be called, yet give out sweetness and good 

 cheer if they fall to the lowliest use; even 

 more so than that ruddy milkmaid, the hun- 

 dred-leaf, whose pink, wrinkled, crowded 

 disks nod pertly from the near thicket. Is 

 there not a pastoral full of Corydon and 

 Phyllis, and love-rhymes and milking-songs 

 writ large in her crumpled petals ? Truly 

 you must be dull, indeed, if you do not read 

 it at first blush. She is the rose of use, not 

 beauty. Her hundred leaves yield rose- 

 water of most vernal savor. They are best 

 of all, too, for drying and scattering in places 

 that you would make daintily sweet. Next 

 comes the blush-rose, delicate as dawn, a mad- 

 rigal of dew and summer and sunshine all 

 compact. In among it that blossomy spend- 

 thrift, the damask rose, drops trails of scar- 

 let clusters. If battle-song ever takes visi- 

 ble form and substance it must be like these 

 blood-red flowers. There is somethimr war- 



O 



like even in the smell of them, coming hot 

 and sweet through the summer air. So, too, 

 this soft, faded flower, on the other hand, 

 recalls and embodies a cradle-hymn. It is 

 sweet as mother's love, softly pale as the 

 mother's cheek where baby fingers so love 

 to wander. Now Gloire de Dijon tangles 

 you in her largess of creamy-hearted bloom. 



