It was not
strange, therefore, that country life had matured her native love of
flowers into almost a passion, which culminated in her intense enjoyment of
the rose in all its varieties. The family, aware of this marked preference,
rarely left her without these flowers at any season; but in June her eyes
feasted on their varied forms and colors, and she distinguished between her
favorites with all the zest and accuracy which a connoisseur of wines ever
brought to bear upon their delicate bouquet. With eyes shut she could name
from its perfume almost any rose with which she was familiar. Therefore, in
all the flower-beds and borders roses abounded, especially the
old-fashioned kinds, which are again finding a place in florists'
catalogues. Originally led by love for his mother, Webb, years since, had
begun to give attention to the queen of flowers. He soon found, however,
that the words of an English writer are true, "He who would have beautiful
roses in his garden must have them first in his heart," and there, with
queenly power, they soon enthroned themselves. In one corner of the garden,
which was protected on the north and west by a high stone wall, where the
soil was warm, loamy, and well drained, he made a little rose garden. He
bought treatises on the flower, and when he heard of or saw a variety that
was particularly fine he added it to his collection. "Webb is marked with
my love of roses," his mother often said, with her low, pleased laugh.
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