THE RIPENING AUTUMN 
I! 3 
Safrano, the exquisite pale amber Caroline Custer, the 
frail pink Catherine Mermet, with many another be¬ 
side; the implicit perfection of the long slim bud 
unfolding changes to a thin shallow flower, weak- 
petalled and without distinction. They give up their 
secret, and you straightway discover that there was 
nothing to tell; their silence was indeed golden, but 
disclosure and disillusion here go hand-in-hand. The 
stalwart Souvenir d’un Ami is blossoming bravely once 
again with a plenitude of rosy blooms and strong glossy 
foliage; yet here also the difference between the bud 
and the full-blown flower might be likened to that 
between early May and late July. Performance has 
almost never the enchantment of promise, and so I 
gather my rose-buds while I may, well pleased with 
their present loveliness and the magic of the moment. 
I do not think that I could set my affections very 
steadfastly upon any rose that was not what rosarians 
call “ a good autumnal,” or, perhaps, remembering the 
brief glories of those whose sole season is early summer, 
I should rather say I like the good autumnals best, far 
best. The Jacqueminot’s rich dark beauty and deep 
fragrance seem to charm more wisely than ever here at 
the imminent parting of the ways; they set me wonder¬ 
ing as to whether that extinct and long-forgotten rose, 
the Red Glory, was justified of its fine title, which, to 
my mind at least, would grace my favourite full well. 
Fit, though few, are the late blossoms of the Gloire 
Lyonnaise, but Madame Gabriel Luizet makes ample 
amends for the less lavish givers with her profusion of 
clearest rose-tendre flowers, so charmingly imbricated, so 
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