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Roses of all colors and all descriptions here found an ideal home, and with their beauty served the purses of their two young masters, who superintended their culture. It was in the early summer that I saw the place again after my long absence, and the rose-houses of course could not be seen at their best, as they can in winter.
In the winter the rose-houses become things of beauty and a joy forever, seeming to have imprisoned the very heart of summer within their walls, while outside shut away from the warmth and glowing tints of red and pink, yellow and lustrous rosy pearl lie the snow and the ice, and through the bare branches of the trees the wind whistles drearily.
But in the summer the aspect of the rose-houses is very different. All then is preparation and making over for the coming autumn and winter. Some of the houses are planted with tiny cuttings just lifting little tender sprays above the warm, moist soil. Men are at work here and there with hammers and nails, repairing any slight damage that may have been done in previous months.
Even the famous well was no more; for a small and inconspicuous pump had been put in its stead, to save unwary children from instituting a too curious search for the "truth" popularly supposed to lie within its depths. The graperies were gone, and in their stead nourished rose-houses, visiting the interior of which seemed fairly to transport one into the famous "Vale of Cashmere."
Four doors open into the rose-houses, and at the east end is the one devoted exclusively to the culture of Jacqueminots, the "Jack"-house it is irreverently, if not slangily, styled.
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