THE BREATH OF AUTUMN 
103 
Who knows ? But, whether or not, the blush is vastly 
becoming. 
The Gloire Lyonnaise, Francesca Kruger, and Caro¬ 
line Custer are in full beauty once again, as also the fair 
and fragrant La France in all her fresh braveries of pink 
and silver; the Jacqueminot’s buds and blossoms are 
opening with that especial dusky bloom, like red wine 
gleaming through translucent goblets of still deeper red, 
which is one of its rarest qualities. Here, too, the 
pergola is clothed afresh with orange and amber glories 
of the William Allen Richardson, and snowed upon 
from climbing garlands of Aimee Vibert; while the high 
south wall of grey and ancient stone is touched to 
tenderest beauty by the pale alabaster of the moon¬ 
shaped Lamarque and the fine gold of Marechal Niel. 
A trespassing trail of Morning Glory has stolen its 
surreptitious way along the tall hedge of those summer 
roses whose blossoming time is over for this year, and 
waves its white and azure trumpets in triumph upon the 
summit, a welcome intruder upon the monotony of that 
dull arras whose bright embroideries endured so brief a 
while. Among such a renascence of fair colours and 
sweet scents there is little room for remembrance or 
regret, and it is only this barren screen of foliage that 
bears witness to the death of the summer roses, their 
elegy and monument in one. It is to the little China 
roses—the Roses Bengales of M. Franfois Coppee— 
that one must look for unfailing fidelity and delicate 
gaiety of spirit: they are so constant to me and so kind, 
and even the first onslaughts of the frost have but little 
power upon their frail porcelain beauty. But one 
