I Qo GA RDENING BY M YSELF. 



huge ; three, four, and five of them crown- 

 ing the stalk, disdaining any mingling with 

 mere green leaves. And this great pink cup, 

 almost as regular as porcelain ones and well 

 nigh as deep, what is it like ? What, but a 

 Malmaison rose? The clear pink hue, the 

 assured air of a queen ; the dainty, coquet- 

 tish air of a rose, — it is a superb flush and 

 blood beauty. Not etherial, not spirituelUy 

 like Sombriel, the Malmaison has never 

 learned — and does not believe — that 



" II faut souffrir, pour etre belle." 



There is nothing like roses, even for Octo- 

 ber. I have counted (some years ago, when 

 my garden was better filled than it is just 

 now) two hundred roses in their perfection, 

 on my own bushes, at one time, — and that 

 time an October morning. And this did not 

 include the over- blown roses, nor the half- 

 open buds. 



Coming down from these heights, it is 

 pleasant to see how many of the intrinsical- 

 ly fine things, of humbler pretensions, yet 



