@ohe Meooss Roses 
. and the Angel, with dew-laden wings, being weary, begged of the 
Rose a night's shelter. Awakening refreshed, she asked how such hospitality might be re- 
paid. ‘Make me even more beautiful,’ replied the Queen of Flowers. ‘But what grace can I 
add to the most beautiful of all flowers,’ said the Angel; and then, glancing at her mossy 
bed, she gathered some and placed it on the Rose's young buds. Thus was born the Moss 
Rose.’’—Catvapos LEGEND. 
We hope that those of you who have received the earlier edi- 
tions will continue to enjoy the Calvados Legend and the incident 
described by the famous Dean Hole, in his ‘Book about Roses,’’ 
first published in England 1869, an extract from Chapter X, which 
is too good to be omitted. 
“. . . It is, nevertheless, as true an incident in my history as it 
may be a strange statement in the reader's ears, that, once upon a 
time hard on fifty summers since, I was driven out of London by 
a Rose! And thus it came to pass: Early in June, that period of the 
year which tries, I think, more than any other, the patience of 
the Rosarian, waiting in his garden, and vexing his fond heart 
with idle fears, I was glad to have a valid excuse for spending a 
few days in town. To town I went, transacted my business, saw 
the pictures, heard an opera, wept my annual tear at a tragedy, 
visited the Nurseries, rode in the Park, met old friends, and was 
beginning to think that life in the country was not so very much 
‘more sweet than that of painted pomp,’ when, engaged to a 
dinner-party, and to enliven my scenery, I bought a Rose. Only a 
common Rose, one from a hundred which a ragged girl was hawk- 
ing in the streets—a Moss Rose-bud! But as I carried it in my coat, 
and gazed on it, and specially when, waking next morning, I saw 
it in my water-jug—saw it as I lay in my dingy bedroom, and 
heard the distant roar of Piccadilly instead of the thrush’s song— 
saw it, and thought of my own Roses—it seemed as though they 
had sent to me a messenger, whom they knew I loved, to bid me 
‘come home.’ . . . And IL arose, reflecting; and though I had taken 
my lodgings and arranged my plans for three more days in London, 
I went home that morning with the Rosebud in my coat, and wan- 
dering in my garden at eventide, armed with a cigar in case I met 
an aphis, I exulted in my liberation from smuts and smells, and in 
all the restful peace, and the fragrant beauty, which glowed 
around me.”’ 
44 
