Heppner gazette. [volume] (Heppner, Morrow County, Or.) 1892-1912, 1911-06-08

~ F ALL the Normandy towns,
none is more charming than
w loran in the Los Angels Times.
After several hours Of jolting
through a beautiful country a
ridiculous little box of a train depos-
tied us at the gate of Coutances on a
gray morning in June.
The old remparts which bound the
town on three sides, give it, in per-
spective, the appearance of clinging
to the hillside The double row OF
giant trees edging the boulevard, rear
their massive boughs above the house
tops the lofty spires of the cathedral
dominate the landscape Steep, mar
row streets thread the ancient quar-
ters. Old houses, blackened with age,
crowd together on the edge of the
sidewalks, their fiat chimneys and
pointed roofs making a sharp, irregu-
lar skyline. In almost every square,
smoky window pot of Towering
plants makes bit of color against the
dullness of the gray walls. The
heavy front doors are sometimes beau
tifully carved, a remnant of former
prosperity. And at an occasional
window hangs a curtain of fine lace.
1t Is essentially a town where the
hand of Progress has been stayed.
Nothing changes, nothing advances,
nothing needs to. 1t is perfect as 1t
Is, and absolutely contented On a
sunny morning old women, in their
Immaculate f1uted caps, full skirts and
wooden sabots, sit on the dOOrsteps
and knit necessarily, rat sleepy cats
bask in the pleasant warmth; boys
from the boulangerie, in their coarse
blue aprons, balance wicker baskets
filled with long loaves of bread maids
sent out to market stop to gossip on
the Place; children clotter over the
cobblestones in their wooden shoes, a
serviette, bulging with school books,
under their arms.
In summer, in Normandy, the twi-
light lasts all night 1t never grows
dark from sunset to sunrise. Soon
after dinner In the evening, the sound |
of voices and snatches Of song came |
up from the shadows in the valley |
through which the river flows, The
women of the neighborhood were |
washing In the lavoir, beating their
clothes on the wet stones at the |
waters edge Although knotted and
gnarled by hard work, yet these peas
ant women are good-humored and po-
lite. One was a particularly friendly
soul, and told me that in Normandy
one did not speak French, only a
patois, for, ma fol, one had not the
time to learn pure French; life was
too short, and labor was too heavy
The women indeed do mems work,
herding cattle, plowing fields, moving
hay, carrying immense bundles, poised
on the shoulder, with no apparent ef-
fort
In the shops, ruddy-faced old women
beam at you from under their clean
starched caps, and smilingly make you
buy, charging you two prices because
you are a foreigner. With all the
graciousness imaginable, everything
in stock is set out for your inspec-
ton - sabots, pictures, postcards,
trinket, lace-and a running fire OF
kept up in the mean
time Madam has both time and Gu
riosity for the strangers.
The cathedral is the one thing OF
1t has long been consid-
cred among the most beautiful exam
pies Of Gothic architecture in France.
It is indeed magnificent, lofty and
pure in its beauty. The slim coupled
columns meet in Gothic arches. the
lantern Is formed from the beautiful I