1^^ MJcc «k Mo^i' ^^eu 



pink and white, showing not one trace of relationship 

 with the dazzling dead dowager. Of course we all 

 have reminiscent reasons for wanting certain roses, , 

 and, if you are like me, you'll keep on trying 

 MareHial Niel and Fortune's Yellow, even though 

 geography prohibits, and zero browbeats you. 



One of my rose prides is the Cherokee which I 

 have teased through three winters now, because of 

 the great wild hedges I remember along the highways 

 in the south. Each winter I lighten its protection, 

 as I have a theory that if you can persuade a delicate 

 rose to survive several northern winters it grows 

 hardier, following out nature's old law of adaptation 

 to circumstance. 



Suppose we pretend together that the old uncle 

 from India has stingily sent us only $9.25 instead of 

 the expected $50 to spend on roses, and make the 

 best of it. Out of that amount we'll have to get 

 hybrid perpetuals, hybrid teas, plain teas, and climb- 

 ers — and feel thankful all at the same time. 



The hybrid perpetuals, you know, are the per- 

 fectly hardy, stand-any-old-sort-of-thing roses, and 

 are supposed to only bloom in June, though mine 

 bloom spasmodically all through the following 

 months, because after each flowering I cut the branch 



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