Rhubarb pie today, and perhaps a spinach tian, but certainly a houseful of pink and white and magenta roses. I have fallen in love with my flower gardens this year. Beneath my study window the mock orange is blooming; the fragrance is like a park in Rome in May. The last of the iris cling to beauty; the spiky baptisia are just beginning to open their violet peaseblossoms; the lupines are riotous. But oh, the peonies--so gloriously blowsy, like a demimonde dance-hall belle at Maxim's.

If anyone cares to stage a scene from A Midsummer-Night's Dream in my yard, now's the time to do it.