stood again where the Yellow Rose, all thorn-covered, lifted its sunny
top above the picket fence - plucked its choicest blossom, put it almost
apologetically and ashamed into the buttonhole of my jacket - stuffed my
hands into my pockets and went whistling down the street, with the
yellow rose-tint and the sunlight and the curls on my child head all
shining in harmony. The first boutonniere of my life - from the bush
that became my confidant through all those wondrous years before they
packed my trunk and sent me off to college!

To be sure, I loved the bright-faced Pansies which smiled cheerily up at
me from their round bed - and the dear old Pinks, of a strange fragrance
all their own - and the Sweet William, and even the grewsome Bleeding
Heart that drooped so sad and forlorn in its alloted corner. Yet it is
significant that last night's orchid took me straight back over memory's
pathway to that simple yellow rosebush by the fence!

-

Tonight, with the forgotten orchid in my lapel, and all the weight of
the great struggle lying heavy against my heart, I stand where the
night-fog veils the scraggly eucalyptus, and the dense silence blots out
all the noises that have intervened between the Then and the Now - and I
can see again the gorgeous Peonies, pink and white, where they toss
their shaggy heads, and gather as of old the flaming Cock's Comb by the
little path. I hear the honeybees droning in the Crab Apple tree by the
back gate, and watch the robins crowding the branches of the Mountain
Ash, where the bright red berries cluster. I see the terrible bumble-bee
bear down the Poppy on its slender stem and go buzzing threateningly
away, all pollen-covered.