A little slender rose, with leaves of shining green and blossoms of purest white,--a little fragile thing, but fair, they said, growing in the casement in a chamber in a street. I remember my birth-country well. A great wild garden, where roses grew together by millions and tens of millions, all tossing our bright heads in the light of a southern sun on the edge of an old, old city--old as Rome--whose ruins were clothed with the wild fig-tree and the scarlet blossom of the climbing creepers growing tall and free in our glad air of France.…
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