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Updated: May 2, 2025
And, as in the Provinces, the wine was the petit vin gris which I never can drink without a vision of the straight, white, poplar-lined roads of France, sunshine, a tandem tricycle or two bicycles, J. and myself perched upon them, and by the way friendly little inns with a good breakfast or dinner waiting, and a big carafe of the pale light wine served with it.
The thought of her made his brown hands shake, and he remembered how many times he had sworn to visit her, but had failed of courage, though it seemed she had invited him by word and look to do so. He overtook Milton Jennings on his way along the poplar-lined lane. "Hello, Milt, where you bound?" Milton glanced up with a curious look in his laughing eyes.
We were out once more among the green and yellow broadlands; between our carriage-wheels and the horizon there was now spread a wide amphitheatre of wooded hills. The windings of the poplar-lined road serpentined in sinuous grace in and out of forests, meadows, hills, and islands.
A hot walk of a mile or so along a dusty, poplar-lined road brought us to the town of Islamabad, which, however, concealed its beauties most effectually in a mass of foliage.
"Monet," I say, "I think Rochet is a believer. Well, go to him. He may want you." Monet puts away his pipe, and goes off noiselessly. As to me, I go and wander about outside. On the poplar-lined road, in company with the furious rain and the darkness, I shall perhaps be able to master the flood of bitterness that sweeps over me.
One thinks of Champagne as a land of vineyards, but here in the center and south of the fertile province there are few vines, mostly fields of ripening wheat, green alfalfa, or beets long undulating swales of rich fields, cut by little copses of thick woods and by white poplar-lined highways as everywhere in France.
The same unconcern reigns in the trenches. Let us imagine that we are members of a distinguished party from Headquarters, about to make a tour of inspection. We leave the town, and after a short walk along the inevitable poplar-lined road turn into a field. The country all round us is flat flat as Cheshire; and, like Cheshire, has a pond in every field. But in the hazy distance stands a low ridge.
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