To make the story as short as my natural verbosity allows, they lived, triumphantly 
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, 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 nothing,” 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? 
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. 3 
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 thor- 
oughly 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 
“A rose, A child, A bird, A star— 
Those are my loves; better them ye who can.” 
