she did it "just for peace !" And she would "snatch" a few roses 

 when he was not about. "But," I said, "he can't be, he isn't a 

 good gardener. Just glance at your garden; he has three men 

 under him, yet look at your wretched roses. How poor, and_ 

 badly grown they are with their canes 'whipping about' four and 

 five feet long! And your bushes are full of old wood at a time 

 when they should be nearly all new wood, as would be the case 

 if he cut his roses correctly." (Or as he liked to say, "scien- 

 tifically cut.") "This wretched condition should not exist; it is 

 ridiculous, and you won't have a rose in September." And she 

 didn't. 



They say that the peculiar characteristics of roses are their 

 humility, their cheerfulness, their adapting themselves to the care 

 of man. It is true, they do respond to proper care of man or 

 woman; they respond in a way .that is almost human. Are you 

 of the same opinion I am, that we should "mother" every one 

 of them? And perhaps it might be a joy to us to grow enough 

 flowers to give to the poor little children in the mill and factory 

 towns that we occasionally motor through. Having lost our way^ 

 last Summer, we passed through a small factory town in Maine. 

 Not a flower of any kind was to be seen — there were no gardens ! 

 Not even a pot of anything was growing on window-sill or ledge,^ 

 yet the children clambered beside the car and begged for the flow- 

 ers which had been given me at a Garden Club meeting. I dis- 

 tributed all of them and we proceeded on our way, but as often 

 happens, it was not tjie right way, so in about an hour we were 

 forced to return, and there on the mud borders at each side of the 

 broken flags the children had used my gaily-colored flowers in an 

 extraordinary but faithful miniature reproduction of a graveyard. 

 It was quite complete with graves and headstones. But the use 

 they had made of my flowers, after all, was not so astonishing, 

 for all they knew or saw of flowers was at funerals. The pathos 

 of it ! I was depressed all day. The thought of the numberless,, 

 only partially faded flowers that are thrown on the compost heap 

 every day from our gardens struck me as a wicked w^ste, when 

 these little creatures' only knowledge of flowers was of those grow- 



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