JUNE 95 



the very moment when a petal falls. The 

 flower may wither or be shaken in the 

 wind, or fall at a touch, and the leaves be 

 scattered. But when both shape and 

 colour are unchanged, and yet the petals 

 drop quietly one by one in some profound 

 calm of a summer dawn or evening twilight, 

 there is pathos in it. The flower is not 

 dead, but her time has come. The flowers 

 of the cistus family, which are now delight- 

 ing us, quite literally have their day. In 

 the morning there is a mass of bloom; at 

 evening not a single flower remains. The 

 sole trace left is a pink or white or yellow 

 mosaic, where the falling petals have 

 showered down upon the grass or gravel. 

 The difficulty is, to find room enough for 

 cistus. They require some bank or lengths 

 of rock garden, to be given up entirely to 

 them. Then there might be a blaze of 

 colour through all the summer, in favour- 

 able weather, for they do not like too much 

 rain. In proportion to the brief individual 

 existence of the Cistus flowers are their 

 innumerable buds. And they are as costless 

 as they are lovely ; a few packets of seed 



