A village of vagabonds, Frank Berkeley Smith, 1910 - english litterature,
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A village of vagabonds, Frank Berkeley Smith (1869-1931) - author of The Real Latin Quarter, The Lady of Big Shanty, Parisians Out of Doors, In London Town - 'It was in fat Madame Fontaine's little café at Bar la Rose, that Norman village by the sea, that I announce my decision. It being market-day the café was noisy with peasants, and the crooked street without jammed with carts. Monsieur Torin, the butcher, opposite me, leaned back heavily from his glass of applejack and roared. Monsieur Pompanet, the blacksmith, at my elbow, put down his cup of black coffee delicately in its clean saucer and opened his honest gray eyes wide in amazement. Simultaneously Monsieur Jaclin, the mayor, in his freshly ironed blouse, who for want of room ws squeezed next to Torin, choked out a wheezy "Bon Dieu" and blew his nose in derision. "Pont du Sable - Bon Dieu" exclaimed all three. "Pont de Sable - Bon Dieu!" "Cristi!" thundered Torin. "You say you are going to live in Pont du Sable? Hélas! It is not possible, my friend, you are in earnest!" "That lost hole of a village of sacré vagabonds," echoed Pompanet. "Why, the mud when the tide is out smells like the devil. It is unhealthy." "Père Bordier and I went threre for ducks twenty years ago," added the mayor. "We were glad enough to get away before dark. B.r.r! It was lonely enough, that marsh, and that dirty little fishing-village no longer than your arm. Bah! It's a hole, just as Pompanet says." Torin leaned across the table and laid a heavy hand humanely on my shoulder : "Take my advice,", said he, "don't give up that smug farm of yours here for a lost hole like Pont de Sable." Editions Doubleday, Page & Company, New York, 1910 - #english litterature, #rare book,
A village of vagabonds, Frank Berkeley Smith (1869-1931) - author of The Real Latin Quarter, The Lady of Big Shanty, Parisians Out of Doors, In London Town -
'It was in fat Madame Fontaine's little café at Bar la Rose, that Norman village by the sea, that I announce my decision. It being market-day the café was noisy with peasants, and the crooked street without jammed with carts. Monsieur Torin, the butcher, opposite me, leaned back heavily from his glass of applejack and roared.
Monsieur Pompanet, the blacksmith, at my elbow, put down his cup of black coffee delicately in its clean saucer and opened his honest gray eyes wide in amazement. Simultaneously Monsieur Jaclin, the mayor, in his freshly ironed blouse, who for want of room ws squeezed next to Torin, choked out a wheezy "Bon Dieu" and blew his nose in derision.
"Pont du Sable - Bon Dieu" exclaimed all three. "Pont de Sable - Bon Dieu!" "Cristi!" thundered Torin. "You say you are going to live in Pont du Sable? Hélas! It is not possible, my friend, you are in earnest!" "That lost hole of a village of sacré vagabonds," echoed Pompanet. "Why, the mud when the tide is out smells like the devil. It is unhealthy." "Père Bordier and I went threre for ducks twenty years ago," added the mayor. "We were glad enough to get away before dark. B.r.r! It was lonely enough, that marsh, and that dirty little fishing-village no longer than your arm. Bah! It's a hole, just as Pompanet says." Torin leaned across the table and laid a heavy hand humanely on my shoulder : "Take my advice,", said he, "don't give up that smug farm of yours here for a lost hole like Pont de Sable."
Editions Doubleday, Page & Company, New York, 1910 - #english litterature,
Description : livre relié, couverture cartonnée, 364 pages, format 19,5 cm x 13 cm. mauvais état : la couverture est "libre, plus reliée à l'ensemble. Des taches et des rousseurs. la première page, illustrée, est "libre".
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A village of vagabonds, Frank Berkeley Smith (1869-1931) - author of The Real Latin Quarter, The Lady of Big Shanty, Parisians Out of Doors, In London Town - 'It was in fat Madame Fontaine's little café at Bar la Rose, that Norman village by the sea, that I announce my decision. It being market-day the café was noisy with peasants, and the crooked street without jammed with carts. Monsieur Torin, the butcher, opposite me, leaned back heavily from his glass of applejack and roared. Monsieur Pompanet, the blacksmith, at my elbow, put down his cup of black coffee delicately in its clean saucer and opened his honest gray eyes wide in amazement. Simultaneously Monsieur Jaclin, the mayor, in his freshly ironed blouse, who for want of room ws squeezed next to Torin, choked out a wheezy "Bon Dieu" and blew his nose in derision. "Pont du Sable - Bon Dieu" exclaimed all three. "Pont de Sable - Bon Dieu!" "Cristi!" thundered Torin. "You say you are going to live in Pont du Sable? Hélas! It is not possible, my friend, you are in earnest!" "That lost hole of a village of sacré vagabonds," echoed Pompanet. "Why, the mud when the tide is out smells like the devil. It is unhealthy." "Père Bordier and I went threre for ducks twenty years ago," added the mayor. "We were glad enough to get away before dark. B.r.r! It was lonely enough, that marsh, and that dirty little fishing-village no longer than your arm. Bah! It's a hole, just as Pompanet says." Torin leaned across the table and laid a heavy hand humanely on my shoulder : "Take my advice,", said he, "don't give up that smug farm of yours here for a lost hole like Pont de Sable." Editions Doubleday, Page & Company, New York, 1910 - #english litterature, #rare book,