io 



meadows, recalling the flush of sunrise, and car- 

 rying with them thoughts of innocence. Others, 

 like musk, amber, benzoin, spikenard, and in- 

 cense, are superb, triumphant, mundane, pro- 

 vocative of coquetry, love, luxury, festivity, and 

 splendor. Were they transposed to the sphere 

 of colors, they would represent gold and purple." 



I open the jar of rose pot-pourri to flood 

 the room with the subtile essence of June. No 

 evanescent odor, but one that permeates and 

 clings, evaporating not, changing not its sweet- 

 ness from year to year. I do not refer to the 

 dry, soapy-smelling article of commerce labeled 

 " Tea-rose Pot-pourri from Japan," but to the 

 old-fashioned "rose-jar," made from your own 

 garden-roses, blended with a sufficiency of other 

 sweets to hold its perfume immutable. It is 

 difficult to give a precise recipe for a rose pot- 

 pourri, for no two ever turn out quite alike. I 

 would say, however, with fat old Baron Brisse 

 in the preface to an entrte in his " Petite Cui- 

 sine " : " There is a certain point in this prepara- 

 tion rather difficult to seize ; but this is the way 

 to set about it in order to be complimented : " 



The roses employed should be just blown, 

 of the sweetest-smelling kinds, gathered in as 

 dry a state as possible. After each gathering, 

 spread out the petals on a sheet of paper and 



