Dieppe lay behind us, and momma at
the window declared that she could hardly believe she was looking out at
Normandy. Momma at the window was enjoying herself immensely in the
midst of Liberty silk travelling cushions, supported by her
smelling-bottle, and engaged apparently in the realisation of
long-cherished dreams.
"There they are in a row!" she exclaimed. "How lovely to see them
standing up in that stiff, unnatural way just as they do in the
pictures."
Poppa and I rushed raptly to the window, but discovered nothing
remarkable.
"To see what, Augusta?" demanded he.
"The Normandy poplars, love. Aren't you awfully disappointed in them?
I am. So wooden!"
[Illustration: Momma was enjoying herself.]
Poppa said he didn't know that he had been relying much on the poplar
feature of the scenery, and returned to his weary search for American
telegrams in a London daily paper.
"Dear me," momma ejaculated, "I _never_ supposed I should see them doing
it! And right along the line of the railway, too!"
"See them doing it!" I repeated, searching the landscape.
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