Three wild rose bushes lived just outside a beautiful garden. They were happy and free all through the bright summer, and being friendly bodies they often lifted their pink blossoms above the hedge, and bowed and tossed their heads in the sweetest way to the haughty aristocrats that lived inside. They were sorry for their rich relatives when the gardener pruned and dug about them. They were only silly wild roses, you see, and didn’t know any better.
It was dear little Sweetbrier who first thought of it. She always was thinking of something lovely and kind. Even her leaves breathed forth a refreshing perfume. So, when she suggested a family reunion to Mrs. Dwarf Wild Rose and Mrs. Dog Rose, they quite danced with glee, and said it was the very thing.
So when Doctor Bumblebee came for pollen the next morning, he was charged with the invitations. Now the doctor was a wise old fellow who had not buzzed in and out of the garden a whole summer for nothing, and he knew all the kith and kin of flower land. So he said to Sweetbrier, in his drowsy bass voice: “So-ho, sweetheart, and do you really want all your relatives, the whole of the Rose family?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Sweetbrier, blushing prettily--the doctor was such a gruff old chap she could not help coloring. “And, oh, doctor, do you think lovely Miss American Beauty, and gallant Marechal Niel, and brave General Jacqueminot from the garden will join us?”
Doctor Bumblebee frowned and brushed the pollen from his velvet knee. “Really, Sweetbrier, I am surprised at you,” he grumbled. “Those you speak of are artificial creatures, the work of man’s cunning, cuddled and pruned and grafted until their own mother wouldn’t know them. They’ll come fast enough, but I hope you will keep your sweetest welcome for your useful relatives. Oh, I’ve some surprises for you!”
“Useful relatives?” queried Miss Dog Rose. “Why, I thought all our family had to do was to look beautiful and smell sweet. Isn’t that so, doctor?”
The doctor buzzed a jolly chuckle and said: “Wait and see, wait and see. In the meantime I must be off. I shall ask the butterflies and honeybees to help me with your invitations, Sweetbrier; it is too much work for one fat old doctor. Good-by, posies.” And away he flew.
The butterflies and honey bees said they would gladly help; and my! how surprised they were when Doctor Bee ran over the list of relatives.
“Dear me!” a little white butterfly gasped; “whoever would have thought of all those belonging to the Rose family? Why, dear Doctor Bee, you are really a wonderful gen-e-al-o-gist”--her delicate wings fluttered in her effort to pronounce the big word.
The doctor was quite puffed up with vanity, though he hadn’t an idea what the word meant, and bidding them all get to work he darted away upon Sweetbrier’s errand.
First he flew to the apple tree, the little crab apple tree that grows under my window. The Apple was astonished to learn that she belonged to the Rose family, but Doctor Bee soon convinced her.
“My dear,” said he, impressively, “is not your family name Rosaceae?”
She remembered hearing her grandmother say so.
“Your flowers are uniform in structure, you have five petals and five sepals. To be sure you belong to a sub-family; there are three branches among the Rose family, the Pear, the Almond or Plum, and the Rose, and you belong to the first and are therefore a Rose.”
The Crab Apple gasped. How learned the doctor was!
“And the beautiful Golden Pippin, and the Russet, and the pretty Snow Apple, are they Roses, too? she asked, anxiously.
“To be sure, to be sure,” replied Doctor Bee. “Their ancestors were little wild crabs like you, but man has grafted and cultivated them until they have almost forgotten their humble origin; but, after all, they are monstrosities, and not as nature intended them to be, so hold up your head, little Crab; you are a Rose with the best of them.”
But he was very polite to the big Apples, and never whispered to them that he thought them monstrous, for he really had a very tender heart, and would not have hurt their feelings for the world. Besides, they were good customers of his, always giving honey as a fee for carrying pollen, and this the Wild Roses couldn’t do, for they have no honey.
And then he asked the Pears, the Plums, and the Cherries, both wild and cultivated, and the little Choke Cherries with their feathery tassels of bloom, couldn’t believe they were Roses. But they were.
The Honey bee asked the Black and Red Raspberries, and they were delighted until they found the common Brambles were going, too, and then it took all the tact of the Bees to coax them into good humor. They told them that the Raspberries were the sweetest of all the Roses. If you don’t believe it, go where the wild Raspberries bloom in a misty white cloud, and hear the joyous hum of the happy bees that hover on dusky wings, and drink deep, deep of the honey that fairly drips from the dainty cups.
The Butterflies asked the lovely Mrs. Meadow Sweet, and she said she would surely go, and that she should wear her fluffiest pink gown, and that she did hope all the Spiraea branch of the family would be there. The Blackberries and Hawthorns and scarlet-fruited Thorns accepted, and so did the Service Berries. But oh! the funniest thing was when Doctor Bumblebee invited the Strawberries. They said it was perfectly ridiculous to call them Roses; why, anyone with half an eye could see that it was all a mistake. But the doctor declared he knew the whole family, root and branch, and, moreover, calmly told the very biggest Strawberry in the garden that, not only was she first cousin to the little Wild Strawberry on the hill, but that she was nearly related to the pretty yellow Cinquefoil; that indeed many botanists insist that they all belong to the Potentilla branch. At this Mrs. Strawberry threw up a leaf in horror, and said: “Of course everyone had heard of that old scandal, but there was absolutely nothing in it, and the more systematic botanists had always denied it. Rose she might be, but Potentilla--never!” Nevertheless, after all this sputter, she decided to attend the reunion.
The good-natured Mountain Ash was so happy over the party, and the Japan Quince, although a foreigner, was pleased, and said he had long wanted to meet all his American cousins, and was very proud of them.
And so it came to pass that the Roses’ reunion was the most delightful affair of the season. Everyone came in finest array, and oh, such beautiful gowns as were worn! Such colors! Delicate pinks, dainty whites, rich yellows, and glowing reds!
And the bees and the butterflies came to wait upon the guests, and the grasshopper orchestra, assisted by the crickets, played right merrily.
They all stayed so late that the fireflies had to light them home; and who was the happier, Doctor Bumblebee, who managed the family party, or dear little Sweetbrier, who first thought of it, I shall have to leave you to guess.