moreover, they look as though they enjoyed being stared at, thereby losing much of their attractiveness; in short, they are not thoroughly rose-like. It is a cruel thing in a gardener to pervert, as it were, the very nature of a plant, and one could sooner forgive the clipping a yew-tree into a peacock, according to the quaint fancy of our forefathers, than this stripping the modest rose of her drapery of foliage—it reminds one of the painful difference between the gentle, healthy-hearted daughter of home, the light of the house, and the meretricious dancer, tricked out upon the stage to dazzle and bewilder, and be stared at by the mob. The rose has so long been an emblem of womanly loveliness, that we do not like to see her shorn of one feminine attribute; and modesty in every true-hearted woman is, like affection, a growth of her very nature, whose roots are fed with her life's blood. No; give back her leaves to the rose, that her flowers may open amid their native branches. This veil of verdure, among whose folds the starry blossoms bud, and bloom, and die, has been given to every plant—the lowly dew-drop, as well as the gorgeous martagon; nay, it is the inheritance of the very rudest weeds; and yet the rose, the noblest flower on earth, you would deprive of this priceless grace!
We are very fortunate in having the wild roses about our own haunts; they are not found everywhere. M. de Humboldt mentions that in his travels in South America he never saw one, even in the higher and cooler regions, where other brambles and plants of a temperate climate were common.
Tuesday, 9th.—Fine strawberries from the fields this evening for tea. Warm, bright weather; thermometer 85—lovely evening, but too warm for much exercise. Strolled in the lane, en-
