Pleasure Island seems a wonderful place, but the carnivals and various rowdy entertainments aren't much to your taste, and likewise with the boutiques which seem to mostly specialize in souvenir donkey ears and other tacky things.
But then you see a true pleasure: Just through the gates of the Botanic Gardens lies a beautiful trellised arch covered with hundreds of tiny red roses, and through the arch is a beautiful and lavish rose garden, completely empty except for you and the roses.
There is sundial just inside the entrance, and a pretty brass plaque on a marker stone beside it. Engraved on the plaque is the following:
Welcome to the Pleasure Island Rose Gardens
Please feel free to wander about and smell the roses, but please, do not pick them. Violators will be punished.
It's all quite reasonable, it seems. You inspect the roses of the archway, noticing a brass tag that identifies them as "Magic Dragon" and smelling them, you have an urge to pick one--there must be a thousand of the tiny blossoms--but you decide to be good. Instead, you wander about, smelling the wonderful perfume of the very tall red Mr. Lincoln, then the snow white John F. Kennedy, then the pretty pink Queen Elizabeth, then work your way on to other charming and charmingly-named roses: The Fairy, Purple Tiger, Prospero, Madame Plantier, Betty Boop, Long Tall Sally, Midas Touch and so on.
You go about, enjoying the garden, until you bend one down to smell it and find that it breaks off in your hand.
Oops.