Letters are the “fun” of our business—and the morning mail brings 
its daily assortment—pleased and happy letters, informative, senti- 
mental, questioning—yes (we admit) —sometimes complaining; and 
some so entertaining they should find their way to print! To the 
many fine rose friends who have contributed to our “fun” a big and 
hearty THANK YOU! We are privileged to share one of these 
letters with you, which follows appropriately here. 
August 16, 1948 
“Mes. John’ F Delph 
Grivitz, Wisconsin 
Dear Mr. Tillotson: 
Exactly six months ago I had your letter, in reply to a long-winded one of mine, 
and a very small and modest order. There were, to be exact, only eleven roses 
ordered, and with your generous and lovely gift of the Crested Moss, twelve, in all. 
Little did I wot what a world of wonder, beauty, enlightenment, and enchantment 
those twelve apostles of the rose world were to bring to me! 
You may recall that we had a special problem, in that we are only summer 
farmers, arriving here later than the ideal planting time, and leaving too soon in 
fall to offer any winter protection at all. So it was with some trepidation that I 
chose your California sybarites, to transplant into our harsh and inhospital Wiscon- 
sin climate. However, they were put, on arrival, into custody of a professional 
florist, there to be kept dormant until the end of April. Alas, the only dormancy, 
it appears, was that of the one to whose keeping they were entrusted, for when we 
unpacked them there were, to my horror and chagrin, enormous white shoots, eight 
inches long, and my hopes faded on sight. But planted they were . . . with faith, 
some hope and a minimum of charity for the situation. And also with all the 
yearning solicitude of a mother who sees her fledglings launched into the world 
under most inauspicious circumstances. 
To make the story as short as my natural verbosity allows, they lived, tri- 
umphantly to throw down the glove in utter defiance of your well-meant caution, 
that of not expecting bloom of them this year. Pink Moss broke out prodigally 
with 42 exquisites; Red Moss had 27; York and Lancaster put out 17 of the gayest, 
maddest May-pole charms you ever laid bewitched eyes upon. Your lovely Crested 
Moss, as befits an ambassador of the best goodwill, showed a solitary, luscious flower 
sure promise of what she will give later. Mme. d’Hebray was covered with color... 
But the greatest enchantment, I think, was put on me by Mme. Hardy! She is now 
four feet tall, somewhat the buxom matron, a creature of the utmost amiability, 
nothing daunted by the cruelest drought we have had for years. While she apparently 
likes good-living, as evidenced by her promptly running to embonpoint after a 
fairly intensive bout of lavish liquid sustenance, (after all, I had to do something 
to make up for the scandalous treatment they’d just undergone) she is no modern 
softie. Her children were all beautiful, the old-fashioned large family of good 
manners, rather too closely spaced for the complete approval of modern eugenics, I 
fear. But what children! I’m sure they were all girls—nothing so tenderly 
exquisite would even wish to be other than feminine. And “quite apropos of noth- 
ing,” as you gaily say in the catalogue, don’t you think it is the essentially feminine 
quality of some of the old roses that gives them their nostalgic charm? To me, Mme. 
Hardy, the ample mater familias bearing her brood of pale lovelies, just couldn’t 
be named Studientrat Schlenz, for example. It is one of those instances of a perfect 
name. (And what, may I ask, does Studientrat mean?). 
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