<^i)z ^e^t y^e^ in gfarertca^ 



And Here Till Sunset We Lingered 



out of hundreds of such! What a love for the Rose must have 

 helped to fashion the quiet arbors and festooned balustrades, the 

 archway entrances, artistic screens and disappearing pathways, so 

 well planned that every turn brought a fresh surprise, each one 

 more entrancing than the other! 



Finally, so well hidden by an encircling temple of trees that we 

 nearly missed it, was an open-air theater with turf seats, and along 

 the front of the stage for footlights was a brilliant row of blooming 

 Roses — there, amid this Paradise, in charming French fashion, with 

 a musical recital did our host entertain his guests. Can you wonder, 

 therefore, that invitations to this garden are cherished, 

 for by invitation only can one enter. Write us, 

 reader, when nearing Paris next June, and let 

 us give you our card to this patron of 

 Roses, honored by Emperors. 



From notes and photographs 

 taken by Robert Pyle, President 

 of The Conard & Jones Co., 

 June, 1911. 



ROSES 



The red rose whispers of 

 passion, 



And the white rose breathes 

 of love; 



Oh, the red rose is a falcon. 



And the white rose is a dove. 



But I send you a cream- 

 white rosebud 



With a flush on its petal-tips; 



For the love that is purest 

 and sweetest 



Has a kiss of desire on the 

 lips. 

 — John Boyle O'Reilly. 



The Temple of Love 



33 



