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Every autumn, just around Veterans’ Day (which in Vermont means after two or three “killing” frosts), the scrawny little rose bush along the fence produces one last, perfect, butter-yellow bud.   Despite being the smallest of the rose bushes, and latest to bloom (often not until July 4th), I can’t bring myself to replace it with a seemingly heartier variety.   Perhaps it is because that last little bud strikes me every year as a sign of hope, while all around is falling dead and dormant; that this little rose defiantly reminds us that the winter to come, no matter how harsh, will not prevent the inevitable miracle of the following spring.