tackled the rose question. The bushes and standards, such as they were,
faced south, of course--that is, behind the house. A line of fruit-trees
there began to shade them grievously. Experts assured me that if I
raised a bank against these, of such a height as I proposed, they would
surely die; I paid no attention to the experts, nor did my fruit-trees.
The mound raised is, in fact, a crescent on the inner edge, thirty feet
broad, seventy feet between the horns, square at the back behind the
fruit-trees; a walk runs there, between it and the fence, and in the
narrow space on either hand I grow such herbs as one cannot easily
buy--chervil, chives, tarragon. Also I have beds of celeriac, and cold
frames which yield a few cucumbers in the summer when emptied of plants.
Not one inch of ground is lost in my garden.

The roses occupy this crescent. After sinking to its utmost now, the
bank stands two feet six inches above the gravel path. At that elevation
they defied the shadow for years, and for the most part they will
continue to do so as long as I feel any interest in their well-being.
But there is a space, the least important fortunately, where the shade,
growing year by year, has got the mastery. That space I have surrendered
frankly, covering it over with the charming saxifrage, _S. hypnoides_,
through which in spring push bluebells, primroses, and miscellaneous
bulbs, while the exquisite green carpet frames pots of scarlet geranium
and such bright flowers, movable at will. That saxifrage, indeed, is one
of my happiest devices. Finding that grass would not thrive upon the
steep bank of my mounds, I dotted them over with tufts of it, which have
spread, until at this time they are clothed in vivid green the year
round, and white as an untouched snowdrift in spring. Thus also the
foot-wide paths of my rose-beds are edged; and a neater or a lovelier
border could not be imagined.