MAY 107 



That was Christina Rossetti's feeling! In 

 one of his most intimate passages Frederic 

 Mistral tells us of his own passion for yellow 

 iris, and one needs but to turn the pages of his 

 best loved books to find how dear the flower 

 has been. And the reason is not far to seek. 

 The more one studies it, the less one knows, 

 yet the more completely one falls beneath its 

 spell. It seems to be a condensation of water, 

 rather than a product of the soil, and to carry 

 hints of frost in its grey shadows. The mark- 

 ings of its petals are occult ; the suggestions 

 of its stains, mysterious ; the ermine of its 

 furring a distinction, and its steadfast loyalty 

 to royal colours, purple and gold, and to 

 the white of absolute unworldliness, set it 

 apart as a flower above flowers. 



Once fallen under the spell of a single iris, 

 its lover is lost, and his passion absorbs him. 

 The great German flags, the prim English 

 varieties, the strange, broad-petalled Japanese, 

 the queer little Persians, and the delicately fair 

 Spanish are all food for an insatiable greed for 

 more varieties and yet more which consumes 

 him. Happily it needs no great skill to grow 

 them, and they are fond of pushing their crowns 



