Out on the white rose road again, we saw more of the rose-trees than ever, and now and then a carefully tended flower garden, always delightful to see and think about.  These are not made by merely looking through a florist’s catalogue, and ordering this or that new seedling and a proper selection of bulbs or shrubs; everything in a country garden has its history and personal association.  The old bushes, the perennials, are apt to have most tender relationship with the hands that planted them long ago.  There is a constant exchange of such treasures between the neighbors, and in the spring, slips and cuttings may be seen rooting on the window ledges, while the house plants give endless work all winter long, since they need careful protection against frost in long nights of the severe weather.  A flower-loving woman brings back from every one of her infrequent journeys some treasure of flower-seeds or a huge miscellaneous nosegay.  Time to work in the little plot of pleasure-ground is hardly won by the busy mistress of the farmhouse.  The most appealing collection of flowering plants and vines that I ever saw was in Virginia, once, above the exquisite valley spanned by the Natural Bridge, a valley far too little known or praised.  I had noticed an old log house, as I learned to know the outlook from the picturesque hotel, and was sure that it must give a charming view from its perch on the summit of a hill.

One day I went there,—­one April day, when the whole landscape was full of color from the budding trees,—­and before I could look at the view, I caught sight of some rare vines, already in leaf, about the dilapidated walls of the cabin.  Then across the low paling I saw the brilliant colors of tulips and daffodils.  There were many rose-bushes; in fact, the whole top of the hill was a flower garden, once well cared for and carefully ordered.  It was all the work of an old woman of Scotch-Irish descent, who had been busy with the cares of life, and a very hard worker; yet I was told that to gratify her love for flowers she would often go afoot many miles over those rough Virginia roads, with a root or cutting from her own garden, to barter for a new rose or a brighter blossom of some sort, with which she would return in triumph.  I fancied that sometimes she had to go by night on these charming quests.  I could see her business-like, small figure setting forth down the steep path, when she had a good conscience toward her housekeeping and the children were in order to be left.  I am sure that her friends thought of her when they were away from home and could bring her an offering of something rare.  Alas, she had grown too old and feeble to care for her dear blossoms any longer, and had been forced to go to live with a married son.  I dare say that she was thinking of her garden that very day, and wondering if this plant or that were not in bloom, and perhaps had a heartache at the thought that her tenants, the careless colored children, might tread the young shoots of peony and rose, and make havoc in the herb-bed.  It was an uncommon collection, made by years of patient toil and self-sacrifice.