Innumerable "Rose-grower's Guides" have been consulted in regard to loam, manure, and phosphates since I made this venture. Naturally, then, the soil cannot be greatly at fault, and as to "winter protection" I have, as directed, stacked the bushes in straw, covered the ground with good manure, topped by a covering of leaves held in place by strips of board. This failing, I have tried omitting the stacking, and using manure, leaves, and boards, and finally have fallen back on manure and leaves as a permanent "winter arrangement." In regard to pruning I have consulted many authorities, but "who shall decide when doctors disagree?"
My Perpetuals have been pruned in early spring, at mid-summer, and in autumn—have been pruned a little and pruned a good deal, and with the same dreary result, and my ultimatum is—prune not at all.
This final decision is in direct opposition to the convictions of "The Man with the Hoe," who, once the pruning shears are in his hand, is prone to emulate the insatiate old fellow of the New England Primer, commended to our childish attention by this awesome couplet:
"Time cuts down all,
Both great and small."
This propensity to "trim things up" is the one flaw in the character of this useful person. On such days as he takes up his shears I follow anxiously in his wake, and with mild remonstrance stay his ruthless hand.
So many Perpetuals have, first and last, lived out their little day in my garden that my poor brain refuses the task of recalling their names. Of the six bushes that still survive, two are Jacques, one an unreliable pink rose (name forgotten), which blooms when "so dispoged," usually drops its shrunken buds right and left, and, if quite convenient, perfects annually two or three lovely flowers of delicate pink and of marvelous size.
Next in order are the two cherished white roses, the gift of a kind neighbor, that, regardless of early frosts, bear their pretty clusters up to the very last days of October. Lastly comes the tall thrifty bush procured years ago along with five sister bushes in the prize collection of a florist; the latter all died young. I cannot recall the name of the survivor, nor tell its color, for never once has it put forth bud or bloom. Hope, however, dies hard in the plant-lover's breast. Like the scriptural proprietor of the barren fig tree I still "dig about and dung" this incorrigible rose.
Last year I sowed Single Dahlias in the bare spaces in this untoward rose bed, and when these and the two obliging white roses blossomed together I looked with complacency upon the effect and thanked Heaven that matters were no worse. Meantime my flower-loving neighbor, summer after summer, is bringing Perpetual Roses into perfect bloom—red roses, pink roses, and roses of waxy whiteness—large, fragrant, and altogether exquisite! To walk among his Tea Roses and sniff the scented air is like going out to "afternoon tea." The fine foliage of his bushes (in itself only less beautiful than their bloom) is the result of neither hellebore, insect powder, nor emulsion, but is simply kept immaculate with pure cold water. At early morning the bushes are vigorously showered. At nightfall the ever-ready hose is again in play. Under this heroic treatment the red spider gives up the fight and hostile insects of every variety hide their diminished heads. For the rest I think this marvelous success (which extends to every plant, shrub, and tree in his garden) is mainly due to a wise understanding of their individual needs, a fond love of them all, and a never-tiring patience. I have never cared for the Standard Roses. Like boys walking on stilts their performance is odd, but unbecoming.
From Isaiah's day to our own the Rose has been well praised by poets. Here are some of the many stanzas, lines, and couplets that celebrate this beautiful Queen:
"The desert shall blossom as the rose." —Isaiah.