Excerpt from Brigitta, Vol. 41: A Tale
I smell the aroma - pungent and bitter, but refreshing too - of pressed wild cherries whenever I remember the inn on the country high road.
It is the time of year when summer is fading into autumn; in the meadows the aftermath is being mown in the valley through which the mountain stream-navigable for timber rafts - tumbles over the sluices; now and again I hear the whetting of the scythe, and a passing gleam of reflected sunshine flashes from the blade.
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