THROUGHOUT THE YEAR 17 



came how great was our enjoyment! The roses far 

 surpassed our hopes. We sat beside the stream and 

 looked at the flowers and their glossy background of 

 foliage — could we ever get enough of such wild, 

 natural beauty? 



Something in roses defies description. They 

 have a language of their own. All understand but 

 few can speak it. Roses are — roses. Wild roses are 

 even more of the same. Add to them the rustic 

 fence, the soft lapping of water through long grasses, 

 a glimpse of far-away purple hills, and will you ask 

 for more? 



As long as our brook received the waters of its 

 tributary springs it kept up a merry flow. Cresses 

 were plenty and many a crisp salad was supplied 

 to our table. Late in June the stream began to fail. 

 In August its bed was again given over to the 

 burdocks, the pitchforks and the bittersweet. Asters 

 and goldenrod, briers and bushes, choked the pas- 

 sage. We turned Peppermint Brook over to its 

 rightful occupants with the request that we be 

 allowed the privilege of continuing our monthly 

 visits so long as we live in "The Highlands." 



