Then embarkation on board the boat for Caen; a gentle sea-rocking;
soldiers, men in blouses, women in various patterns of caps; the mouth
of the Orne; fringes on the coast of fashionable resort for sea-bathers.
Miles up the stream, dreary, dreary; poplars leaning aslant from the
wind, low mud-banks, beds of osiers, reeds, rushes, willows; poplars
standing erect as a regiment in line, as many regiments, a gray monotony
of poplars; the tide flowing higher, laving the reeds, the sallows, all
pallid with mist and soft driving rain. A gleam of sun on a lawn, on
roses, on a conical red roof; orchards, houses here and there, with
shutters closed, and the afternoon sun hot upon them; acres of
market-garden, artichokes, flat fields, a bridge, rushy ditches, tall
array of poplars repeated and continued endlessly.
"I think," said Bessie, "I shall hate a poplar as long as I live!"
Mr. Carnegie agreed that the scenery was not enchanting. Beautiful
France is not to compare with the beautiful Forest. Harry Musgrave was
in no haste with his opinion; he was looking out for Caen, that ancient
and famous town of the Norman duke who conquered England. He had been
reading up the guide-book and musing over history, while Bessie had been
letting the poplars weigh her mind down to the brink of despondency.
A repetition of the noisy landing at Havre, despatch of baggage to
Madame Fournier's, everybody's heart failing for fear of that august,
unknown lady.
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