Bendameer was some place in China, he thought, or perhaps Japan--but for the matter of that it might not be a real locality, but merely a place invented by the poet. Anyhow, he would in future call the terrace walk Bendameer, for could any one imagine a finer bower of roses than that beneath us? He did not believe that Bendameer could beat it. If our friend had talked to Sir Foster Fraser--the only person I ever met who had been to Bendameer's stream--he might have expressed his belief much more enthusiastically. On returning from his bicycle tour round the world, and somewhat disillusioned by the East, ready to affirm that fifty years of Europe were better than a cycle in Cathay, he told me that Bendameer's stream was a complete fraud. It was nothing but a muddy puddle oozing its way through an uninteresting district. In accordance with our rule, neither Dorothy nor I went further than to confess that the lines were very sweet. “I'll get you a copy with pleasure,” he cried. “I knew you would like them, you are both so literary; and you know how literary I am myself--I cut out all the poems that appear in the _Gazette_. It's a hobby, and elevating. I suppose you don't think it possible to combine antiquarian tastes and poetical.” Dorothy assured him that she could see a distinct connection between the two; and he went on: “There was another about roses the week before. The editor is clearly a man of taste, and he puts in only things that are appropriate to the season. The other one was about a garden--quite pretty, only perhaps a little vague. I could not quite make out what it meant at places; but I intend to get it off by heart, so I wrote it down in iny pocket-book. Here it is:-- “Rosy is the north, Rosy is the south, Rosy are her cheeks And a rose her mouth.” Now what do you think of it? I call it very pretty--not so good, on the whole, as the bower of roses by Bendameer's stream, but still quite nice. You would not be afraid to let one of your little girls read it--yes, every line.” Dorothy said that she would not; but then Dorothy is afraid of nothing--not even an antiquarian. He returned to us the next day with the full text--only embellished with half a dozen of the _Gazette's_ misprints--of the _Lalla Rookh_ song, and read it out to us in full, but failing now and again to get into the lilt of Moore's melodious anapaests--a marvellous feat, considering how they sing and swing themselves along from line to line. But that was not enough, He had another story for us--fresh, quite fresh, from the stock of a brother antiquarian who recollected it, he said, when watching the players on the bowling-green.