86 
MY ROSARIUM 
more pleasure than the money could have done if 
otherwise expended. Even now, I like to watch 
the bushes, although they are only bare sticks stand- 
ing above the bare earth. 
If ever I write a story. It will be about a rose. 
The rose is so romantic. It has had its petals 
sprinkled over the dishes at feasts of Caesars, and 
has been worn near the hearts of queens. Its 
fatherland is said to be in the northwestern part 
of Asia. At least the rose from which the first 
perfume was made grew there, and its sweet scent 
has held sway with kings. I can never quite like 
people who are indifferent to roses. There is such 
a grace about them, and yet a sprightly air, as if 
they wished to speak. Roses never nod their heads. 
They hold them high. They are themselves 
queens. 
All this time that I have been telling about my 
rose garden, Joseph has been away playing with 
Queenie Perth. It sounds odd to speak of Joseph 
playing with a little girl, as usually he is so grave, 
and spends his time working In the garden. But 
he likes Queenie, although he knows she Is spoiled 
and often naughty. She can make him quite forget 
his seriousness when she herself is in one of her 
funny moods. 
I see Joseph now returning by the circle in front 
of the house. No doubt he has been reminded by 
the twilight that It is the poetical time of the day 
which we give to changing clothes. But no, he has 
