VII 

 A SIMPLE ROSE GARDEN 



(Barbara Campbell to Mary Penrose) 



Oaklands, June 5. Yesterday my roses began to 

 bloom. The very old bush of thorny, half-double brier 

 roses with petals of soft yellow crepe, in which the sun- 

 beams caught and glinted, took the lead as usual. 

 Before night enough Jacqueminot buds showed rich 

 colour to justify my filling the bowl on the greeting 

 table, fringing it with sprays of the yellow brier buds 

 and wands of copper beech now in its velvety perfection 

 of youth. This morning, the moment that I crossed 

 my bedroom threshold, the Jacqueminot odour wafted 

 up. Is there anything more like the incense of praise 

 to the flower lover ? Not less individual than the voice 

 of friends, or the song of familiar birds, is the perfume 

 of flowers to those who live with them, and among 

 roses none impress this characteristic more poignantly 

 than the crimson Jacqueminot and the silver-pink La 

 France, equally delicious and absolutely different. 



As one who has learned by long and sometimes 



disastrous experience, to one who is now really plunging 

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