rose-garden? Why, the one where children's 

 voices form a counterpoint to the pure chorale of the flowers! 

 A father's heart can beat no higher than when he hears his 

 children's laughter throbbing between the stalks whereon their 

 little petaled brothers and sisters nod quaintly to the music. 

 That's symphony, if you like! 



Give your neighbors the "keys" to your garden. No gift of 

 a city's keys can match this gift. And where could one find a 

 pleasanter spot for the social occasion, the lawn fete, the 

 graduation party, the little kiddies' "small and earlies"? The 

 rose-garden is the place of all places for social foregatherings of 

 every sort. Let your garden be actually your outdoor living- 

 room. Receive your guests here. Serve tea or ices in some quirk 

 or nook of these little, winding, verdurous paths. Enjoy it. 

 Use it. Open it to all your world. 



And consider the intimate delights of your own and your 

 family's shifting contacts with it! You will not fail, occasionally, 

 to visit it at 5 o'clock in the morning and watch the rising sun 

 pluck off its counterpane of dew. After breakfast your wife 

 will, perhaps, saunter through it wistfully and dreamily, or, 

 armed with shears, transfer some unreluctant blossoms to a 

 sphere of fragrance in the house. After school, the children 

 will invade it; and at twilight and in the early evening the 

 father will reassemble all his family, roses included, and will 

 breathe perhaps a silent paean of thanksgiving for Rose-time; 

 or, it may be, out of the surcharged fulness of his heart, a tiny 

 prayer for those who ha\e no rose-children. 



