Even my affection for Roses, and my intense love of their fragrance, shown in its most ineffable sweetness in the old pink Cabbage Rose, will not cause me to be silent as to the scent of some of the Rose sisters. Some of the Tea Roses, so lovely of texture, so delicate of hue, are sickening; one has a suggestion of ether which is most offensive. "A Rose by any other name would smell as sweet," but not if its name (and its being) was the Persian Yellow. This beautiful double Rose of rich yellow was introduced to our gardens about 1830. It is infrequent now, though I find it in florists' lists; and I suspect I know why. Of late years I have not seen it, but I have a remembrance of its uprootal from our garden. Mrs. Wright confirms my memory by calling it "a horrible thing--the Skunk Cabbage of the garden." It smells as if foul insects were hidden within it, a disgusting smell. I wonder whether poor Marie de' Medici hadn't had a whiff of it. A Persian Rose! it cannot be possible that Omar Khayyam ever smelt it, or any of the Rose singers of Persia, else their praises would have turned to loathing as they fled from its presence. There are two or three yellow Roses which are not pleasing, but are not abhorrent as is the Persian Yellow. One evening last May I walked down the garden path, then by the shadowy fence-side toward the barn. I was not wandering in the garden for sweet moonlight, for there was none; nor for love of flowers, nor in admiration of any of nature's works, for it was very cold; we even spoke of frost, as we ever do apprehensively on a chilly night in spring. The kitten was lost. She was in the shrubbery at the garden end, for I could hear her plaintive yowling; and I thus traced her. I gathered her up, purring and clawing, when I heard by my side a cross rustling of leaves and another complaining voice. It was the Crown-imperial, unmindful or unwitting of my presence, and muttering peevishly: "Here I am, out of fashion, and therefore out of the world! torn away from the honored border by the front door path, and even set away from the broad garden beds, and thrust with sunflowers and other plants of no social position whatever down here behind the barn, where, she dares to say, we 'can all smell to heaven together.'