THE ROSE GARDEN 169 



them; and that done they should grow ac- 

 cording to their own sweet wills. A Dorothy 

 Perkins at the farther end of the ridge, its 

 main stem supported by a strong stake, was 

 flinging its long shoots about in the most 

 fantastic fashion. 



But now for the Roses. Coming in from 

 the gate in the dusty high-road, an 8-foot 

 screen of wooden trellis is planted with 

 alternate plants of Crimson Rambler and Reine 

 Olga de Wurtemburg ; and a wonderful mix- 

 ture they made, their colours blending as har- 

 moniously as did their clean vigorous shoots ; 

 while at the end close to the entrance to 

 the garden, a fine specimen of Leuchstern was 

 so covered with bunches of flowers that the 

 leaves could hardly be seen. 



But when, between thick borderings of Mrs. 

 Sinkins pink, I reached the garden proper, I 

 fairly held my breath. I repeat that never, 

 save at a show, have I seen such Roses. One 

 could hardly distinguish some, so enormous 

 and perfect were they, from the Poeonies of 

 my good friend Dessert, of Chenonceaux. 



