THE ODORS OF ARABY 89 



romancer, the rose catalogue, which deceived us into 

 believing that the prairies of the Illini might entertain 

 hopes of bowers such as the talebearers told of the East. 

 Led by their glamour we saw the beauty of lands of sun- 

 shine, of vales of Cashmere, and Persian gardens where 

 roses flourished of their own sweet will and scattered 

 their fragrance to the thrumming of lutes, the trills of 

 nightingales, and the quatrains of Omar. 



The decalogue has nothing against the sin of desire to 

 be a "rosarian," and a sense of justice rebels at the 

 thought of that night when a rose catalogue set the brain 

 afire and put wisdom in the closet while opening the 

 pocketbook. Of course the cherished roses have lived 

 just lived to be a battlefield for microbes unseen, slugs 

 and worms too evident. The crimson rambler rambles 

 cheerfully, the rugosa is spreading its tropical foliage. 

 They leave nothing to be desired as far as their duties are 

 concerned; but ask not of the Provence roses, the Irish 

 roses, the rare hybrids that have excited so keen a rivalry 

 among the perverse creatures infesting the rose garden. 



At the end of the street is one of those old-fashioned 

 cottages, now a dusky white, with timeworn green shut- 

 ters. "What man failed to do with his architectural 

 opportunities, nature has done most willingly with roses. 

 All the past month young and old have leaned over its 

 paling fence and gloated upon its disorderly charms, and 

 then passed on without a thought of the careful lawns 



