common and popular."




THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES

CHAPTER I

You could not call the place a village, nor yet could it be called a
town. Viewed from the bluff, on the English side of the river, it was a
long stretch of small farmhouses--some painted red, with green shutters,
some painted white, with red shutters--set upon long strips of land,
green, yellow, and brown, as it chanced to be pasture land, fields of
grain, or "plough-land."

These long strips of property, fenced off one from the other, so narrow
and so precise, looked like pieces of ribbon laid upon a wide quilt of
level country. Far back from this level land lay the dark, limestone
hills, which had rambled down from Labrador, and, crossing the River St.
Lawrence, stretched away into the English province. The farmhouses and
the long strips of land were in such regular procession, it might almost
have seemed to the eye of the whimsical spectator that the houses and the
ribbon were of a piece, and had been set down there, sentinel after
sentinel, like so many toy soldiers, along the banks of the great river.
There was one important break in the long line of precise settlement, and
that was where the Parish Church, about the middle of the line, had
gathered round it a score or so of buildings. But this only added to the
strength of the line rather than broke its uniformity. Wide stretches of
meadow-land reached back from the Parish Church until they were lost in