* 5 * 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
behold its full glories; for though you were to ransack 
the ages, spoil the climes, in search of jewelled words that 
should do justice to a flower that may be more fitly 
likened to the dusky reds and clear topaz of late autumn 
sunsets, even thus you might succeed as ill as I. 
There is not, perhaps, so very much significance in a 
name, and it is true that none of our roses smell less 
sweetly, nor any of our chrysanthemums shine with 
lesser lustre for their usually prosaic titles. 
And yet it is with a sensible thrill of gratitude, of 
recognition, that, once in a way, one happens upon the 
mot juste bestowed upon a flower. What an indefinable 
charm, for example, is evoked by such a title as Soleil de 
Decembre ! If ever fortune should so favour my un¬ 
assuming roof as to dower me with a white sport, I am 
going to call it Evelyn Hope. My mind is fixed upon 
that point, and now we only have to wait for the happy 
chance. 
There is a certain division of opinion here concerning 
a chrysanthemum for which I entertain a genuine regard ; 
it is of the Japanese anemone variety, and goes by the 
name of Owen’s Perfection. Marvellous to tell, my 
liking for this somewhat austere bloom, with its delicate 
greenish centre and wide white halo, is shared by—the 
gardener, of all people! And I am so touched by this 
rare sympathy as almost to melt into praise of his most 
cherished specimen, a very large, immaculately formed 
flower, which recalls to me the colours of rep curtains 
and the contour of a circular sofa-cushion. La Triom- 
phante is bearing her blushing honours particularly thick 
upon her this year, for the which I am grateful, as the 
