7 ° 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
blossoms. It is untidy and straggling, she holds; 
neither will she shed the light of her countenance upon 
the climbing pink china roses that help to hang the 
pergola with their sweet loose-leaved garlands. “Too 
cottagery,” says she, “ you see them on every other 
village porch; ’tis a waste of your space to let them 
grow here, when there are so many really good, new 
sorts to be had.” And she positively frowns upon my 
narrow moss-grown border edges of carved grey stone 
that are as old as the garden itself. They have such a 
triste , neglected look ; she, Araminta, has just acquired 
some lovely art tiles for her new borders, and she will 
graciously bestow upon me the man’s address. So I 
shepherd her gently towards the parterres where flourish 
my more modish trees, away from the undisciplined 
delights of the long grass walk where bushes of the 
old Provenfal rose grow high overhead on either hand, 
strewing the sward with their blown petals. Need it 
be said that the gardener is dying to pluck them all up 
and cast them from him ? But, indeed, I am no rosarian 
in the real sense of the word, and, dearly as I love the 
roses of to-day, the rose of yesterday grows very near 
my heart. In shape and size I know it falls so far 
below the ideal of the expert as to amply merit his 
indifference; but for scent and colour and luxuriance 
of growth there can be none better. Hesternas rosas 
most of their proper titles are forgotten out of 
mind, and only the general classifications remain, but I 
am not so very greatly concerned with names while I 
have the flowers themselves. High overhead they 
blossom, bright against the summer blue, some in great 
