90 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



beyond. The woman who lives in the dusky cottage has 

 roses to spare, and yet has never read a rose book or 

 aspired to be a "rosarian." 



The eglantine hedge, planted no one knows when, has 

 crept around three sides of the lot within the paling 

 fence, stretching out long, sweeping branches to arch the 

 narrow gate. All the neighborhood knows that it is 

 sweetbrier, and in June no schoolgirl who stops to greet 

 its owner goes away without her bouquet. 



At the side of the porch is a clump of Scotch roses, a 

 variety that has adopted the climate as its own, and, 

 being another of the delicious scented sweetbriers, adds 

 to its grace in small roses of lovely shining yellow, a 

 transmuted sunshine, a cloth of gold, if ever one was 

 permitted by fairydom to drape a rosebush. 



Not far away is another unnamed common rose but 

 is any rose common'? It bears a thousand leaves treas- 

 ured by the makers of rose jars, leaves that shed a richer 

 odor on being crushed, just as some lives bring out their 

 loftier virtues under the pressure of adversity. The 

 Baltimore belle and prairie queen have wreathed the 

 window frames, and among the tangled grass below the 

 wild prairie roses have crept in from the roadside with 

 bouncing Bets and yarrow. 



As we turn the corner of the house where the sun 

 glares down on the clayey soil, we discover a small plan- 

 tation of roses covered with buds and open blossoms. 



