At any rate, I doubt that “Tiffany,” or any mere human enterprise, could do 
justice to the Madame, and her wonderful children, any more than they could 
capture and successfully translate the exquisite gill-like underside of a mushroom, 
which I am reminded of, in the delicate precision of the petal arrangement—plus the 
thrilling, the humbling purity of that whiteness! A neighbor of ours here—a little 
Hungarian woman now in her 75th year, stood like me, of course, silent and 
enthralled before them, one morning, and finally ventured, in her charming Old 
World accent—‘‘How you say... Paradees?” 
To me, Mme. Hardy will forever belong in that ineffable dream . . . “Paradees.” 
Could I say more? I couldn’t even if I tried, for the remembrance of that rose, of 
a still summer morning, with the dew glistening on that unreal, unbelievable beauty, 
brings tears where my voice ought to be. 
And so, interminably, I’m afraid, I’ve told you, as you asked, what happened in 
my garden, in this joyous first year of acquaintance. Now that the bushes have 
survived the ordeal of neglect and drought and a severe insect-and-fungus trouble 
season, and are so large and lusty as to be encroaching on each other’s space, I 
needn’t add that I can hardly wait for next year, as is the way with us feverish 
mortals . . . I forgot to add, however, that Pink Moss, is “expecting again,” an 
uncontrollable lass, apparently. 
At a risk of having this land, with a snort of impatience, in your wastebasket 
immediately, I simply can’t close without a few more words. 
First, to tell you of my endless enjoyment of Mr. Lester’s book (“My Friend the 
Rose”). What a man comes to life in those pages, and how really he lives on in his 
charming words, his beautiful concepts of the horticultural experiences he so 
thoroughly lived that they carried over into human relationships and human terms 
of value. I’ve given four copies of it, and everyone has been captivated from the 
first page. I can’t tell you what delight it gives me to think of all his wonderful 
flowers growing on now, under your tender care, and from them the stocks passed 
on to bring some of their beauty to anonymous customers, struggling gardeners, 
like myself. And I am sure that in the ‘“Paradees” of little Grandma Bischof, Mr. 
Lester tends his roses, eternally .. . 
Once more, thanks many, many times for the joy of your catalogue and the 
anticipation of years ahead, full of Lester roses! 
Sincerely, 
(Signed) HELEN V. DELPH 





LLE 
Sadia Da 
