We think the charming lady who answered us the following lines this 
spring will not be displeased if we quote them here: “T do indeed know what 
you mean by the special pleasure that you get from these old-fashioned 
roses, like the pleasure in such treasures as your old Swiss watch, your 
marquetry bed, your grandmother's embroidered alphabet. When I see 
and touch some lovely thing that my grandparents owned or grew in their 
gardens .. . that they were fond of, took care of and lived with, then | 
feel as if they and we who are here now, are not separated by the accident 
of our different eras of existence but are near and, in a sense, contemporary 
in our common love of beauty and of life.” 
bo 
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. 
‘Tilrs. John FD elph 
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 inhospitable Wis- 
consin 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. 
