Excerpt from Yvon Tremblay: An Acadian Idyll
This day towards the middle of June, the Valley of Memramcook was redolent with the ﬂowers. The apple blossoms, their ephemeral existence nearly at an end, shed petals like snow upon the soft grass; a light breeze blew over the tide-meadows and the waving grass bent and straightened, bent and straightened, with each succeeding breath, from the near-distant ocean. In the air the delicate fragrance of the blossomed orchards mingled with the sweet scent of the marsh-grass and the faint, salty smell of the sea. An occasional farm-wagon crawled lazily across the marsh-road from saint-joseph and rumbled hollowly over the planking of the bridge; but, apart from that, little life stirred in this great valley of quiet.
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