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Title: 14000 miles, a carriage and two women

Author: Frances S. Howe

Release Date: August 31, 2023 [eBook #71527]

Language: English

Credits: Fiona Holmes and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
         http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14000 MILES, A CARRIAGE AND TWO
WOMEN ***





Transcriber's Note

 Page 74 — enthusiatically changed to enthusiastically
 Page 127 —lettter changed to letter
 Page 215 — Pemigewassett changed to Pemigewasset
 Page 263 — hime changed to home
 Page 271 — spic changed to spick

[Illustration: Ready for a Seven Hundred Miles Drive.

  _See page 265._
]




14000
MILES

A CARRIAGE AND TWO WOMEN

  _BY
  FRANCES S. HOWE_


  “AWAY, AWAY FROM MEN AND TOWNS
  TO THE WILDWOOD AND THE DOWNS.”
  —_Shelley_


  PRIVATELY PRINTED
  1906




  COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY
  FRANCES S. HOWE.


  SENTINEL PRINTING CO.
  FITCHBURG.




FOREWORD.


Many of these informal reports of more than 14,000 miles’ driving were
written for the Boston Evening Transcript some years ago, and the later
letters for the Leominster Daily Enterprise. They cover an unbroken
series of summer and autumn journeys, which have never lost any of the
freshness and charm of that first little trip of two hundred miles
along the Connecticut. A drive across the continent, or even on the
other side of the water would seem less of an event to us now than that
first carriage journey. This volume is a response to “You ought to make
a book,” from many who have been interested in our rare experience.

  F.C.A.
  F.S.H.

Leominster, Mass.




CONTENTS.


    I. SUMMER TRAVELS IN A PHAETON,                    1

   II. CHRONICLE OF THE TENTH ANNUAL DRIVE,           16

  III. OLD ORCHARD AND BOSTON,                        32

   IV. MOOSILAUKE AND FRANCONIA NOTCH,                48

    V. CONNECTICUT, WITH SIDE TRIP TO NEW
         JERSEY,                                      73

   VI. DIXVILLE NOTCH AND OLD ORCHARD,                91

  VII. CATSKILLS, LAKE GEORGE AND GREEN
         MOUNTAINS,                                  109

 VIII. NARRAGANSETT PIER AND MANOMET POINT,          127

   IX. WHITE MOUNTAINS AND VERMONT,
         (A SIX HUNDRED MILES DRIVE.)                137

    X. BY PHAETON TO CANADA,
         (NOTES OF A SEVEN HUNDRED MILES TRIP.)      153

    XI. OUTINGS IN MASSACHUSETTS,                    173

   XII. BAR HARBOR AND BOSTON,                       190

  XIII. DIXVILLE NOTCH AND THE NORTH SHORE,          211

   XIV. THE KENNEBEC JOURNEY,                        228

    XV. ON HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS, (1894 TO 1904.)      241

   XVI. LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG,                           252


  POSTSCRIPT. BUGGY JOTTINGS OF SEVEN HUNDRED
  MILES DRIVING, CIRCUIT OF THE NEW ENGLAND STATES.  265




14000 MILES




CHAPTER I.

SUMMER TRAVELS IN A PHAETON.


“We were a jolly pair, we two, and ladies at that; and we had decided
to go, amid the protestations of the towns-people and the remarks of
Madam Grundy that it was not proper, and that there were so many tramps
it was not prudent for two ladies to take a trip with their horse and
carriage along the North Shore. Nevertheless, we take our lives in our
hands, and ‘do the trip’ in a large comfortable, roomy buggy,” etc.

A letter in the Boston Evening Transcript, under the heading “Along
the North Shore,” from which the paragraph above is taken, so aptly
describes a part of one of our journeys, that we cannot resist the
temptation to tell you something of our travels, which our friends no
longer consider daring and experimental, but a thoroughly sensible and
delightful way of combining rest and pleasure.

In the summer of 1872, “we two, and ladies at that,” made our trial
trip, with the consent and approval of family friends for our
encouragement, and the misgivings and fears of those outside to inspire
us with caution. Tramps were not in fashion, and I have forgotten what
was the terror of those days. Like the “other two,” we were equipped
with a pet horse—safe, but with no lack of spirit—a roomy phaeton,
with lunch basket, wraps, books, fancy work and writing materials all
at hand. Our bags, with rubber coverings, were strapped underneath the
carriage. Some cautious reader may like to know that we did not forget
to put in the “box” a wrench, a bottle of oil, strong cord, etc., for
emergencies. Of course we had a map, for geography was not taught very
practically in our school days, and we should be lost without one. We
made no definite plans beyond the first day, but had vaguely in mind,
if all went well, to drive through the valley of the Connecticut River.

Our first day’s ride took us around Wachusett. We did not delay to
climb its woody slopes, for we had many times visited our little
mountain, and knew its charms by heart. It was new scenes we were
seeking, and we were eagerly anticipating the drive along the
Connecticut, fancying that much more beautiful and romantic than the
familiar hills. It was not until we reached the hot, sandy roads, and
were surrounded by tobacco fields, with rarely a glimpse of the river,
that we realized that valleys are most enjoyable when seen from the
hill-tops. The peculiar charm of the view from Mt. Holyoke we can
never forget. A picture like that of the Northampton meadows, with the
silvery river winding through them, we have found on no other hill or
mountain-top.

If this trial journey had proved our last, we would like to recall it
in detail; but, as it has been succeeded by others more extended, we
must hastily pass by the novelty of our first crossing the Connecticut
by ferry, the historic points of interest in old Deerfield, the
terrific thunderstorm just after we left Greenfield, the Broad
Brook drive as we neared Brattleboro, the profuse quantity of lovely
maidenhair ferns by the roadside, dripping with the morning rain, our
lunch on the shore of Lake Spofford, and so on to Keene and Jaffrey.

How can we so hastily pass over the ascent of grand old Monadnock?
Perhaps we enjoyed it all the more for the repeated protests of the
youthful proprietor of the Mountain House, who assured us the feat was
impossible, as the heavy showers which we had so much enjoyed in our
morning drive had converted the path into a series of cascades. The
mists which had entirely concealed the mountain were just breaking
away, and we made the ascent in the face of warnings and water,
yielding to no obstacles. Before we left the summit it was mostly
clear, and we thought little of our moist condition or the difficulties
of the descent before us as we feasted our eyes, watching the showers
as they moved on from village to village in the valley below, leaving a
burst of sunlight in their wake. Our descent was rapid, notwithstanding
difficulties, and when we reached the hotel, so delightfully located
on the side of the mountain, we forthwith decided to prolong our stay.
After a cosy supper, for we were the only guests, we repaired to the
rocks to watch the sunset clouds, which are rarely finer. It was mild,
and we lingered while the darkness gathered, until the mountain looked
so black and lonely we did not like to think we had stood on that peak
alone only a few hours before. While we watched, the clouds began to
brighten, and soon the moon appeared in her full glory, making the
whole scene one of indescribable beauty. The next day was Sunday, and
a lovelier day never dawned. The peculiar Sunday quiet pervaded the
very atmosphere, and we sat on the rocks reading, writing and musing
all day, enjoying such a season of rest as one seldom experiences.

Two days more passed, and we were safe at home, after an absence
of only ten days, and about two hundred miles’ driving, but with
delightful recollections, which cannot be forgotten in a lifetime.
This trial trip was so successful that when another summer came it
was taken for granted by our friends that we should try again, and we
started, equipped as before with map, but no plan—only an inclination
to face north. Following this inclination took us through many thrifty
towns and villages, and gave us delightful drives over hills and
through valleys, until we found ourselves spending a night with the
Shakers on the top of a high hill in Canterbury, N. H. The brothers and
sisters were unsparing in their attentions, though strict in certain
requirements. We left them next morning, with a generous Shaker lunch
in our basket, and turned our horse toward Alton Bay. As Brother
George and Sister Philena assured us, it was the longest, roughest and
loneliest ten miles’ drive we had ever taken. The round trip on Lake
Winnipiseogee the following day was a delightful contrast.

We now began to study our map, for we had not even a vague idea where
next. We started at last, not anxious, but aimless; and after wandering
several days in obedience to the will of the hour, landed on Wells
Beach; we passed Sunday on York Beach; then drove on to Portsmouth,
where we left our horse for a day to visit the Isles of Shoals. The
places of resort and interest as we followed the coast to Gloucester,
Rye, Hampton, Salisbury, etc., are well known. After refreshing
ourselves at Gloucester with rowing and moonlight bathing we returned
to Newburyport, where we saw the homes of Lord Timothy Dexter, Harriet
Prescott Spofford, and others of note. An excursion on the Merrimac in
a barge, and the drive by the river road to Bradford and Haverhill, we
found very pleasant. It was in this vicinity that, for the first time,
we were received ungraciously. The good landlady of an old-fashioned
inn reluctantly received us, after rebuking us for the abuse of our
horse, little knowing how much more thoughtful we were of him than
of ourselves. He looked tired that night, for the seashore had not
agreed with him, and I think had her knowledge extended so far, she
would have reported us to the S. F. T. P. O. C. T. A. However, after
cross-examination, she conducted us to a room spotlessly clean, the
floor covered with the choicest of braided mats, and two beds mountain
high, but expressly enjoined us “not to tumble but one of them.”
We left the next morning laden with good advice, which, carefully
followed, returned us safely home ere many days, with our horse in
better condition than when we started on our journey.

Of course we were ready to go again the next year, this time starting
southerly, spending nights in Northboro, Franklin, Taunton and Tiverton
Stone Bridge. Thus far the scenery and roads do not compare favorably
with those in New Hampshire; but when we reached Newport, we were
compensated for lack of interesting driving.

Margery Deane tells your readers all one needs to know of this place
of places. So we will find our way to New Bedford, leave our horse and
take a look at Martha’s Vineyard for a few days. Our first impression
of the “Cottage City” was that of a miniature Newport; but this
every one knows all about, so we will go on to Plymouth, where we
saw everything worth seeing. Plymouth Rock would have satisfied us
more fully had it looked as it does in the pictures of the “Landing,”
instead of being out in the midst of dry land, with a pagoda built over
it, and inscriptions to remind one that it is not an ordinary flagstone.

We found much that interested us in Marshfield, Hingham, and Milton
with its Blue Hills. We have not forgotten a night at the homelike
Norfolk House, and an afternoon devoted to the famed residences in
Watertown. We drove to Point Shirley one morning during our stay near
Boston, and on returning gave our journey another historic touch by
going to the top of Bunker Hill Monument; and still another a few days
later, as we visited the old battle-grounds in Lexington and Concord,
on our way home.

Before another summer, whispers of tramps were heard, and soon they
were fully inaugurated, making us tremble and sigh as we thought of
the opposition that threatened us. A revolver was suggested, in case
we persisted in facing this danger, and finally as go we must, we
condensed our baggage that it might be out of sight, and confidently
took the reins, having no fear of anything ahead, so long as our
greatest terror—a loaded revolver—was close at hand, not “hidden away
in one corner under the seat,” but in a little pocket made on purpose,
where it could be seized without delay when our game appeared. As we
shall not refer to our “companion” again, never having had occasion to
use it, we will say here that it is no longer a terror but a sort of
chaperone, in whose care we rest secure.

Our driving this season was within the limits of our own State,
and we have yet to find anything more truly beautiful than western
Massachusetts, with its Berkshire hills and grand old towns,
Stockbridge, Lee and Lenox. Our map was on a small scale, and the
distance from Pittsfield to the Hudson River looked very short, so we
ordered good care for our horse, and took the six o’clock train one
morning for Hudson, where we met the boat for New York. The day was
perfect, and our enjoyment complete. We reached the city at dusk, and
next thought to surprise a friend, twenty miles out, in New Jersey,
where we received a joyous welcome. The next day we devoted to New
York, returning by night boat to Hudson, and before nine o’clock the
following morning, after forty miles by rail again, we resumed our
driving from Pittsfield, delighted with our side trip of nearly four
hundred miles, but oh! so glad to be in our cosy phaeton once more. The
homeward route was full of interesting details, which we must leave.

Centennial year came next, and we made our shortest trip, driving only
one hundred and fifty miles in New Hampshire in early autumn.

The tramp terror increased at home and abroad, and when summer came
again our “guardians” looked so anxious, we said nothing, and went
camping instead of driving. A party of twelve, on the shores of Lake
Wachusett, with royal accommodations in the number and size of tents
and hammocks and three boats at a private landing, diverted us at the
time. But, as the season waned, we pined, and before October was gone
we were permitted to revolve around the “Hub” for two weeks, supposed
to be quite safe, while so near the centre of civilization. It was like
a June day when we sat on the rocks at Nahant, and like November when
dreariest, as we drove around Marblehead Neck, and watched the ocean so
dark and angry; while the chill winds pierced our thickest wraps only
a few days later. We shall not soon forget our drive from Cambridge to
Hingham in the severest northeast storm of the season, or our delight
on the rocks at Nantasket, after this three-days’ storm cleared, and we
felt the dashing spray. Our “Hub” journey was none the less interesting
for being familiar, and we did not omit the attractions of Wellesley on
our way home.

Early in the following July, the New Hampshire tramp law having come
to our rescue, we once more turned our faces toward the ever beautiful
Lake Winnipiseogee. We renewed our acquaintance with the Canterbury
Shakers, and as we always avail ourselves of whatever is new or
interesting in our path, stopped over for a day at Weirs Landing to
witness the inauguration of the Unitarian grove meetings. After the
opening of this feast of reason we were of one mind, and without delay
provided good board and care for our horse for a week, and settled down
to three and four services a day. After the accomplishment of this feat
we visited points of interest about Centre Harbor. In accordance with
our usual good fortune we had a perfectly clear day on Red Hill, and
appreciated all Starr King has written of its charms. The day spent
at Ossipee Falls and Cascades gave us unbounded pleasure. We reveled
in the rough walking and climbing, and after exploring above and
below the falls, we were all ready to enjoy the lunch our hostess had
prepared for our party, which we spread on a huge rock in the narrow
gap. Our horse rested while we climbed, and the ten miles return drive
to Centre Harbor required our utmost skill. On the following day we
drove to Concord, N. H., a distance of forty miles. After spending a
few days with friends in this charming place, we drove on, passing a
night at the Mountain House, Monadnock, to refresh the memories of our
first visit there, and breathing the pure air of Petersham, Barre and
Princeton as we journeyed towards our own beautiful Leominster.

After these seven years’ wanderings, we were considered virtually
members of the great “Order of Tramps,” and from that time to the
present we have had full and free consent “to go to our own company”;
and when we boldly proposed crossing the Green Mountains to pay a visit
to friends near Lake Champlain, all agreed it would be a delightful
thing for us to do. We closely followed the familiar railroad route
through Keene, Bellows Falls and Rutland; it was a glorious drive all
the way. At one time we seemed buried in the mountains without any way
of escape, but we had only to follow our winding road, which after many
twistings and turnings brought us to Ludlow. The next night we were
safely over the mountains, and soon were with our friends.

Our week in the cosy town of Benson, surrounded by high hills, must
be left to your imagination. We will only tell you of a visit to Lake
George. A party of fifty, we started at six o’clock one morning, in
all sorts of vehicles. Four miles’ jolting up and down steep hills
took us to Benson Landing, Lake Champlain, and in course of time (a
dozen people in a heavy two-horse wagon, and two other vehicles on a
scow, towed by two men in a row-boat, is by no means rapid transit,) the
several detachments of our party were safely landed on the opposite
side. And then, what a ride! We never dreamed that the narrow strip of
land between Lake Champlain and Lake George, only four miles across,
could give us so much pleasure. At first we held our breath, but soon
learned that the driver and horses were quite at home, and gave our
fears to the winds as they galloped up hills almost perpendicular only
to trot down again to the sound of the grating brakes, the wheels going
over great rocks on one side one minute and down in a deep rut on the
other side the next. We many times congratulated ourselves that we
joined the party in the big wagon, instead of driving our good Charlie,
as first planned. The steepest pitch of all brought us at last to the
shore of the beautiful Lake George, at a point about ten miles south of
Ticonderoga, where the boat was to meet us by special arrangement.

Only those who have experienced it can realize what we enjoyed on that
bright day, as we glided over the mirror-like waters, enraptured with
the loveliness surrounding us.

After a few hours’ rest at Fort William Henry, we were ready for the
return sail. As we landed, our driver stood by his horses, eager for
a start; a few of us expressed our willingness to walk for a while,
possibly remembering the last fearful pitches in that rough road, as
well as the beautiful cardinal flowers and ferns we desired to gather.
After a walk and run of nearly two miles, the driver summoned us to
the wagon, just before we reached the pitch we most dreaded and were
hastening to avoid. We obeyed, and now galloped on until we reached
Lake Champlain again, and took breath while we slowly ferried across
in the gathering twilight. Our remaining four miles was a glorious
moonlight drive. As we entered the village it seemed impossible that we
had been away only since morning, for we had seen and enjoyed so much.

The next day we turned our thoughts homeward. Not wishing to return
by the same route, we ventured into New York State, and after two or
three days reached Saratoga Springs. All frequenters of this resort can
easily imagine our routine there—the drive to the lake at the approved
time, etc. The roving spirit so possessed us that we left the scene of
gayety without regret, and on we went over the hills to take a look at
Bennington on our way to North Adams. We drove over Hoosac Mountain,
but have yet to see its charms; the mist concealed everything but our
horse. We waited two hours at a farmhouse near the summit for fair
weather, but in vain. As we started in despair the clouds parted for
an instant, giving us glimpses into the valley, then united and came
down upon us in a deluging rain. Our dripping horse carefully picked
his way down the steep mountain, and when we reached the level road the
water was nearly a foot in depth for some distance. We splashed along
quite happy, for this was not half so aggravating as the fitful mist of
the morning, which every moment promised to clear away. The rest of our
journey was pleasant, but uneventful.

As we reviewed the drive of four hundred miles, we felt we must have
reached the climax within our limits. But no! we added another hundred
miles, and extended our time to nearly a month on our next trip.

Lacking definite plans as usual, we drove to Lake Winnipiseogee once
more, thinking another session of the Grove meeting at Weirs would be
a good beginning. When the glorious week ended, there was seemingly an
adjournment to the White Mountains, and as we had faithfully attended
these meetings from the first, it was clearly our duty to follow; so
on we drove, resting our horse at Plymouth, spending the night at
Campton Village, and next day visiting in turn the attractions of the
Pemigewasset Valley, the Flume, Pool, Basin, Profile and Echo Lake.
Passing on through the beautiful Notch, night overtook us at Franconia.
On our way to Bethlehem, the following morning, we left our horse for
an hour and walked up Mt. Agassiz, which well repaid the effort. With
the aid of a glass we traced the drive before us, through Bethlehem’s
one long street, past the Twin Mountain House and along the Cherry
Mountain road, turning until it nearly described a half-circle, and
finally reaching Jefferson.

We realized far more than Mt. Agassiz promised. We were leaving the
beauties of the Franconia Mountains and nearing the grandeur of the
White Mountain range, and in many respects it was the most impressive
drive of our journey. The last four miles from Jefferson to the
Highlands, just at sunset facing Mts. Washington, Jefferson, Adams and
Madison, was beyond description. Here we spent several days; for three
reasons: We had surely found the headquarters of the “adjournment,” for
we met many Weirs friends; then, too, we were floating about on the
northerly margin of our map, and could go no farther in that direction,
and lastly, we were waiting for a favorable day for Mt. Washington.

One of these waiting days we spent on Mt. Adams; two of us, out of our
party of seven, registering our names in the “little tin box” at the
summit.

It was an exhausting climb of four miles, up the roughest and most
beautiful path imaginable, marked out by the Appalachian Club. We
encountered four hailstorms, and suffered extremely from cold on
that August day, but the five minutes’ perfectly clear view more
than compensated. The gathering mist, which had cleared just for our
glimpse, warned us to seek our path, and we rapidly descended to the
Appalachian camp, where we found our friends and a glowing fire. After
a rest and lunch we continued our descent. An hour’s ride after we
reached the base brought us to our Jefferson “home” again, delighted
with the day’s experience. The sun went down in great glory, and the
weather authorities declared the morrow would be a fine day for Mt.
Washington; so, despite stiffened and aching joints, we took our
breakfast at halfpast five, and at six o’clock we were snugly packed
in our phaeton, with blankets and wraps all in use, for it was cold.
Our good horse felt the inspiration of the morning, and we started off
briskly on our thirteen miles’ drive over Cherry Mountain to the Fabyan
House, where we took the early train up Mt. Washington. Everybody does
this, so we will leave without comment, except on the unusual clearness
of the view, and hasten to our driving.

We reached Fabyan’s again after the slow descent at half-past four.
Our carriage was ready; and in less than five minutes we were on our
way. Passing the Crawford House, with its attractive surroundings, we
entered the Notch. What grandeur! Such a contrast to the quiet beauty
of the Franconia Notch! The road through this narrow gap is very rough,
with only here and there a place where vehicles can meet or pass, and
constant watchfulness is required. We spent the night at the Willey
House, with Mt. Webster looming up before us, and Mt. Willard and
others near by shutting us in completely. We reluctantly left this
quiet spot. The drive to North Conway was full of picturesque beauty;
then, as we journeyed, the mountains dwindled into hills, the lovely
meadows became pasture land, and Nature seemed dressed in every-day
attire.

Not yet satisfied, we turned toward the seashore again, following
the coast from Newburyport to Gloucester, this time rounding Cape
Ann, delighted with the unsuspected charms of Pigeon Cove, and
spending a night at “Squam.” Our next day’s drive through Magnolia,
Manchester-by-the-Sea and Beverly Farms took us to the Essex House,
Salem, where our course meets that of the “other two.” The interesting
account of their drive to this point need not be repeated, as we
retrace their steps through Marblehead, Swampscott, Lynn and Saugus,
thence to Boston. Here we visited, and our horse rested a few days,
when he proved himself more than equal to the forty miles in one day,
which ended our last summer’s journey.

These recollections have been put together on the cars (literally
at railroad speed), without reference to diary, home letters, map
or guidebook, and briefly outline our nine journeys and about three
thousand miles’ driving. We have told you very little of our every-day
enjoyment. The perfect ease and safety with which we have accomplished
this we attribute mainly to extreme caution and constant consideration
for our horse, and we are full of courage for the future. We have
friendly invitations from Maine to Colorado and Wyoming, and trust we
may be spared to visit at least one of these points, when we celebrate
our tenth anniversary.




CHAPTER II.

CHRONICLE OF THE TENTH ANNUAL DRIVE.


Some of the many readers of the Transcript may remember seeing in
its columns about one year ago (Dec. 27, 1880) a letter under the
heading “Summer Travels in a Phaeton,” which gave an outline of nearly
three thousand miles’ driving by two ladies in nine successive summer
journeys. Since then we two ladies have enjoyed our tenth anniversary,
and will tell you something about this last journey, which lost no
charms from having become an old story.

Many times during the winter and spring came the query, “Shall you
take your carriage journey next summer?” and as many times we answered
“We hope so,” but often with a smothered doubt, as we thought of the
fate of hosts of “best-laid plans,” and feared we would not always be
exceptions to such a general rule.

As the early summer weeks passed, the obstacles multiplied; after a
while circumstances began to combine in our favor, and by the 15th of
August the way was clear for a start. A new difficulty now arose. Where
could we go?

All through the year we had thought of Maine, which was sufficient
reason why we should not go there, for we never go where we have
thought of going. We have driven through the valley of the Connecticut,
and along the coast from Newport, R. I., to Wells, Me., over the
Berkshire Hills, up to Lake Winnipiseogee four times, all through the
White Mountains, over the Green Mountains to Lake Champlain, Lake
George and Saratoga, and taken in all the big hills, little mountains,
inhabited island and country resorts on the way. Where should we find
“new worlds to conquer”? In our perplexity, we remembered that a party
of friends were in Dublin, N. H., for the summer, and resolved to make
that our starting point.

The morning of the 15th of August dawned bright and cool, and we held
our wraps close about us, as we stowed ourselves away for the tenth
time in our same cosy phaeton, with all our equipments in the way of
bags, straps, waterproofs, umbrellas, books, maps, writing materials,
fancy work, lunch basket, and—the only thing we take which we never
use—our revolver.

Our first day’s drive was very enjoyable; the air was so cool we could
not dispense with our wraps even at midday. We said good-morning to our
friends in Fitchburg, rested our horse, and sent our first mail home at
Ashburnham, lunched by the wayside, surprised friends from Boston who
were rusticating in the berry pastures of Rindge, and finally passed
the night at East Jaffrey, the only place in the vicinity where we
had not proposed spending the first night. The hotel proprietor was
suffering from a recent sunstroke, but had recovered sufficiently to
provide every comfort, including a fire in our room, and after another
contribution to the mail, refreshing sleep and a good breakfast, we
were ready for our morning drive to Dublin, where we found our friends
delightfully located in the suburbs, close by the lovely Monadnock
Lake, with the grand old mountain looming up on the opposite shore.
We lost no time, but proceeded to “do” Dublin, inspired by the cool,
bracing atmosphere. We walked and talked, rode and rowed, and verified
all the glowing descriptions, even to sifting the sand on the lake
shore for garnets.

It now became necessary to decide in which direction to journey. As
we drove towards the village next morning, it occurred to us that
we had made a great omission in “doing” Dublin, not having called
on the postmaster; in the words of another, “Our genial, ubiquitous
postmaster, whose talents are so universal, whose resources so
unlimited that he will build you a house, match your worsted, stock
your larder, buy a horse, put up your stove, doctor your hens or cash a
check with equal promptness, skill and courtesy.” Surely, he could help
us. We took our maps to him, and asked a few questions, but, strange to
say, he did not seem to get any definite idea of what we wanted, and,
after a little hesitation, politely inquired, “Where do you wish to
go?” We then hesitated, and as politely replied, “We do not know; we
are driving, and would like to go where we have never been, and return
by a different route.” Immediately his face brightened, he pointed out
various places of interest, to which we could only say, “Yes, very
delightful; but we have been there.”

Finally, he produced a map of his own, and soon started us off
somewhere, I forget where, and, perhaps, we did not go there at all.
Suffice it to say, we now felt Dublin was “done,” and turned our horse
north, as we always do, when at a loss.

On we drove through Hancock, Bennington, Antrim and Hillsborough,
wondering where we should find ourselves at night. We referred to our
map and decided to go to ——, but on making inquiries at a farmhouse,
the woman consulted her goodman and advised us not to go there, for a
passing stranger had told them the hotel was filled to overflowing,
and the dancing hall, dining-room and neighbors’ houses were occupied.
She was much interested, and said, “If you do not wish to drive much
farther, there is a little village two miles on, and widow ——
sometimes puts up people.” We had driven far enough, and thought it
best to make a trial of private hospitality. It was a new experience,
we had never been “put up,” and felt as if we were imposing upon the
good old lady as we lifted the knocker and asked if we could stay
there over night. She looked at us over her glasses, then sent her one
boarder to take care of our horse, while she helped us deposit our
innumerable things in the “spare room.” We quietly put the revolver in
a safe place, and glanced at each other as we thought, “What would she
say?”

Widow —— and her boarder had supped, but soon a supper was prepared
for us in the sitting-room, which we lazily enjoyed seated in
old-fashioned rocking-chairs. After our cosy repast we went to the barn
to see how Charlie was faring. He looked at us as if he thought meal a
poor return for his day’s service, and we went to the “store” for oats.
Several bystanders assured us it was a bad season for oats, and advised
corn; but an old gentleman enlisted himself in our behalf, and said we
should have some oats in the morning if he had to go to ——, two miles
away, for them.

We went up to the churchyard to watch the sunset clouds, strolled
down to the bridge, and when it grew dark we went “home.” Our hostess
borrowed a yesterday’s paper, as we were anxious for the latest news
from the President, and after reading we crocheted and chatted. The
good lady opened her heart to us, and freely poured forth her lifetime
joys and sorrows. Speaking of the children and grandchildren reminded
her how much she enjoyed the seraphine in the other room when they
visited her. We said we would like to try it, when she eagerly proposed
having it brought into the sitting-room, where it was warm. We moved
it for her, and sang through all the psalm-tune and Moody and Sankey
books we could find. Our friend was very grateful, and when at a late
hour we proposed removing the instrument to its proper place, she said,
“Oh! leave it, and perhaps you will sing one more tune in the morning.”
We rested well on a feather bed, in an unpretentious room, with odds
and ends of furniture and ware which would tempt the enthusiastic relic
hunters, and breakfasted in the kitchen. While waiting for Charlie,
we sang another gospel hymn, and the good lady once more thanked us,
saying she always liked to take care of good people, and really rather
“put up” a gentleman than a tin peddler.

The day was misty and disagreeable, but on we went, imagining the
charms of Sunapee Lake on a bright, sunny day, as we followed its
shores, and resting and writing at Newport. Here, too, we again
considered our course, but with no inclination to face about. We talked
of going to Claremont and following the river, but were advised to
keep our present direction and avoid the sandy valley roads. We left
Newport without any idea where we should find shelter for the night, as
hotels were scarce, but before dark we were again very comfortably “put
up.”

The clouds were heavy next morning when we resumed our driving, and in
the afternoon the rain fell in torrents. When the first shower came,
we drove under a church shed for protection, but after a half-hour we
concluded time was too precious to be spent in that way, so put aside
our books and prepared to brave the storm. Our courage and waterproofs
were put to the test, but neither failed, and at night we hung
ourselves up to dry in a little country tavern.

The next day we crossed the Connecticut River into Thetford, leaving
New Hampshire to begin our wanderings in Vermont; and wanderings they
proved to be, for the first day at least. We were in the region of
copper mines and of friends, but we did not know exactly where either
the mines or the friends were to be found. We drove to West Fairlee,
for we had ordered our mail forwarded there, and our first letters
from home were eagerly anticipated. The news was good, and after
dinner we began inquiries about our mining explorations. There seemed
to be as many opinions as there were people, but we started off at
last with directions to turn twice to the right, go two miles, leave
the red school-house to the left, cross a bridge, go down a hill and
through Bear or Bare Gap (we never found out which), strike a new road,
etc. We were not sure that we remembered the precise order of these
directions, but we did strike a new road, and went down a hill—such a
hill! We preferred walking, and Charlie was willing to be led, so that
difficulty was overcome. After quite an afternoon’s experience we found
a little hotel, where we passed the night, and next morning we retraced
the latter part of our drive in search of Pike Hill, where we were told
we should find friends and mines all together.

We were heartily welcomed and initiated into the mysteries of mining,
and collected some specimens, all of which were very interesting to us.

It would seem as if we ought now to be content to turn towards home;
but, after some deliberation, we convinced ourselves it was advisable
to go a little farther, now we had got so far, for we might not have
another opportunity so good. “A bird in the hand,” you know, and it
is just as true of a horse. So, after supper and a little music, we
got together a good supply of maps, and organized our friends into a
geography class. We were very familiar with our own map, but drove into
the northern margin last year, and now we seemed likely to entirely
overstep its borders. As we studied and questioned our friends, we
began to feel as if we could go anywhere; but prudence prompted us
to follow the line of the railroad, so we traced the towns along the
Passumpsic, and pinned the precious scrap of paper to our map.

We watched the clouds until half-past ten next day (we never heed
the weather except we are with friends, who always think it seems
inhospitable to let us drive off in a storm); then started for Wells
River, a drive of thirty-one miles. This was the first time since we
left home that we had any idea in the morning where we should sleep at
night. The twelve-miles’ drive to Bradford was as lovely as our friends
described it; the road follows Wait’s River very closely nearly all
the way; it is a clear stream, with a bright, stony bottom, much more
beautiful than many larger rivers with greater reputation.

We lunched as we drove, on bread and honey, the last sweet gift of
our friends at Pike Hill, then rested our horse and made our daily
contribution to the mail at Bradford. We had our prettiest view of the
Connecticut that afternoon as we drove through Newbury and made another
of our “surprise calls” on friends visiting in that vicinity.

Our landlord at Wells River, an old gentleman, made many inquiries when
he found we lived very near his birthplace. His face brightened as
we told him of his friends, who were our next-door neighbors, and he
wondered at the distance we had driven “alone.”

It seemed quite natural to make another start with uncertainty before
us. We followed the Connecticut to Barnet, and just as we left the
hotel, after two hours’ rest, the contents of a huge black cloud were
poured upon us; it was such a deluging rain, that as soon as we were
out of the village we drove under a tree for partial shelter, and while
waiting, finished up our honey. We got to St. Johnsbury in advance of
our mail, and ordered it forwarded to Newport, thinking we might leave
our horse for a day or two, and take a little trip by rail.

Strange as it may seem to those unused to such aimless wanderings, we
went on and on, facing north at every fresh start, and gathering a
bright bunch of golden-rod for our carriage each morning, as we walked
up the long, sandy hills (no wraps needed now), and winding about such
queer, forlorn roads, with fields of burnt stumps and disagreeable
marshes on either side, our map “annex” and infallible guide, the
Passumpsic, assuring us we were not lost, until one bright morning we
drove into Newport, and a “trip by rail” had not even been mentioned.

As we drove leisurely along the main street, taking our first look at
Lake Memphremagog, a friend from Boston stepped off the piazza of the
hotel and recognized us, as he paused to allow our carriage to pass.
When recovered from his surprise, that we had strayed so far from home,
he told us he was on his way to meet his family, and pitch his tents on
the shores of the lake about twenty miles from Newport, and suggested
we should drive to Georgeville, and visit their camp. Now we realized
the convenience of having no plans to change, and went directly to
inquire about the roads, and secure oats for Charlie, lest we should
find none on our way. People generally go by boat, but we were assured
we should find good roads. Having learned by experience that “good
roads” in Vermont take one up and down such hills as in Massachusetts
we should drive many miles to avoid, we asked more particularly about
the hills. “Oh! yes, a little hilly, but a good road.” So with minute
directions for the lake-shore route, we left our friend to the mercy of
the waters, while we traveled by land. We never knew when we crossed
the Derby line, for we were absorbed in watching for a turn which
would take us near the lake, but we learned after a while that our
“lake-shore road” was a mile inland. “A little mite hilly”! We went up
and down such hills as we never saw but in dreams, leading our good
Charlie, who picked his way very cautiously. At the top of a high hill
we found a house, and a little Canadian girl said we could stop there,
if we could take care of our horse; she assisted us in unharnessing
and arranging a place for Charlie and his oats. We declined kind
invitations to go into the house, and spread our blanket under a tree,
where we had a fine view of Owl’s Head. Our little friend brought us
milk and fruit, and after our lunch we wrote for an hour, then resumed
our driving, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the worst hills
were yet before us. We met men leading their horses, which encouraged
us to feel that our precaution was not feminine timidity. The last hill
reminded us of our drive over Hoosac Mountain. We left Newport at 10 A.
M., and at 6 P. M. we arrived at the Camperdown House in Georgeville,
a quaint Canadian village, feeling as if we had driven or walked one
hundred miles, rather than twenty.

We were cordially received at this most homelike of places, and a
room was ready for us. Our windows opened on the piazza, which was
shaded by a row of cut spruce trees that were replaced by fresh ones
occasionally. After supper we strolled down to the boat landing and
took a survey of the lake and fine shore scenery. We have not time or
space to tell you all we enjoyed while there. We spent the days in
“camp” and the nights at the Camperdown, going back and forth in a
row-boat, the Nymph, our friend’s steam yacht, or driven at breakneck
speed by one of the party who considered those perpendicular hills
“good roads.”

Only those who have tried it know the charms of camping. From the time
the one whose turn it is goes over the pastures to get the cream for
breakfast, until the last one is served to cocoa at night, there is
something to do, and that which is work at home becomes pastime on the
borders of a lovely lake, with fresh air and good company. We fish with
great interest when a dinner depends on our success; then, while the
potatoes are boiling is just the time for bathing, after which, the
table spread under the overarching trees looks very inviting. When all
have helped to clear away and “do up” the dishes, then comes a time to
separate for an hour—some to write, some to sleep, and others to read
Spanish, English, prose or poetry, according to taste and ability. As
the afternoon wears away, some one proposes a sunset row, and so the
time too quickly flies. Rainy days have a charm of their own, and all
the sympathy for “those people in camp” is wasted.

We shall not soon forget our trip to Magog in the Nymph. There were
eight of us that afternoon, and we had a delightful sail. We left the
gentlemen to find supplies of wood for our return trip (sometimes we
helped saw and carry), while we ladies went shopping. We found a little
store where tools, groceries, dry goods, jewelry and confectionery were
kept; they had no axe, the only thing we wanted, so we bought lace pins
at five cents a pair. The clerk quietly asked if we were going to have
a thunder storm, which startled us, and we lost no time in getting
back to the boat. Clouds gather rapidly on Lake Memphremagog, and our
three hours’ sail looked long. We kept the steam up, and talked about
everything but a shower until dark, when we were quiet, and observed,
with only casual comment, the clouds which grew blacker and blacker,
hiding the stars, and occasionally obscuring a light-house. We watched
eagerly for the light we had left on the “Point” to guide us into our
little harbor, but the wind had blown it out. One of the party took a
row-boat (we had two with us) and went in search of our landing; the
rising wind drowned the calls back and forth, but after a few anxious
moments, a welcome light glimmered on the shore, and soon we heard
the splashing of the oars. It was with difficulty the boat was guided
to the Nymph, and just as the last boat-load was leaving her to go
ashore, the storm burst in sudden fury over our heads. We rushed to the
tents and gave up rowing or riding to the Camperdown that night. After
securing the boats, the gentlemen, came in dripping, but quite ready
for the lunch prepared by quick hands. We talked it all over as we
sipped our cocoa, then separated, and soon were lulled to rest by the
pattering of the rain on the canvas, and the distant rumbling thunder.

The next day was Sunday, and we enjoyed every hour of it. At the time
appointed we assembled for service. The preacher sat with rubber
boots on, and the audience, small but appreciative, were in hammocks
and cosy corners. The sermon was good, and the singing, which was
congregational, was well sustained. The day was not long enough, for it
was our last in camp, and we looked back wishfully as we started off
on our last row. We reached the Camperdown just as the sun was setting
in gorgeous splendor. Supper was waiting for the “prodigals,” and after
we had given an account of ourselves, we went to our room to plan for
the morrow.

We decided to go to Newport by water, and, as if to favor our decision,
the morning dawned perfect. It had been hazy and yellow for several
days, but the veil was lifted. Our friends rowed over to see us aboard
the Lady of the Lake, especially Charlie, who objects to water. We sat
in the bow, fanned by the soft breezes, recalling just such a day on
Lake George, while poor Charlie was frightened and stamping furiously
beneath us, evidently thinking some effort on his part was necessary to
effect an escape.

As we stood on the wharf at Newport an official-looking person came to
us and asked if that was our carriage. We looked inquiringly, and said
“Yes.”

“Have you anything you did not carry from the States?”

We now recognized our inquisitor, and answered so promptly, “Oh! no,”
that we quite forgot the pins we bought at Magog. Charlie was quite
excited, and we allowed him to be led to the stable, while we went to
the Memphremagog House for dinner. We wanted to go to Willoughby Lake
that afternoon, but we did not anticipate this when we pieced our map,
and were now obliged to go in search of a new one. We went first for
our mail, which was fresh to us, though a week old, and ordered the
letters expected at night returned to St. Johnsbury. We found a little
advertising map, then started on seemingly a new journey. Charlie had
fared as well as we in Canada, and our twenty miles’ drive was easily
accomplished. The glorious sunset and moonrise on Lake Willoughby was a
fitting close to the day begun on Lake Memphremagog.

We watched the clouds from our window until quite late, then drew the
shade and pinned to it our map with the two supplements.

For an hour or more we studied diligently, trying to find an unfamiliar
route home, but all in vain. We had jestingly remarked, one day, that
“we would go home through the mountains to avoid the hills,” and as a
last resort we decided to do so, for that is a drive that will bear
repeating any number of times.

The lake was dotted with white-caps next morning, and our desire to
row was forgotten. We experienced our idea of a lakeshore drive as we
followed the lovely road close to the water’s edge for four miles, Mt.
Hor and Mt. Pisgah towering so high above, and looking as if they were
one mountain, but rent in twain by some convulsion of nature, while
the water had rushed in to fill the gap, as they drifted apart. The
drive was a striking contrast to the sandy hills we went over in the
afternoon, which we remembered too well, but no planning could avoid.
We passed the night at St. Johnsbury, and just as the mail came for
which we were waiting, Charlie returned from the blacksmith’s with his
new shoes.

We now turned our faces towards the mountains, feeling quite at home as
we journeyed off the supplements on to our old map, and still more so,
when after a long, hot drive, we reached Franconia, where we struck
the route of our last year’s journey, which we must now follow all the
way, even spending the nights at the same places. We took a good view
of the mountains at Franconia, recalling the names of the different
peaks, and very fortunately, for in the morning there was not one to be
seen. The sun looked like a huge ball of fire, and the atmosphere was
very smoky. We drove on, trying to realize we were surrounded by grand
mountains; but not until we were close to them in the Notch could we
discern the faintest outline, and the “Old Man” looked as if dissolving
in the clouds. It seemed dreamy and mysterious until we got to the
Basin, Pool and Flume, which were not affected by the atmosphere.

Our night at Campton passed pleasantly, but we started in the rain
next day for Weirs, Lake Winnipiseogee, where we proposed to rest our
horse for a day or two. From Plymouth to Weirs is a crooked way, and
the pouring rain so changed the aspect of everything, that we felt
every turn was a wrong one. It was chilly and disagreeable, but we put
on all our wraps, the waterproof hoods over our heads, and brought
the “boot” close up to our chins, then kept warm with ginger cookies.
From the manner of the people of whom we made inquiries as we passed,
we suspected our appearance was ludicrous. After many twistings and
turnings we arrived at Hotel Weirs. We had never been there except when
ministers and meetings abounded, but the place was now deserted, and we
read “Endymion” instead of being preached to four times a day.

After two days’ rest we journeyed towards Concord, N. H., spending a
night with the Canterbury Shakers on our way. Sister Philinda thought
she remembered us, and found our names registered in her book eight
years ago. The “yellow day” we passed with friends in Concord. Only
two days more! We wanted to go to Boston as we did last year, but
thought it best to follow the same old route to Milford, which we had
been over so many times, then varied our course by going through Mason
instead of Townsend Harbor, although we were told it was “very hilly.”
We knew they were not Vermont or Canada hills. This new road, with its
charming bits of scenery, gave a touch of freshness to the latter part
of our journey. According to our annual custom, we supped with friends
in Fitchburg, then drove home by moonlight. Nearly four weeks, and
just five hundred miles’ driving, is the brief summing up of our tenth
anniversary.




CHAPTER III.

OLD ORCHARD AND BOSTON.


“We shall look for a report of your journey in the Transcript,” has
been said to us many times, and we will respond to the interest
manifested in our wanderings by sharing with our friends through your
columns as much of our pleasure as is transferable.

The fact that we had driven between three and four thousand miles in
ten successive summers by no means diminished our desire to go again,
and it gave us great pleasure when, in reply to “Can we have the horse
for a journey this summer?” Mr. A. said “Why, I suppose of course
you will go.” We decided to start about the middle of July, a little
earlier than usual, and one might well imagine that in the intervening
weeks many routes were planned and talked over, but in truth we said
nothing about it until the last moment, when we asked each other, “Have
you thought where to go?” and in turn each answered “No.” It may seem
strange and suggest lack of purpose, but we like our journeys to make
themselves, as a certain novelist says her stories write themselves,
and she cannot tell when they begin how they will end.

As we tried to decide which direction to take first, we wondered if
we ever could have another journey as delightful as the last, when we
crossed the borders into Canada; then we recalled all we enjoyed on our
White Mountain drive, and that suggested never-to-be-forgotten roads
among the Green Mountains, and again the glories of our own Berkshire
Hills, and so on until Lake Memphremagog, the White Mountains, Green
Mountains, Berkshire Hills, Martha’s Vineyard, Lake Winnipiseogee,
Newport, the Connecticut Valley and the network of highways we have
traveled were all in a tangle, and there seemed to be no places of
interest left within our reach. Next came to mind the chance suggestion
of friends. One had said, “Why not take your horse aboard one of the
Maine steamers and explore that part of the country?” Another thought
the St. Lawrence drives very delightful, and suggested we should
take our horse by rail to some point in that vicinity. A third only
wished we could transport ourselves to Colorado to begin our journey.
We think, however that a carriage journey taken by steamer or rail
loses something of its genuineness, and brought our minds back to the
familiar towns and villages adjoining our own, through some one of
which we must go, and somehow decided on Shirley.

As we packed our “things” into the phaeton for the eleventh time, we
asked how long such vehicles are warranted to last, and felt sure no
other could serve us as well. The bags, lunch basket, umbrellas and
wraps seem to know their respective places. Yes, the revolver, too,
drops instinctively into its hiding place. At last we were off, but
a half hour was now spent searching the shops for a drinking-cup and
saying good-morning to friends, by which time we thought of a word
unsaid at home, and dropped our first mail at our own postoffice.
Our “reporter,” watching for items while waiting for his mail, was
attracted by our traveling outfit and eagerly “interviewed” us, but
with little satisfaction, as you may well know. That we were going
to Shirley, six miles distant, was of little interest to him or his
readers.

We now started in real earnest and soon were on the winding road to
Shirley. We took our first wayside lunch before we got to Groton, where
Charlie had two hours’ rest, and we passed the time pleasantly with
friends. An uneventful drive of ten miles in the afternoon brought
us to Westford, where we spent the first night. There is no hotel in
the place, but we found a good woman who took care of us, and a jolly
blacksmith opposite who promised good care for our horse. We strolled
down street in the evening and called on friends who were enjoying
country air and rest for a few weeks. Our sleep was refreshing, and
morning found us ready for an early start somewhere, but exactly where
we had no idea. After a brief consultation we concluded we should like
to go to the Isles of Shoals again, and accordingly we traced the way
on our map towards Portsmouth, N. H. It was hot and dusty, and we
passed through Lowell with no inclination to stop, but when out of
sight of the city with its heat and dust and rattling machinery, we
left Charlie to enjoy his dinner and took our books in the shade down
by the Merrimac River, and were fanned by its breezes for two hours.
The drive through Lawrence to Haverhill, where we passed the second
night, was quite pleasant.

The chief recollections of the thirty-two miles we traveled the next
day are a few drops of rain in the morning, just enough to aggravate,
for we were almost ready to welcome a deluge; Jumbo, whose wake we had
struck, and the green beach-flies. The proprietor of the quiet tavern
where we took our mid-day rest brought us “Jumbo Illustrated” for our
literary entertainment, and told us his probable losses on horse-hire,
etc., the following month, on account of all the people in the vicinity
giving their money to Barnum. He also assured us the “green heads”
would trouble us for about three miles. True to prophecy, they took
possession of our horse and phaeton for that distance, then disappeared
as suddenly as they came. We speculated as to their habits of life;
wondered why they did not stay on the beach, where their name implies
they belong, and why they did not steal five miles’ ride as well as
three; then thought how humiliating it would be to feel compelled to
turn away from the seashore overcome by an insignificant insect, when
we could follow our own sweet will for all fear of highway robbers, or
a Jumbo even.

Night found us at Portsmouth, where the discomfort was in keeping with
the day, and it was with pleasure we granted our horse a rest in the
morning and took passage ourselves for the Isles of Shoals. The day was
perfect on the water—so fresh and cool. We landed at Appledore, and an
hour passed very quickly as we met one friend after another. Suddenly a
thunderstorm burst upon us; the rain fell in torrents, and hailstones
rolled like marbles along the broad piazza. Surely the deluge we
wished for had come, and, although it was not needed where water was
everyhere, it could do no harm, and we enjoyed it to the utmost. We had
planned to spend the night amid ocean, but it was so glorious after
the skies cleared, we could not resist the temptation to have a drive
while Nature was fresh and dripping. After dinner, we visited Mrs.
Celia Thaxter’s fascinating parlor; then took the boat for Portsmouth.
The calm after the storm was delightful, and we sailed on, full of
anticipation for our drive.

On reaching Portsmouth we were surprised to learn it had been intensely
hot all day, and not a drop of rain had fallen. It was too late to
repent, and we ordered our horse, drove to the post office for our
mail, our first news from home, then started for the ocean again. Our
enthusiasm was somewhat abated by the sultry atmosphere; but a drive
of eight miles brought us to York Beach, and a brisk walk on the hard,
moist sand while the sunset clouds were fading quite restored us.

The next morning we drove leisurely along the beach, looking for
familiar faces we knew were in that vicinity, from the East and West,
visited one party after another, and in the afternoon drove on through
Wells to Kennebunk. We had another visitation from the beach flies, but
this time their persecutions continued for only a mile and a half. We
looked in vain for a hotel in Kennebunk, and on inquiring were directed
to a house attractively located, which we had thought to be a very
pleasant private residence. The homelikeness inside harmonized with the
exterior, and the host and hostess helped us to pass the evening very
agreeably. This was only one of many proofs of Maine hospitality.

Before leaving Kennebunk we called at the home of a lady, one of the
many pleasant people we have met in our summer wanderings, and promised
to remember, “if we ever drove that way.” She is the mother of Lizzie
Bourne, whose sad story and monument of stones every visitor to Mt.
Washington will remember.

At Kennebunkport we surprised a party of young friends on the
cliffs, and made another promised call. We found the place with some
difficulty, and learned our friend was in Massachusetts. We thought
hospitality reigned supreme there, when we and our horse were taken
bodily possession of for luncheon and a three-hours’ visit, by a lady
whom we had never seen before. Every moment passed pleasantly, and we
reluctantly left our new-found friend en route to Old Orchard, towards
which point we had been driving for days, just as if it had all been
planned instead of “happening.”

It was our first visit to this favorite resort, and we stayed several
days, waiting for letters, and doing what everybody does at such
places—driving, walking and gathering shells on the beach; reading,
chatting and crocheting on the piazzas, occasionally wondering where
we should find ourselves next. The heat was almost insufferable—land
breeze night and day. Perhaps we could have borne it better if we had
known then that the invalid we watched with some interest was Vennor
himself, sharing with the rest the tortures of the fulfilment of his
prophecies. As it was we were ready for a change. Our letters assured
us all was well at home, and we decided to drive across country to Lake
Winnipiseogee.

As we sat at the breakfast table the morning we were to leave, a lady
at our right casually addressed us, and when she learned we were
driving for pleasure enthusiastically exclaimed, “Oh! you must visit
Hollis, a deserted village on the Saco.” She fascinated us with her
description of that quiet nook she had chosen for a summer resting
place, and the charmed circle of friends there, and offered us her
rooms which she had left for a few days, if we would spend a night
there, at the same time wishing we might meet all her friends and
assuring us of a kindly reception. We thought this the climax of Maine
hospitality. Only a moment before we were entire strangers, except that
we recognized the face of our friend as one well known in the literary
circles of Boston. We referred to our map, and found Hollis directly
in our course, but unfortunately, only about half the distance we had
proposed driving that day. We promised, however, to take dinner there,
if possible.

We rarely spend more than one night in a place, and as we packed
ourselves into our phaeton once more it seemed like starting on a fresh
journey. Old Orchard has its charms; still we rejoiced as we left the
scorching sand. The drive of seventeen miles to Hollis seemed short,
and it was only eleven o’clock when we introduced ourselves to our new
friends, and so very friendly were they that after an hour’s chat in
the parlor and a pleasant dinner company we were loth to leave, and
stated the rest of our friend’s proposition to the lady of the house,
whereupon we were taken to the promised apartments, and at once made to
feel at home. The heat was hardly less intense than on the beach, and
we passed the afternoon pleasantly indoors. Supper was served early,
as one of the ladies proposed a walk to the charm of Hollis, the Saco
River. Only a few rods from the house we entered the woods and followed
the little path up and down, picking our way carefully over the swampy
places, occasionally losing balance as we stepped on a loose stone,
until we reached the favorite spot by a great rock overhanging the
river bank. Our ears were deafened and voices silenced by the mighty
roaring of the waters as they angrily surged through the narrow gorge.
As far back as we could see there was nothing but the foaming white and
the high wet rocks on either side. We gave ourselves up to the roar
and turmoil, and thought the stirring life and restless activity of
this bit of the Saco was worth the whole Atlantic Ocean. It was growing
dark in the woods, and we had to take a last look and retrace our steps
while we could see the path. A wish was expressed by our lady escort
that we might meet a delightful company of friends a mile or two from
the village whom we felt we knew already, through our friend at the
beach, who had also mentioned this as a part of the pleasant programme
she planned for us. Our phaeton was soon at the door, and we exchanged
our rubbers for wraps and were off in the moonlight, assured it was
perfectly safe all about there, night or day. Of course our friend
knew all the pretty roundabout ways, and we had a lovely drive. The
pleasant call we shall never forget, and as we drove back, the “short
cut” across the pastures was pointed out as a favorite summer-evening
walk. We did not sleep that night until we had written our friend,
thanking her for all we had enjoyed through her kindness. But for her
we should probably have driven through Hollis with no recollection save
one glimpse of the Saco.

Directly after breakfast next morning we bade our friends good-by,
promising to report to them from Weirs which of the various routes
suggested we took. There is no direct way, for it is literally across
country, and we felt as if we were leaving everybody and had nothing
but a wilderness between us and Lake Winnipiseogee. The morning drive
was hot and very uninteresting, no ocean or mountains, river or hills,
nothing but sandy roads and dry pastures.

We inquired the “best way” to Wolfeboro every time we saw anybody to
inquire of, and as we refreshed ourselves with sardines by the wayside,
wondered where Charlie was to get his dinner. We asked at a grocery
store when we got to Newfield, and were told that a widow near by
accommodated travelers. We found her very willing if we could take care
of the horse ourselves, for she had no “men folks.”

Despite our fatigue, as necessity compelled, we unharnessed Charlie
and gave him some corn—she had no oats. We went into the little
sitting-room to wait, but not to rest, for our hostess was very social.
After being entertained for an hour and a half, we carried a pail of
water to the barn for Charlie, and harnessed him. We asked the amount
of our indebtedness, when her ladyship mentioned a sum exceeding what
we often pay at first-class hotels, where our horse is well groomed and
grained—not by ourselves—blandly remarking at the same time that she
“did not believe in high prices.”

Our map is not much help when traveling bias, and we wondered next
where we should sleep. It was only a few miles to the little village of
West Newfield, and again we went to a grocery store for information.
Our many inquiries were very courteously answered, and one or two
hotels within a few miles were mentioned. At this point a young man
came forward, commenting on the modesty of the storekeeper, whom he
said was the hotel proprietor as well, and advised us to stay where we
were sure of good care, as we should be no nearer Wolfeboro at either
of the places suggested. We were directed to a modest house, one-story
front, which we had just passed, where the wife of the gentlemanly
storekeeper, hotel proprietor and farmer also, we afterward learned,
kindly received us and gave us a cosy front room on the first floor.
We soon felt we were in a home, as well as a hotel, and we sat on the
front doorstep writing letters till dark, then talked of our friends
in Hollis. How long ago it all seemed! And yet we only left there that
morning.

There was not a sound to disturb our slumbers that night, and we awoke
fresh for our drive of twenty-five miles to Wolfeboro. It was still
hot, but the drive was a striking contrast to that of the day previous.
We were approaching the rough country which borders Lake Winnipiseogee,
and more than once fancied ourselves among the Berkshire hills. We
stopped at a farmhouse for a pitcher of milk, and took a little lunch
sitting on a stone wall under a large tree. The good old people begged
us to go into the house, but we assured them we preferred the wall, and
when we returned the pitcher, they had come to the conclusion that it
might be pleasant to eat out of doors once in a while. We knew they had
watched us through the curtain cracks in the front room.

Every mile now, the country was more and more delightful, so wild and
hilly. Up and down we went, getting glimpses of the lake from the
top of a high hill, then wending our way into the valley only to go
up again. It sometimes seemed as if nothing but a plunge would ever
bring us to the lake, but after much twisting and turning, we reached
Wolfeboro and drove up to The Pavilion at two o’clock. We left our
horse and traveling equipments in charge until called for, and in an
hour went on board the Lady of the Lake. Now we felt really at home,
but the charms of Lake Winnipiseogee are only increased by familiarity,
and we never enjoyed it more. At Weirs Landing a friendly face greeted
us, one always present at the Grove meetings. We secured at Hotel Weirs
the room we had last year, and then went out in search of friends, and
found them from the East, West, North and South. We surprised them all,
for they had heard indirectly only the day before that we had started
on our journey with usual indefiniteness, except that we were not going
to Weirs.

The two or three days we spent there were interspersed with sermons,
friendly reunions, rowing, and a trip to Wolfeboro on The Gracie,
with a party of twenty. The talented company, the glories of the lake
and shore scenery by daylight, the sunset tints, the moon in its full
beauty, and the lightning darting through the black clouds in the
distant north, with now and then a far-away rumbling of thunder, made a
rare combination.

The next day, Saturday, was very bright, and we made sure of one more
pleasant sail. The Lady of the Lake landed us at Wolfeboro at four
o’clock, and we immediately ordered our horse, and made inquiries about
hotels, roads and distances. We learned that hills abounded and that
hotels were few and poor, and that Alton Bay was the only place where
we would be sure of good accommodations; that the distance was twelve
miles, and the road the roughest in the vicinity. We did not care to
go to Alton Bay, as we had been there on a previous journey, but it
seemed our wisest course. At different times we had driven entirely
around the lake, except this twelve miles, and we knew what to expect
without the emphatic assurance of the clerk. We started off full of
enthusiasm to surmount all difficulties, drew forth the revolver from
the bottom of the bag, where it had been stowed away during our stay at
Weirs, and amused ourselves by keeping tally of the hills, fifteen by
actual count! They were long and high, too, but the fine views fully
compensated us, and we knew Charlie was equal to the effort, for we
had not forgotten the Canada hills he took us over last year. It was
dark when we reached Alton Bay, and we were quite ready to enjoy the
comforts that awaited us.

While our friends we had left at Weirs were preaching and being
preached to, we quietly enjoyed the Sunday hours in our pleasant parlor
overlooking the lake, reading and resting from our rough drive. At
sunset we strolled to the water’s edge, sat down in an anchored row-boat
and watched the clouds, which were grandly beautiful, looking at first
like an immense conflagration, then resolving into black, smoky clouds
as the last rosy tint faded.

Monday was a perfect day and Charlie was as fresh for the twenty-eight
miles to Dover as we were. The road was familiar, but seemed none the
less pleasant. At Rochester we looked for the hotel, with beautiful
hanging baskets all around the piazza, where we spent a night two years
ago on our homeward drive from the mountains. Just after supper at
Dover we heard a great chorus of bells, whistles and puffing engines.
There was a fire just across the street, and we watched the devouring
flames and the feather beds and bundles as they were thrown from the
second story window into the drenched street, until the excitement was
over, then went out for a walk. That night we packed up a little more
than usual and planned what to do in case of fire, for our baggage
is necessarily so limited on these journeys we should miss even the
smallest article. Our precaution insured us sweet sleep and we took
an early leave of Dover for Exeter, where we rested two hours, then
started for Epping. Suddenly we changed our minds, faced about and went
to Kingston. We had never been in Kingston. If we had, we never should
have faced that way again; for the best hotel was the poorest we had
yet found, and the drive to Haverhill the next day very uninteresting.
We fully appreciated the dry retort of a chatty old man, who gave us
some directions, then asked where we came from that morning—“Kingston
Plains! Good Lord!”

The drive from Haverhill to Andover was quite pleasant. We arrived
there at three o’clock in the afternoon, and although we had driven but
twenty miles, at once decided to go no farther that day. The heat was
still oppressive, and no rain had fallen since we left home, except
the shower at the Isles of Shoals. We made ourselves as comfortable
as possible with books and lemonade. “Another pleasant day!” we said
with a sigh, next morning. We were really longing for one of our cosy
rainy-day drives.

Lowell and Lawrence were in our direct homeward route, but to avoid
those places we had full directions to Littleton, and started in good
faith for that place, but came across a guideboard which said, “Boston,
twenty miles,” in the opposite direction. The temptation was too great,
and once more we faced about. We called on friends as we drove through
Reading and Maplewood, and finally found ourselves at Point of Pines.
The heat and discomfort we had experienced were all forgotten there.
The brilliant illuminations and the music made the evening hours
delightful. The cool night was a luxury indeed. We spent the morning
on the piazza with friends, and, after an early luncheon, drove into
Boston via Chelsea Ferry. Oh! how hot it was! We thought there had been
a change in the weather, but concluded we had been told truly, that it
is always cool at the “Point.”

The crowded city streets distract Charlie, but we succeeded in wending
our way to Devonshire street, where we got the latest news from home
from a friend. Our last mail we had received at Weirs. We did a little
shopping on Winter street, and then left the busy city for Cambridge,
and on through Arlington and Lexington to Concord, a drive one cannot
take too often, so full is it of historic interest. As we near the home
of Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, and the Alcotts, and the monuments of
Revolutionary interest, the very atmosphere seems full of recollections
and reminiscences. The noble words of Emerson, the hermit life of
Thoreau, the fascinating writings of Hawthorne, transcendental people,
“Little Women” and cousins just like other people, are all confused
with skirmishes with the English, and the effort to realize it is
all true. We have experienced this ecstasy more than once before,
and it has faded away naturally as we drove on, but this time the
spell was broken suddenly. We stopped at the hotel and found it just
like a hundred other country taverns, not a suggestion of anything
transcendental, and we felt as if dropped from the heights into the
abyss of commonplaceness. We tried to rise again by watching from our
window the passers-by and selecting those who looked as if they had
been to the Summer School of Philosophy, but all in vain, and by the
time we were ready to leave in the morning our enthusiasm had sunk to
the Kingston level.

We had ordered our mails reforwarded from Weirs to Fitchburg, and
now we were perplexed to know how to get them on our way home, when
Leominster comes first. We studied our map and finally asked directions
to Littleton again, and this time saw no enticing guideboard. We
lunched at Ayer, lost our way trying to go from Shirley to Lunenburg
(we rarely take a wrong road except when near home, where we are so
sure we know we do not ask), and were ready for our two-hours’ rest
when we arrived. The dust we shook off there was more than replaced
before we reached Fitchburg. So many people were driving it was
like a trip through the clouds; and the heat was so great, with the
sun in our faces all the way, we set that little drive apart as the
most uncomfortable of our whole journey. We forgot all our dusty
zigzagging, however, as we drove leisurely towards Leominster, reading
our letters, which were none the less interesting for having been a
week in the Fitchburg post office.

Curious friends questioned our knowledge of geography, as they always
do when we come from Boston through Fitchburg, and go our roundabout
ways, but many years’ experience has convinced us there is more beauty
in a curved than a straight line. We have taken longer journeys, and
had better weather, but we shall always remember the journey of last
summer as one of the pleasantest.




CHAPTER IV.

MOOSILAUKE AND FRANCONIA NOTCH.


“You did not take your drive this year, did you? I have seen nothing
of it in the papers.” This oft-repeated query, and many similar hints,
suggest that we have kept the pleasant incidents of our last summer’s
drive to ourselves long enough; and the kindly interest of friends we
know, and some we do not know, should be sufficient incentive to prompt
our pen to tell you all about it.

Only those who have traveled by carriage nearly four thousand miles,
within a radius of two hundred miles, in twelve successive summers, can
appreciate the difficulty which increases each year in deciding which
way to go. Railway travelers escape that difficulty, for they can only
go where the rails are laid; but we belong to the great company of
tramps who wander aimlessly, and rarely know in the morning where they
will rest at night. We had only one definite idea when we decided to go
somewhere, and that was, not to go to the seashore, because it was hot
there last year; we believe in having a reason, however senseless it
may be.

During the small hours of the morning of July 13th we found ourselves
packing. Packing for a carriage journey means looking over once more
the “must haves” which have been carefully selected, to see how many
can be dispensed with in order to reduce the quantity to the amount
of “baggage allowed” in a phaeton. This allowance is so small that,
however limited one’s wardrobe may be, it looks plentiful after a
month’s absence from it. This fact may well be mentioned as one of the
decided advantages which a journey by carriage has over almost every
other kind of summer traveling. The fewest things possible having been
condensed into the smallest space possible, we were ready for a start
at eight o’clock; but the clouds hung heavy, and we waited awhile for
the sun to find its way through them; then said “good morning” to
friends and were off. We drove to Fitchburg because we like to start
north, and from there we went to Ashburnham. Before we left Fitchburg
the sun forgot all about us and hid behind the clouds, which had no
consideration for our desire not to get wet the first day, and poured
their contents on us unsparingly until we got to Ashburnham, where we
stopped an hour or two. With seeming maliciousness the rain ceased
during our stay, and began with renewed energy directly we were on
our way again; and as we drove on through Winchendon the thunder
and lightning rapidly increased. We had quite enjoyed the distant
rumbling, but it was getting unpleasantly near. The freshness of all
our equipments was decidedly marred when we drove to the hotel in
Fitzwilliam, and waterproofs and blankets were despatched to the
kitchen fire to dry.

We devoted the evening to an earnest debate on “Why did we come to
Fitzwilliam?” We had not even the reason we had for going to Fitchburg,
and wherever we might drive, it did not seem as if Fitzwilliam was
likely to be on our way. We do not know yet how it happened, unless the
thunder and lightning so diverted us that we did not look on the map
to see that Fitzwilliam was not on the way to anywhere. It is indeed
delightful enough to be a terminus, and we were well cared for and
ready for an early start when the bright morning greeted us. We faced
toward Jaffrey, but were not out of sight of the hotel when we noticed
our horse was lame. We drove on, thinking he might have stepped on a
stone, and would soon be all right; but instead he grew worse, and, as
we could not discover the cause after careful examination, we settled
into a walk, and decided to stop at the first hotel we came to.

This was a new experience, and it looked serious. We found such slow
traveling tiresome, and stopped for an hour in a very inviting spot by
the wayside, where the rocks, under the shade of a large tree, seemed
to be arranged for our especial comfort. We had luncheon from our
basket, and read aloud, and watched between times the movements of a
little green snake that evidently considered us intruders and was not
disposed to give us absolute possession of the place.

We were refreshed, but Charlie was no better, and we were glad when
we came to a hotel so pleasantly located that we felt we could spend
Sunday there very comfortably, and hoped Charlie would be well by
that time. Of course our limping condition interested the bystanders,
and their wise opinions were freely volunteered. One said it was a
sprain; another, strained cords of the right foot; a third thought the
difficulty was in the left foot; when the landlord removed his pipe
from his mouth and wisely declared he did not know, and as he resumed
his smoking his manner indicated that the horse was as well as he ever
would be. The best of care was promised, and to make sure of hitting
the right place, the faithful hostler compressed both legs.

We established ourselves comfortably in a large front room facing
Monadnock, a mountain we never tire of, and tried to enjoy as much
as other people do who go to places to stay, instead of being always
on the wing as we are. The afternoon and evening passed pleasantly,
although we occasionally grew retrospective and thought of our usual
good time and how some people would say, “That comes of starting on
Friday.” Should we have to go home? and where would we be if Charlie
had not been lame? Sunday morning we went quietly into the back pew of
the little church across the green; then we read and read, and after
that we read some more. Charlie seemed a little better at night, and
Monday morning the landlord said he thought it would be well to drive
him. (We think he expected parties to take our room.)

We started towards East Jaffrey, and tried to think he was better, but
it was of no use. There was serious trouble somewhere. Having the day
before us, we concluded to try to get to Peterboro, an easy drive if
a man had not carelessly given us a wrong direction, which took us a
long way over hard hills instead of along the pretty river road. Poor
Charlie! he did his best; and so did we, for, despite the heat, we
walked much of the way and dragged him. We looked and felt forlorn as
lost children, but our wits were sharpened by our discouragements, and
we concluded he had sand or gravel under his shoe. We did wish we had
had a blacksmith instead of a compress at Jaffrey!

We hobbled into Peterboro in course of time, and asked to have Charlie
taken directly to a blacksmith, who said we were right, but he feared
the trouble was not discovered in season for immediate relief. We
again settled down to await our fate. The hotel was very nice, but
the outlook was a poor exchange for Monadnock; nothing but stores,
the signs on which we read until it seemed as if we could never
forget them, as our eyes wandered up and down the street in search of
something restful. All things have an end, so had this unsatisfactory
day. We made an early call, next morning, on the blacksmith, who said
we had better let Charlie rest that day, and take him down to the shop
Wednesday morning.

Another day! Our diary record for that day is, “We do not like this way
of taking a carriage journey.” Before the sun set we were driven to an
extremity never reached before, in all our journeyings—an afternoon
nap to kill time. After breakfast Wednesday morning, in desperation,
we took matters into our own hands, went to the stable, led Charlie
out, and trotted him about the yard. He was certainly better, and as we
were determined not to act upon any advice, we asked none, but paid our
bill and packed our traps before we drove to the blacksmith’s shop—a
model establishment, by the way. The humblest one has a charm; but
this shop was the most luxurious one we had ever seen, and everything
was in harmony, from the fair, genial face of the proprietor to the
speck of a boy who earned two cents a horse, or twelve cents a day, for
brushing flies while the horses were being shod. We watched anxiously
while the examination went on, and when the man looked up with a face
worthy a second Collyer and said it was all right, we felt like having
a jubilee. He carefully protected the injured spot, reset the shoes,
and pronounced the horse ready for use. We added this Boston-born
blacksmith to our list of never-to-be-forgotten friends and began our
journey anew.

Was this an inspired creature we were driving? On he sped, and his eyes
were in every direction, looking for some adequate excuse to jump.
Surely, the limping Charlie was a myth! Bennington and Antrim were left
behind, and night found us at Hillsboro Bridge, twenty miles from our
good blacksmith, the pleasantest remembrance we had of Peterboro.

Now we were really going somewhere, we must fix upon some place to
meet letters from home. We took the map and cast our eyes up and down
New Hampshire, but whether we fled to the borders or zigzagged through
the interior, there was no escaping familiar routes. Being unanimously
persistent in facing north, we bethought ourselves of the transformed
“Flume,” and immediately fixed upon Plymouth for a mail centre.
Charlie’s spirits were unabated the next day, and we rested him at
Warren. It was useless to ask directions, for everybody was determined
we must take the great highway to the mountains, through Concord. This
we were not going to do, and as a first digression we drove around Mt.
Kearsarge in Warner and spent a night at the Winslow House, a very
attractive hotel half way up the mountain. A slight repentance may
have come over us as we left the main road and attacked the hills that
lay between us and the house on the mountain, especially as we felt
compelled to walk, lest the hard pull prove too much for Charlie. Just
before we reached the Mountain House we got into our phaeton, and all
signs of repentance must have fled, for a lady on the piazza exclaimed,
as we drove up, that we must be the ladies she had read of in the
Transcript, for we looked as if we were having such a good time!

Once there, no one could have any regrets. The night was perfect. We
asked leave to change our seats at the supper table, in order to add
the sunset to our bill of fare; and in the evening we were cordially
welcomed by the guests, who gathered around the open fire in the large
parlor. At ten o’clock we all went out to see the moon rise over the
mountain. A gentleman coming up the mountain saw it rise several times,
and we got the effect of these repetitions by walking down a little way.

The morning was as lovely as the night, and the view simply beautiful,
satisfying in all moods. There was no sensation of awe or isolation,
but a feeling that one could be content forever. Kearsarge is about
three thousand feet high. We were already fifteen hundred feet up, and
directly after breakfast we started for the summit. No other parties
were ready for a climb that morning, so full directions for the bridle
path and walking sticks were given us, and with maps, drinking cup and
revolver strapped about us, we were ready for any emergency.

There is nothing more bewitching than an old bridle path, and we
enjoyed every moment of the hour it took us to reach the summit. If the
lovely, woodsy ascent and final scramble over the rocks had not fully
rewarded us, the view itself must have more than repaid our efforts.
With the aid of a little book we studied out the various mountain peaks
and traced our route along the country to Moosilauke. We drank our fill
of the beauty, then leisurely descended, and reached the Winslow House
just in season to prepare for dinner, which means to people traveling
without their wardrobe, a dash of water, a touch of the whisk broom and
a little rub on the dusty boots.

We were just tired enough to enjoy a drive of twenty miles to Bristol
in the afternoon—twelve miles up and down hills, and eight miles by
a beautiful river. Our remembrance of Bristol is that we slept in one
hotel and ate in another, that the moon rose two hours earlier than
on Kearsarge, and that by some unaccountable mistake we arose an hour
earlier than we thought, hastened to the office with our letters on the
way to our refreshment hotel, where we supposed we had the dining-room
to ourselves because we were last instead of first, wondered what could
have happened to our watch, and did not discover that the watch was
all right and we all wrong until we stopped, as we drove out of the
village, to inquire the way to Plymouth, which would take us seven
miles by the shore of Newfound Lake. It happened very well, however,
for if we had been an hour later we should have missed the guardianship
of that kindly couple who chanced to come along just in season to
accompany us in passing a large company of gypsies, whom we had been
following for some time, dreading to pass them in such a lonely place,
lest they should think we had something they might like.

We had a “way” now, if we were going to Moosilauke, and Plymouth was
eight miles out of our way, but we had to go there to get our letters.
One or two we expected had not arrived, and we requested the postmaster
to keep them until we called or sent for them. The good words we got
from home shortened the eight miles extra to Rumney, which proved to be
the loveliest part of our day’s drive.

Rumney is quiet and just the place we wanted for Sunday. We were the
only guests at the little hotel, and everything was cosy as possible.
We watched the people going to church, and after the last straggler had
disappeared we put on our hats and followed, taking seats in the back
pew of the smallest of the three small churches in that small place,
where we heard a thrilling discourse on the atonement.

Sunday night there was a heavy shower, and Monday was just the day
for Moosilauke, so bright and clear. Before we left Rumney we learned
the gypsies had traveled while we rested, and were again in our path.
We drove on, looking for them at every turn, and when we finally
overtook them no guardian couple came along, and we tucked our wraps
and bags out of sight, looked at the revolver’s hiding-place, and
decided to brave it. They were scattered all along the road with their
lumbering wagons, and Charlie pricked up his ears and refused to pass
them. Immediately a brawny woman appeared, and saying, “Is your horse
afraid?” took him by the bit and led him by the long procession. We
kept her talking all the way, and when she left us we thought, surely
this is the way with half the anticipated troubles in life; they
are only imaginary. At another point, a large tree had fallen across
the road during the rain and gale of the night. An old man was hard
at work upon it, and had just got to the last limb which obstructed
our way as we drove up; with a cheery word he drew it aside, and as
neither gypsies nor gales had succeeded in detaining us, we now looked
hopefully towards the summit of Moosilauke.

It is twelve miles from Rumney to Warren, and five miles from Warren to
the Breezy Point House, on the slope of the mountain. This hotel was
burned a few weeks after we were there; indeed, it has happened to so
many hotels where we have been in our journeyings, that one would not
wonder we never sleep when we travel, until we have packed “in case of
fire,” and when we are up very high, we plan our escape; then rest as
peacefully as if warranted not to burn.

The drive to Breezy Point House was very like that to the Winslow House
on Kearsarge—partly walking. We got there before noon, and again we
were the only persons to go to the top. As it takes three hours for the
drive to the summit, we had no time to wait for dinner, so had a lunch,
and a buckboard and driver were ordered for us. We had been warned to
take plenty of wraps, and before we went to lunch had laid them aside,
leaving the things we did not wish to take in the office. Everybody
was waiting to see us off as we came from the dining-room, and the
clerk said, “Your wraps are all right, under the seat.” We always envy
everybody on a buckboard, and now we had one all to ourselves, a pair
of horses equal to two mountain trips a day, and a chatty little
driver ready to answer all our questions. It was a perfect summer
afternoon, and we were delighted at every turn until we reached the
“Ridge,” when a cold blast struck us, and the soft breezes suddenly
changed to wind that threatened to take our hats off, if not our heads.
Now for the wraps; and will you believe it? the man had put in the
things we did not want, and those we did want were probably on the
chair in the parlor, where we had left them. Between us we had one veil
and one neckhandkerchief, with which we secured our hats and heads.
There were one or two light sacques and a basque! Thinking of our warm
wraps at the hotel did no good, so we dressed up in what we had, and
with a little imagination, were comfortable.

The narrow and comparatively level stretch, sloping on either side, and
the sudden ascent to the highest point on the mountain, suggest a ride
upon the ridgepole of a house and final leap to the top of the chimney;
once there, we went into the cosy house, something like the old one on
Mt. Washington, and tied everything a little tighter before we dared
face the gale. We then started out, and, actually in danger of being
blown away, we united our forces by taking hold of hands, and ran along
the daisy-carpeted plateau to what looked like the jumping-off place
to the north. There is a similarity in mountain views, but each has at
least one feature peculiar to itself. Mt. Washington has not even a
suggestion of the beautiful meadows seen from Mt. Holyoke; and from one
point on Moosilauke there is a view of mountain tops unlike any we have
seen; just billows of mountains, nothing else, and the hazy, bluish
tint was only varied by the recent land slides on Mt. Liberty and
Flume Mountain, which looked like silver cascades. Charming pictures
meet the eye in every direction, but none more lovely than that along
the Connecticut River near the Ox Bow.

We took mental possession of the whole scene in a very few minutes,
and, with a last look at the “billows,” sought shelter under some
rocks long enough to recover our breath and gather our pockets full of
daisies; then returned to the house. A very frail-looking elderly lady
was sitting by the fire, and we wondered how she ever lived through the
jolting ride up the mountain, and how she could ever get down again.
But our own transportation was the next thing for us, and we found some
impatient parties had started off with our driver and left us to the
mercy of another. We were disappointed at first, but when we found the
new driver was just as good and wise as the other, and that his was
“the best team on the mountain,” we were reconciled.

As we drove along the Ridge, he said he did not often trot his horses
there, but when the wind blew so hard he wanted to get over it as soon
as possible. We held on to each other and the buckboard, and believed
him when he told us that, a few days before, he took a young man up in
a single team, and the horse and buckboard were blown off the road, and
the breath of the young man nearly forsook him forever. We enjoyed even
that part of the ride, and when we got down a little way the frightful
wind subsided into gentle zephyrs, so warm and soft that not a wrap was
needed. Our driver was in no haste, and we stopped to gather ferns and
flowers by the way. The knotted spruce sticks he cut and peeled for
us now have bright ribbon bows, and adorn our parlor. We lost all fear
as we watched the horses step down the very steep pitches with as much
ease as Charlie takes a level road, and wished the ride was longer.

After a half-hour at the Breezy Point House, we packed our unused
wraps into the phaeton and prepared for our return drive to Warren,
where we spent the night. Practical people again advised us to return
to Plymouth if we wished to visit the Flume; but, remembering what
happened to Lot’s wife for turning back, we proposed to keep straight
on. The first time we stopped to make an inquiry, an old lady looked
sorrowfully at us and said, “There are gypsies ahead of you;” but we
borrowed no trouble that time, and wisely, for we did not see them.
We drove thirty-one miles that day, and for some distance followed
the Connecticut River and looked across into Vermont, where we could
follow the road we drove along on our way to Canada two years ago.
After leaving the river, we followed the railroad very closely. We were
once asked if our horse is afraid of the “track.” He is not, even when
there is an express train on it, under ordinary circumstances; but a
wooden horse might be expected to twinge, when one minute you are over
the railroad, and the next the railroad is over you, and again you are
alongside, almost within arm’s reach. In one of the very worst places
we heard the rumbling of a train, and as there was no escape from our
close proximity, we considered a moment, and decided we would rather
be out of the carriage; “just like women,” I can hear many a man say.
But never mind; our good Charlie had expelled us unceremoniously from
the carriage once since our last journey, and we did not care to risk
a repetition nearly two hundred miles from home. He rested while we
jolted up and down Moosilauke the day before, and all the morning his
ears had been active. A broken-down carriage with an umbrella awning
by the side of the road was an object of so great interest to him that
we had to close the umbrella, before he was even willing to be led by.
A boy said it belonged to a man who had met with an accident, and we
thought how much he might have escaped if he had “got out” as we did.

As the heavy train came thundering along almost over our heads, so
close is the road to the high embankment, controlling our horse seemed
uncertain; but to moral suasion and a strong hold on the curb he
peacefully submitted, and in a few minutes we were on our way again,
the carriage road, railroad and river intertwining like a three-strand
braid. Night found us at Lisbon, and a small boy admitted us to a very
new-looking hotel, and told us we could stay, before the proprietor
appeared, with a surprised look at us and our baggage, and said the
house was not yet open. That was of little consequence to us, as he
allowed us to remain; and, after being in so many old hotels, the
newness of everything, from bedding to teaspoons, was very refreshing.

We took the next day very leisurely, read awhile in the morning, then
drove Charlie to the blacksmith’s to have his shoes reset before
starting for Franconia via Sugar Hill, which commands as fine a view
of the Franconia Mountains as Jefferson affords of the Presidential
range. We remembered very pleasantly the house in Franconia where we
were cared for two years ago, when night overtook us on our way from
Littleton, and by two o’clock we were quite at home there again. It
is away from the village, and directly opposite the house is an old
wooden bridge. Sheltered by the high wooden side of the bridge is an
old bench, where one can sit hours, rocked by the jar of the bridge
to the music of horses’ feet, reveling in day dreams, inspired by the
lovely view of the mountains, peaceful rather than grand, and the
pretty winding stream in the foreground. We did not leave the charmed
spot until the last sunset-cloud had faded, and darkness had veiled the
mountain tops. We retired early, full of anticipation for the morning
drive from Franconia to Campton, which has such a rare combination of
grandeur and beauty, and is ever new. We drove up through the “Notch”
several years ago, but the drive down would be new to us, for when we
drove down two years ago, we might have fancied ourselves on a prairie,
were it not for the ups and downs in the road. Not even an outline of
the mountains was visible; everything was lost in the hazy atmosphere
which preceded the “yellow day.”

We took an early start, and passing the cheery hotels and
boarding-houses of Franconia, were soon in the Notch, of which Harriet
Martineau says, “I certainly think the Franconia Notch the noblest
mountain pass I saw in the United States.” However familiar it may be,
one cannot pass Echo Lake without stopping. We did not hear the cannon
which is said to be echoed by a “whole park of artillery,” but a whole
orchestra seemed to respond to a few bugle notes. At Profile Lake we
left the carriage again, to see how the “Old Man” looked when joined
to earth. He hung in mid-air when we saw him last—enveloped in mist.
We were too impatient to explore the new Flume to spare half an hour
for the Pool, which was still fresh in our minds; and leaving Charlie
to rest we started at once, with eyes opened wide to catch the first
change in the famed spot. For some distance all was as we remembered
it; but the scene of devastation was not far off, and we were soon in
the midst of it. We had heard it said, “The Flume is spoiled,” and
again, “It is more wonderful than ever.” Both are true in a measure;
before it suggested a miracle, and now it looked as if there had been
a “big freshet.” Huge, prostrate trees were lodged along the side of
the gorge high above our heads, and the mighty torrent had forced its
way, first one side, then the other, sweeping everything in its course,
and leaving marks of its power. Nothing looked natural until we got
to the narrow gorge where the boulder once hung, as Starr King said,
“Held by a grasp out of which it will not slip for centuries,” and now
it has rolled far down stream like a pebble, and is lost in a crowd of
companion boulders. The place where it hung is marked by the driftwood
which caught around it and still clings to the ledges. A long way below
we saw a board marked “Boulder” placed against an innocent-looking
rock, which everybody was gazing at with wonder and admiration, but we
also noticed a mischievous “A” above the inscription, which gave it
its probable rank. A workman told us he thought he had identified the
real boulder farther down amidst the debris; but it matters little,
for it was not the boulder which was so wonderful, but how it came to
be suspended so mysteriously. After seeing the Flume in its present
condition, the charm which always clings to mystery is lost, but one is
almost overpowered with the thought of the resistless force of Nature’s
elements.

After climbing over the rocks till tired, we found a cosy place away
from the many parties who were there, and in our little nook discovered
a new boulder more mysteriously hung than the old one. It was a little
larger than a man’s head, and firmly held between two larger rocks by
two small pebbles which corresponded to ears. A flat rock had lodged
like a shelf across the larger rocks, half concealing the miniature
boulder. The old boulder was no longer a mystery to us, for we could
easily imagine how, no one knows whether years or ages ago, a mountain
slide like the one in June rolled the old rock along until it lodged in
the gap simply because it was too large to go through. But for a time
this little one baffled us. When the mighty torrent was rushing along,
how could Nature stop to select two little pebbles just the right size
and put them in just the right place to hold the little boulder firmly?
We puzzled over it, however, until to our minds it was scientifically,
therefore satisfactorily solved; but we are not going to tell Nature’s
secret to the public. We call it “our boulder,” for we doubt if any one
else saw it, or if we could find it again among the millions of rocks
all looking alike. We longed to follow the rocky bed to the mountain
where the slide started, a distance of two miles, we were told, but
prudence protested, and we left that till next time. We stopped to
take breath many times on our way back to the Flume House, and after a
good look at the slides from the upper piazza, we sought rest in our
phaeton once more.

We forgot all about Lot’s wife this time, and looked back until it
seemed as if our necks would refuse to twist. The ever-changing views
as you approach Campton exhaust all the expressions of enthusiastic
admiration, but the old stage road through the Pemigewasset Valley has
lost much of its charm by the railroad, which in several places has
taken possession of the pretty old road along the valley, and sent the
stage road up on to a sand bank, and at the time we were there the
roads were in a shocking condition. The many washouts on the stage
and rail roads had been made barely passable, and there was a look of
devastation at every turn. We spent the night at Sanborn’s, always
alive with young people, and were off in the morning with a pleasant
word from some who remembered our staying there over night two years
ago.

From Campton to Plymouth is an interesting drive. We had a nice
luncheon by the wayside, as we often do, but, instead of washing our
dishes in a brook or at a spring as usual, we thought we would make
further acquaintance with the woman who supplied us with milk. We went
again to the house and asked her to fill our pail with water that we
might wash our dishes; she invited us into the kitchen, and insisted
on washing them for us—it was dish-washing time—which was just what
we hoped she would do to give us a chance to talk with her. She told
us about the freshets as she leisurely washed the tin pail, cups and
spoons, and laid them on the stove to dry. Our mothers had not taught
us to dry silver in that way, and we were a little anxious for the fate
of our only two spoons, and hastened our departure, with many thanks
for her kindness.

As soon as we reached Plymouth we went to the post office, eager for
our letters. The deaf old gentleman was at his post, and we asked
for letters and papers. He glanced up and down something, we do not
know what, then indifferently said, “There are none.” Usually there
is nothing more to be said; but not so in our case, for we were too
sure there ought to be letters, if there were not, to submit to such
a disappointment without protest. Perhaps he had not understood the
names. We spoke a little louder, and asked if he would please look
once more. He looked from top to bottom of something again, and with
no apology or the least change of countenance, handed out a letter.
This encouraged us, and we resolved not to leave until we got at least
one more. “Now,” we said very pleasantly, “haven’t you another hidden
away up there, somewhere?” He looked over a list of names and shook
his head. We told him our mails were of great importance to us as we
were traveling and could not hear from home often, and we were sure our
friends had not forgotten us, and there must be one more somewhere.
His patience held out, for the reason, perhaps, that ours did, and
he looked up and down that mysterious place once more and the letter
was forthcoming! The one or two witnesses to our conversation showed
manifest amusement, but there was no apparent chagrin on the part
of the obliging postmaster. We thought of the scripture text about
“importunity,” and went to the carriage to read our letters which had
barely escaped the dead-letter office. We were amused when we read that
a package had been mailed with one of the letters, and went to the
postmaster with this information. He declared there was no package, and
knowing that packages are frequently delayed a mail, we did not insist
on having one, but requested it forwarded to Weirs.

The annual question, “Shall we go to Weirs?” had been decided several
days before; and we now set forth on the zigzag drive which we cannot
make twice alike, and which always gives us the feeling of being on the
road to nowhere. The day was bright, and we did not need ginger cookies
to keep us warm, as we did the last time we took this drive, but there
was no less discussion as to whether we ought to go, and whether the
last turn was wrong or right. We always feel as if we had got home and
our journey was ended, when we get to Weirs. As usual, many familiar
faces greeted us, and it was particularly pleasant, for until we got
there we had not seen a face we knew since the day after we left home.
Even our minister was there to preach to us, as if we were stray sheep
and had been sent for. Lake Winnipiseogee was never more beautiful,
but looked upon with sadness because of the bright young man who had
given his life to it, and whose body it refused to give up. Although we
always feel our journey at an end, there is really one hundred miles of
delightful driving left us, and Monday morning, after the adjournment
of the grove meeting, we ordered our horse, and while waiting walked
to the station to have a few last words with our friends who were going
by rail and boat.

Directly we leave Weirs we go up a long hill, and are rewarded by a
very fine view of the lake and surrounding mountains. We drove into a
pasture to gain the highest point, saw all there was to be seen, then
down the familiar road to Lake Village and Laconia. At a point where
the road divided, two bright girls were reclining in the shade, and
we asked them the way to Tilton; one answered, “The right, I think,”
and in the same breath said, “We don’t know. Are you from Smith’s? We
are staying at ——’s, but we thought you might be staying at Smith’s,
and we want to know if that is any nicer than our place.” Their bright
faces interested us, and we encouraged their acquaintance by telling
them we were not staying anywhere, but traveling through the country.
This was sufficient to fully arouse their curiosity, and a flood of
questions and exclamations were showered upon us. “Just you two? Oh,
how nice! That’s just what I like about you New England ladies; now,
we could not do that in Washington. Do you drive more than ten miles
a day? Is it expensive? Where do you stay nights? Do you sketch?
Why don’t you give an illustrated account of your journey for some
magazine? Oh! how I wish I could sketch you just as you are, so I could
show you to our friends when we go back to Washington!” and so on until
we bade them good morning.

We crossed a very long bridge, and afterwards learned that it was to
be closed the next day and taken down, being unsafe. We found a man at
a little village store who would give Charlie his dinner. We declined
going into the house, and took our books under the trees just across
the way. A shower came up, and as we ran for shelter, we saw our
carriage unprotected; no man was to be seen, so we drew it into an open
shed, and there stayed until the sun shone again.

We went through Franklin and Boscawen to Fisherville, where we saw a
pleasant-looking hotel. We had driven twenty-six miles, and thought
best to stop there. We were hungry and our supper was fit for a king.
We went to bed in Fisherville, but got up in Contoocook, we were told.
What’s in a name? A five-miles’ drive after breakfast brought us to
Concord, where we passed several hours very delightfully with friends.
In the afternoon, despite remonstrances and threatening showers, we
started for Goffstown over Dunbarton hills. We remembered that drive
very well; but the peculiar cloud phases made all new, and disclosed
the Green Mountains in the sunlight beyond the clouds like a vision of
the heavenly city. We left the carriage once, ran to the top of a knoll
and mounted a stone wall. The view was enchanting, but in the midst
of our rapture great drops of rain began to fall, and we were back in
our carriage, the boot up and waterproofs unstrapped just in time for
a brisk shower. As we passed an aged native, radiant in brass buttons,
we asked him some questions about the mountains, but he knew nothing
of them, which reminded us of the reply a woman made whom a friend
asked if those distant peaks were the White Mountains. “I don’t know; I
haven’t seen nothin’ of ’em since I’ve been here.”

Shower followed shower, and we decided to spend the night in
Dunbarton. A few houses, a church, a little common, and a hotel labeled
“Printing Office,” seemed to comprise the town, but there must be
something more somewhere, judging from The Snowflake given us, which
was the brightest local paper we ever saw, and our landlord was editor.
We went through his printing establishment with much interest. We saw
no hotel register, but as we were leaving, the landlady came with a
slip of paper and a pencil, and asked us to write our names. After our
return home we received copies of The Snowflake containing an item,
every statement of which was actually correct, and yet we were entirely
unconscious of having been “interviewed” as to our travels.

It is said thirty-seven towns can be seen from Dunbarton; and our own
Wachusett, Ascutney in Vermont and Moosilauke in New Hampshire were
easily distinguished. We fortified ourselves with the fresh air and
pleasant memories of the heights; then asked directions for Shirley
Hill and the “Devil’s Pulpit,” in Bedford, near Goffstown, having
replenished our lunch basket, and Charlie’s also, for there was no
provision for Christian travelers near that sanctuary.

Shirley Hill commands a very pretty view of Manchester; and of the
“Pulpit” some one has said, “That of all wild, weird spots consecrated
to his majesty, perhaps none offer bolder outlines for the pencil
of a Dore than this rocky chasm, the ‘Devil’s Pulpit’. No famous
locality among the White Mountains offers a sight so original, grand
and impressive as this rocky shrine.” And then the writer describes
in detail the stone pulpit, the devil’s chamber, the rickety stairs,
the bottomless wells, the huge wash-basin and a punch bowl, lined
with soft green moss, and the separate apartments with rocky,
grotesque walls and carpets of twisting and writhing roots of trees.
An enterprising farmer has cut a rough road to this wonderful spot, a
half-mile from the highway, and by paying twenty-five cents toll we
were admitted “beyond the gates” and saw no living person until our
return. The same enterprise that built the road had left its mark at
the “Pulpit.” Cribs for horses were placed between trees, and a large
crib in the shape of a rough house, with tables and benches, served
as a dining-room for visitors. Every stick and stone was labeled with
as much care and precision as the bottles in a drug store, and there
was no doubt which was the “Devil’s Pulpit” and which the “Lovers’
Retreat.” It was a fearfully hot place, but that did not surprise
us, for we naturally expect heat and discomfort in the precincts of
his majesty. We unharnessed Charlie, and after exploring the gorge
thoroughly and emptying our lunch basket, we sat in the carriage and
read until we were so nearly dissolved by the heat that we feared
losing our identity, and made preparations to leave. It was an
assurance that we had returned to this world when the gate keeper
directed us to Milford and said we would go by the house where Horace
Greeley was born. He pointed out the house and we thought we saw it;
but as we did not agree afterward, we simply say we have passed the
birthplace of Horace Greeley.

It was nearly dark when we got to Milford, and we rather dreaded the
night at that old hotel, where we had been twice before. The exterior
was as unattractive as ever, but we were happily surprised to find
wonderful transformation going on inside, and we recognized in the new
proprietor one of the little boys we used to play with in our early
school days. We were very hospitably received and entertained, and the
tempting viands, so well served in the new, cheery dining-room, were
worthy of any first-class hotel. Our horse was well groomed, carriage
shining like new, and the only return permitted—hearty thanks.

“There is no place like home,” and yet it is with a little regret that
we start on our last day’s drive. A never-ending carriage journey might
become wearisome, but we have never had one long enough to satisfy us
yet. As we drove through Brookline and crossed the invisible State
line to Townsend, then to Fitchburg and Leominster, we summed up all
the good things of our three week’s wanderings and concluded nothing
was lacking. Perfect health, fine weather and three hundred and fifty
miles’ driving among the hills! What more could we ask? Oh! we forgot
Charlie’s days of affliction! But experiences add to the interest when
all is over.




CHAPTER V.

CONNECTICUT, WITH SIDE TRIP TO NEW JERSEY.


Early in the afternoon of one of the hottest days in August, Charlie
and our cosy phaeton stood at the door waiting for us, and we had with
us our bags, wraps, umbrellas, books, the lunch basket, and never-used
weapon. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” is
verified in that phaeton, and in little time all were stowed away, and
we were off on our thirteenth annual drive.

We had expected that our drive must be omitted this year, and so
suddenly did we decide to go, that, to save trying to plan, we turned
towards Barre, where we spent the first night of our first journey,
thirteen years ago. It proved a pleasant beginning, for when we got up
among the hills of Princeton the air was cool and refreshing. We drove
very leisurely, and it was quite dark when we found our way to the
hotel.

After supper we began our geography lesson for the morrow. We had two
questions to answer—“Shall we drive on towards the western part of the
state, and visit some of the lovely spots among the Berkshire Hills,
which we did not see when we drove there some summers ago?” or, “Shall
we take a new direction, and turn southward?” After much deliberation,
for Berkshire is like a magnet, we decided to gratify the friends who
are always asking why we have never driven into Connecticut.

Our lesson having been disposed of, we slept soundly and awoke
reconciled to a wandering in Connecticut, only we wished we knew the
places of interest or had some reason for going to one place rather
than another. The wish was soon gratified by a friend we met before
leaving Barre, who spoke very enthusiastically of Tolland, as she
recalled a visit there many years ago. This was enough for us; we had a
connecting link with somebody, and took direction accordingly.

We rested Charlie at Ware, after our morning drive. We remembered the
pleasant driving in this vicinity, but towards Palmer it was new to
us. The thunder was muttering all the afternoon, and it was our good
fortune to find ourselves in a comfortable hotel at Palmer an hour
earlier than we usually stop, for we had only reached our room when the
rain fell in sheets, and the lightning flashed at random.

Palmer is so associated with the Boston and Albany railroad, that it
seemed as if only the spirit of opposition could prompt us to take a
short cut to Hartford without paying our respects to Springfield; but
we declare independence of railroads when we have our phaeton, and as
we “did” Springfield so thoroughly a few years ago, we did not diverge,
but aimed straight for Connecticut.

The morning was bright and fresh after the shower, and we left Palmer
early, with a little book sounding the praises of Connecticut, handed
us by the clerk, which proved quite useful. We drove on through
Monson, but before we got to Stafford Springs, where we intended to
stop, we came to a place too tempting to be passed by—such a pretty
rocky hillside, with inviting nooks under the trees, and a barn just
opposite, where very likely Charlie could be cared for.

“Oh, yes!” a woman said, when we asked her. “Leave your horse tied
there, and——will take care of him when he comes to dinner.” The rocky
hillside was also granted us, and we took our wraps and lunch basket
and prepared for a two-hours’ rest.

The time passed only too quickly, and on we drove, but saw no place
in Stafford Springs that made us regret our pretty camp; the time for
repentance had not come. “Seven miles to Tolland,” we were told, and if
we remember aright it was up hill all the way. Why have we always heard
people say “down” to Connecticut? Seriously, that is one reason we
never drove there before. “Up” to New Hampshire and Vermont sounds so
much cooler and nicer. We wondered then, and the farther we drove the
more we wondered, until one day we spoke of it, and a man said—“Why,
did you come to Connecticut expecting to find anything but hills?”

We like hills, and were very glad to find it was “up” to Tolland.
When we entered its one broad street, on a sort of plateau, and saw
all Tolland at a glance, we exclaimed, “Just the place we want for
Sunday!” And when we were cosily fixed in a corner parlor bedroom on
the first floor of a hotel, something like the old “Camperdown” on
Lake Memphremagog, we were confirmed in our first impression, and felt
perfectly happy. Comfort and an abundance of good things was the aim of
the kindly proprietor. We sat at the supper table, happy in thinking
all was well, perhaps, unconsciously rejoicing; for it was just at this
stage of our journey last year that Charlie became so lame, not from
rheumatism, strained cords, etc., as they said, but from sand under his
shoe. That was our first unpleasant experience, and a second was at
hand; for as we came from the dining-room, a man was waiting to tell
us our horse was very sick. We hurried to the stable yard, where he
lay in great distress, refusing to stand up. What could have happened
to him? Surely, that generous farmer at whose place we “camped” must
have over-fed him when he was warm. Now we repented in good earnest,
but little good that did Charlie. The proprietor was as thoughtful of
our horse as of us, and sent a man to walk him about. We followed on
and pitied him as he was kept moving, despite every effort he made to
drop upon the green grass. After a time he seemed a little better,
and the man took him back to the stable. We could not feel easy and
went to see him again, and finally took him ourselves and led him up
and down Tolland street for an hour or more (we could not have done
that in Springfield), answering many inquiries from the people we met.
By-and-by he began to steal nibbles at the grass and to give evidence
of feeling better, and when we took him back to his stall we were
assured he would be all right in the morning.

We arose early, for Sunday, for we could not wait to know if he was
well again. His call as we entered the stable told us our second
disagreeable experience was at an end. Now we began the day; read,
breakfasted, went to the little church around the corner, wrote
letters, walked and enjoyed every hour in that restful place, where it
is said no one locks the doors, for thieves do not break through nor
steal there. Perhaps it is because of the peculiarly moral atmosphere
that the county jail is located there. At any rate, even the man
who was hostler during the day and convict at night won our kindly
remembrance.

Monday morning, bright and early, we started for Hartford. Of course
there are many things of interest between Tolland and Hartford,
but they belong to every traveler, and we are only telling our own
experience. We asked at a hotel in Hartford if we could have our
horse cared for there, and were told we could by taking him around to
the stable; so we “took him round.” We then took a walk, instead of
stopping at the hotel as we had intended. After our walk we thought
we would call on a friend visiting in the city, but it occurred to us
that we were hardly presentable, for our dusters were not fresh, and we
could not take them off, for then the revolver would show, and we had
no place to leave them unless we “took them round” to the stable, too.
This matter settled, we wandered about again, and followed some people
into what we thought might be a church service, to find ourselves at an
art exhibition. Next we spied a park, and strolling through we came to
the new capitol building, which we examined from top to bottom.

Somebody we had met somewhere had suggested our spending a night at New
Britain, which was just enough off the main route to New Haven to send
us on a wrong turn now and then. Our attention was held that afternoon
in turn by pretty scenery, chickens, wrong roads and crows. The
last-mentioned were having a regular “drill.” We saw in the distance
a hill, black—as we thought—with burnt stumps; but soon a section
of these stumps was lifted into mid-air, and it was not until this had
been repeated several times that we could realize that the entire hill
was alive with crows. At regular intervals, and in the most systematic
order, section after section sailed aloft as one bird, each section
taking the same course—first towards the north, then with a graceful
turn stretching in line towards the south, at a certain point wheeling
about to the north again, and gradually mounting higher and higher
until lost to sight in the distance.

There was no such systematic order observed in the “best” room, which
was given us at a hotel in New Britain, and after such a lesson from
the crows we could not forbear making a few changes, so that the
pretty, old-fashioned desk should not interfere with the wardrobe door,
and the bureau and wash-stand should not quarrel for a place only
large enough for one of them, when vacant places were pleading for an
occupant. Our supper was good, and our room had quite a “best” look
after its re-arrangement. It rained all night, and we waited awhile in
the morning thinking it would clear away “before eleven,” but there
was seemingly no end to the clearing-up showers, and we had to brave
it. We do not mind rain, usually, but we were not accustomed to the
red mud, and it did not seem so clean as our home mud. We had driven
thirty miles the day before, and twenty-eight more were between us and
New Haven. We were at last on our way with “sides on and boot up,” and
a constantly increasing quantity of red mud attaching itself to the
phaeton. We stopped at Meriden two hours, and were very courteously
received at a hotel there. The afternoon was bright and sunny, and the
drive of eighteen miles very delightful. We entered New Haven by State
street just at dusk with our terra-cotta equipage, and drove direct
to the post office, so sure of letters that, when we found there were
none, we hardly knew what to do next. While waiting for letters, and
for Charlie to rest, we decided to take a peep at New York. The best
of care was promised for Charlie at a hotel, our letters were to be
brought to the house, and bags and wraps were locked up safely.

About nine o’clock we went to the boat, which was to leave at midnight.
The evening passed pleasantly, and we did not fully realize the
undesirable location of the best stateroom we could get until we were
under way, when the fog horn sounded directly before our window, and
the heat from the boiler, which we could almost touch, increased
too much for comfort the temperature of an August night. Sleep was
impossible, and we amused ourselves by counting between the fog alarms
and opening the window to let in fresh instalments of “boiling air.”
The intervals lengthened, and finally, when we had counted four hundred
and heard no fog horn, we looked out to find it was bright starlight,
and returned to our berths for a brief nap.

We landed at Pier 25, East River, just as the electric lights on
Brooklyn Bridge were disappearing like stars in the sunlight. At
seven we breakfasted on board the boat, and as we proposed spending
the day with a friend thirty miles out in New Jersey, our next move
was to find our way to Liberty street, North River. We did not need
a carriage, and might never get there if we attempted to go by cars,
so we concluded a morning walk would do us good. We crossed the ferry
to Jersey City, and were entertained by a company of men “drilling,”
and a company of young men and maidens dressed up in their best for
an excursion somewhere, until the nine o’clock train was announced.
An hour or more took us to Plainfield, where the day was given up to
visiting in good earnest. We enjoyed it all so much that we were easily
persuaded to spend the night.

At ten o’clock next morning we took the train for New York, where we
made a call, did a little shopping, walked over Brooklyn Bridge, and
spent the night with friends in the city. It rained the next day, and
as there was nothing to do we did nothing, and enjoyed it all the
morning. After luncheon we found our way to the boat again, and at
three o’clock were off for New Haven. It was a pleasant sail, in spite
of the showers, and we sat on deck all the way, enjoying everything,
and wondering how many letters we should have, and if Charlie was all
right. We were due at New Haven at eight o’clock in the evening, and
before nine we were at the hotel and had fled to our room, wondering
what it meant by our receiving no letters.

We requested everything to be in readiness for us directly after
breakfast next morning—Charlie shod, the terra-cotta covering removed
from our phaeton, axles oiled, etc. We lost no time on our way to the
post office. As we gave our names slowly and distinctly at the delivery
box, that no mistake might be made, out came the letters—one, two,
three, four—one remailed from Hartford. As the young man handed out
the last, he said, “Please have your mail directed to street and number
after this.” “We have no street and number, sir, we are tramps,” we
replied. “Why was not our mail put into the hotel box?” No satisfactory
explanation was offered, but when we got to the carriage and looked
over our letters, none was needed. Evidently they had not stayed in the
office long enough to get into anybody’s box. They had traveled from
pillar to post, had been opened and reopened, and scribbled over and
over in an effort to find an owner for them.

All was well when our letters were written, so we had only to decide
on the pleasantest route homeward. A friend in New York wished us to
visit Old Lyme, which was made so interesting in Harper’s a year or
two ago. This was directly in our course if we followed the advice to
go to New London before turning north. Charlie was at his best, and we
drove thirty miles through towns and villages along the coast, stopping
two hours at Guilford, and spending the night at Westbrook, a “sort
of Rumney,” our diary record says, only on the coast instead of up
among the mountains. The recollection uppermost in our mind is, that
everybody’s blinds were closed, which gave a gloomy look to every town
we passed through that day.

We felt a little constrained in Connecticut on Sundays, and thought
we should stay in Westbrook quietly until Monday morning; but after
breakfast, which we shared with the apparently very happy family,
the father asked if he should “hitch up” for us. We said not then,
but as it was so pleasant perhaps we might drive on a few miles in
the afternoon. He told us we should have to “ferry” the Connecticut
at Saybrook, but he “guessed our horse wouldn’t mind.” Our old black
Charlie was never happier than when crossing the Connecticut without
any effort on his part; but this Charlie has entirely different
ideas, and if we had known we could not cross by bridge as we did at
Hartford we should have deferred Old Lyme until another time. But it
was too late now, and we would not mar our lovely afternoon drive by
anticipating trouble. Rivers have to be crossed; and we philosophically
concluded “Do not cross a bridge until you get to it” is equally
applicable to a ferry. Five miles lay between us and the Connecticut
River, and we gave ourselves up to quiet enjoyment as if ferries were
unknown, until we reached Saybrook, when we had to inquire the way. A
few twists and turns brought us to the steep pitch which led to the
river, and at first sight of the old scow, with big flapping sail,
Charlie’s ears told us what he thought about it. With some coaxing he
went down the pitch, but at the foot were fishing nets hung up on a
frame, and he persistently refused to go farther. We were yet a little
distance from the shore, and the scow was still farther away at the
end of a sort of pier built out into the river. We got out and tried
to comfort Charlie, who was already much frightened; and yet this was
nothing to what was before him. What should we do? If it had not been
Sunday, there might have been other horses to cross, and he will follow
where he will not go alone. But it was Sunday, and no one was in sight
but the man and boy on the scow, and a man sufficiently interested
in us to hang over a rail on the embankment above watching us very
closely. Perhaps he thought it was wicked to help people on Sunday. At
any rate, he did not offer, and we did not ask, assistance. One of us
took Charlie by the bit, and trusted he would amuse himself dancing,
while the other ran ahead to the scow to see what could be done. The
small boy and barefooted old man did not look very encouraging, but we
still had faith there was a way to cross rivers that must be crossed.
We told our dilemma, and said, “What will you do with him?”

“Oh! he’ll come along; we never have any trouble.”

“No,” we said, “he won’t come along, and we shall be upset in the river
if we attempt driving him on this pier.”

We walked back towards the carriage, the old man saying, “I get all
sorts of horses across, and can this one if he don’t pull back. If he
does, of course I can’t do anything with him.”

This was small comfort, for we knew that that was just what he would
do. We asked about unharnessing him, but the old man objected. We knew
Charlie too well, however, and did not care to see our phaeton and
contents rolling over into the river. Our courage waning a little at
this point, we asked how far we should have to go to find a bridge.
“Oh, clear to Hartford! sixty miles!” When Charlie was unharnessed, the
old man took him by the bit, and said to one of us, “Now you take the
whip, and if he pulls back, strike him. Boy, you take the carriage.”
This was simply impossible without help. It was a grand chance for our
one spectator, but without doubt he believed in woman’s right to push
if not to vote, so we pushed, and a good push it had to be, too. We
did not envy those bare feet so near Charlie’s uncertain steps, but
the constant tingling of the whip so diverted him, and warned him of a
heavier stroke if he diverged from his straight and narrow way, that
he kept his head turned that side, and before he knew it he was on the
scow and had never seen the flapping sail. His head was then tied with
a rope. The phaeton followed with more difficulty, but less anxiety.
When that was secured, our voyage began, and it seemed never-ending;
for in spite of all the caressing and comforting assurances, Charlie
placed his fore legs close together and trembled just like a leaf as
the little sailboats flitted before his eyes. Then came the “chug”
into the sand as we landed. A kindly old man left his horse to help us
harness, and five minutes after we were off, Charlie was foamy white,
and looked as if he had swum the Atlantic.

We did not find the hotel at Old Lyme attractive, and had plenty of
time to drive farther; but, after all the trouble we had taken to get
to the place, we did not leave it without taking a look at the quaint
old town, its rocky pastures and cosy nooks so lovely in illustrated
magazines.

“Yes,” we said, “this is pretty; but, after all, where is the spot to
be found that cannot be made interesting by the ready pen and sketching
pencil of one who has eyes to see all there is to see in this lovely
world?”

Nothing could be more delightful than the crooked ten miles from Old
Lyme to Niantic. If you look at the map, and see all the little bays
that make the coast so rugged, you can imagine how we twisted about
to follow what is called the shore road. We say “called,” for most of
the shore and river roads we have ever driven over from Connecticut
to Canada are out of sight of water. A few glorious exceptions come to
mind, like the four miles on the border of Willoughby Lake in Vermont,
the Broad Brook drive near Brattleboro and seven miles by Newfound Lake
in New Hampshire. It was up and down, and now when “up” we could catch
a glimpse of the Sound dotted over with white sails, and when “down” we
found such flower-fields as would rival the boldest attempts at fancy
gardening—the cardinal flower, golden-rod, white everlasting and blue
daisies in richest profusion. We met the family wagons jogging along
home from church, and the young men and maidens were taking the “short
cut” along the well-worn footpath over the hills, with their books in
hand, that lovely Sunday afternoon; but where the church or homes could
be we wondered, for we saw neither. We knew nothing of Niantic, and
were surprised to find it quite a little seaside resort. It was early
evening, and it was very pleasant to have brilliantly lighted hotels in
place of the dark woody hollows we had been through the last half-hour.
We drove to the end of the street, passing all the hotels, and then
returned to the first one we saw, as the most desirable for us. It
was located close by the water, and our window overlooked the Sound.
Uniformed men were all about, and we soon learned that it was the
foreshadowing of muster. We slept well with the salt breezes blowing
upon us, and after breakfast we followed the rest of the people to the
garden which separated the house from the railroad station, and for a
half-hour sat on a fence, surrounded by tall sunflowers, to see the
infantry and cavalry as they emerged from the cars. “Quite aesthetic,”
one of the boys in blue remarked. We do not go to muster, but as
muster came to us we made the most of it, and watched with interest
the mounted men of authority as they gave their orders to the men, who
looked as if they would like to change places with them and prance
about, instead of doing the drudgery.

The morning hours were too precious for driving to be spent among
sunflowers and soldiers, and we got down from the fence and went in
search of the landlord. He gave us directions for getting to New
London when everything was ready, and we found that what we thought
was the end of the street was the beginning of our way, and a queer
way it was, too. No wonder we were asked if our horse was afraid of
the cars, for apparently the railroad was the only highway, as the
water came up quite close on either side. “Surely this must be wrong,”
we said; “there is no road here.” Although we had been told to follow
the railroad, we did not propose to drive into the ocean, unless it
was the thing to do. We turned off to the left but were sent back by a
woman who looked as if we knew little if we did not know that was the
only way to New London. Not satisfied, we stopped a man. “Yes, that
is the way,” he said. “But it looks as if we should drive right into
the ocean.” “I know it,” he replied, “and it will look more so as you
go on, and if the tide was in you would.” Luckily for us the tide was
not in, for even then the space was so small between the water and the
railroad that Charlie needed as much diversion with the whip as in
ferrying the Connecticut. Next came a little bridge, and as we paid the
toll, which was larger than the bridge, we asked if it was for keeping
the road we had just come over in repair. “Yes, it is washed twice a
day.” We asked if the ocean got the fees, and drove on.

It was only six miles to New London, and it was too early to stop there
for dinner, and it would be too late to wait until we got to Norwich;
so, after driving about the principal streets for a half-hour, we
filled our lunch basket and got some oats, trusting to find a place to
“camp.” Just at the right time to halt we came to a village church on
a little hill, all by itself, and we took possession of the “grounds,”
put Charlie into one of the sheds, taking refuge ourselves in the
shadow of a stone wall. We hung our shawls over the wall, for the
wind blew cool through the chinks, spread the blanket on the ground,
and gave ourselves up to comfort and books. The lofty ceiling of our
temporary parlor was tinted blue, and the spacious walls were adorned
with lovely pictures, for our little hill was higher than we realized.
We had taken the river road, and we knew that by rail from New London
to Norwich we followed the river very closely; but this was, like most
“river” roads, over the hills.

We reluctantly left our luxurious quarters and journeyed on to Norwich.
We had found on our map a town beyond Norwich which we thought would
serve us for the night; but when we inquired about hotels there, people
looked as if they had never heard of the place, and in fact there
was none by that name. We were advised to go to Jewett City. After a
little experience we learned that in many cases towns on the map are
but names, and if we wanted to find the places where all business
interests centred, we must look for a “city” or “ville” in small
italics touching the railroad. Niantic was an “italic” resort. This
lesson learned, we had no difficulty. The hotel at Jewett City looked
as if it would blow over, and if it had we think our room would have
landed on the railroad; but the breezes were gentle, and we had a safe
and restful night after our thirty-miles’ drive.

We were directed next morning via one “ville” to another “ville,” and
the delightful recollections of our “sky” parlor tempted us to try
camping again, and we got another bag of oats. We had not driven far
before we came to the largest lily pond we ever saw, and a railroad
ran right through it. It looked as if we could step down the gravel
bank and get all the lilies we wanted. We tied Charlie by the roadside,
and ran to the railroad bank to find they were just provokingly beyond
our reach. A company of men were working on the road, and one said,
“I would send one of my men to get you some; but a train is due in
ten minutes, and these rails must be laid.” His kindly words softened
our disappointment, and we went back to the carriage. It seemed as if
there was no end to the pond, and surely there was an endless supply
of lilies, but we knew that the stray ones so close to the shore
were only waiting to entice somebody over shoes, and perhaps more,
in water, and we passed them by. We camped on a stone wall under a
tree, a spot so perfectly adapted to our convenience that it developed
the heretofore latent talent of our “special artist,” and a dainty
little picture is ever reminding us of our pleasant stay there. We
spent the night at Putnam, and as a matter of course, we went for oats
just before leaving, as if we had always traveled that way, instead
of its being an entirely new feature. A pine grove invited us this
time, with a house near by where we bought milk, and we stopped for a
half-hour again in the afternoon, by a bewitching little brook, and
made ourselves comfortable with our books among the rocks and ferns,
for it was a very hot day. Our drive that day took us through Webster
and Oxford and brought us to Millbury for the night. Our remembrance of
that night is not so pleasant as we could wish, and we are going again
some time to get a better impression.

The next day was one of the hottest of the season, and we availed
ourselves of the early morning to drive to North Grafton, where we had
a chatty visit with a friend. We dreaded to begin our last twenty-five
miles, for it would be so hard for Charlie in the heat. We delayed as
long as we dared, then braved it. We drove very leisurely to Worcester,
and made one or two calls, then took the old road over the hill as we
left the city towards home. We seemed to be above the heat and dust,
and had one of the most charming drives of our whole journey. We are so
familiar with the road that we did not mind prolonging our drive into
the evening, with a full moon to illumine our way. The seven miles from
Sterling to Leominster were so pleasant we made them last as long as
possible. The moon was unclouded and it seemed almost as light as day;
the air was soft and we did not need the lightest wrap. We enjoyed just
that perfect comfort one dreads to have disturbed. But all things have
an end, it is said, and our pleasant journey ended about nine o’clock
that evening, but it was close on to the “wee sma’ hours” before the
“doings” in our absence were all talked over with the friends who
welcomed us home.

This story, written out in a week of Fridays, on the way to Symphony
Rehearsals, will assure you that a phaeton trip loses none of its
charms for us by many repetitions.




CHAPTER VI.

DIXVILLE NOTCH AND OLD ORCHARD.


A Colorado friend recently sent us a paper with an interesting account
of “Two Women in a Buggy—How two Denver ladies drove five hundred
miles through the Rockies.” Now, “Two Ladies in a Phaeton,” and “How
they drove six hundred miles through, beyond and around the White
Mountains,” would be laid aside as hardly worth reading, compared with
the adventures of two women driving through the “Rockies;” but, for
actual experience, we think almost everybody would prefer ours. We all
like ease, comfort and smooth ways, and yet disasters and discomfort
have a wonderful charm somehow in print. Our two weeks’ drive in
Connecticut last year seemed small to us, but we have been asked many
times if it was not the best journey we ever had, and as many times
we have discovered that the opinion was based on the hard time we had
crossing the Connecticut by ferry, the one unpleasant incident of the
whole trip. Now if we could tell you of hair-breadth escapes passing
“sixers and eighters” on the edge of precipices, and about sleeping
in a garret reached by a ladder, shared by a boy in a cot at that; or
better yet, how one day, when we were driving along on level ground
chatting pleasantly, we suddenly found ourselves in a “prayerful
attitude” and the horse disappearing with the forward wheels, the
humiliating result being that the buggy had to be taken to pieces, and
packed into a Norwegian’s wagon and we and it transported to the next
town for repairs—if we could tell you such things like the Denver
ladies, we should be sure you would not doubt our last was our best
journey. How we are to convince you of that fact, for fact it is, when
we did not even cross a ferry, is a puzzle.

Before we really begin our story we will tell you one or two notable
differences between the Denver tourists and ourselves. They took their
“best” bonnets and gowns, and such “bibbity bobbities” as “no woman,
even were she going to an uninhabited desert, would think she could do
without;” bedding and household utensils, too, so of course had baggage
strapped on the back of the buggy, and they had a pail underneath,
filled, “woman fashion, with everything, which suffered in the
overturns,” but, will you believe it, they had no revolver! Were they
to meet us, they would never suspect we were fellow travelers, unless
the slight “hump” under the blanket or duster should give them an
inkling that we had more “things” than were essential for a morning’s
drive. Helpless and innocent as we look we could warrant “sure cure”
to a horse whatever ill might befall him, and we could “show fire” if
necessary. The last need not have been mentioned, however, for like the
Denver tourists, we can testify that we receive everywhere the “truest
and kindest courtesy.”

You may remember that one of the peculiar features of our journeys is
that we never know where we are going, but last summer we thought we
would be like other people, and make plans. As a result we assured
our friends we were going straight to Mt. Washington via the Crawford
Notch, but, as Mr. Hale has a way of saying in his stories, “we did
not go there at all.” Why we did not fulfil so honest an intention we
will reveal to you later.

We started in good faith, Tuesday, July 7, driving along the familiar
way through Lunenburg and Townsend Harbor, crossing the invisible
State line as we entered Brookline, and spending the night, as we have
often done, at the little hotel in Milford, N. H., journeying next day
to Hooksett, via Amherst, Bedford and Manchester. Nothing eventful
occurred except the inauguration of our sketchbook, a thing of peculiar
interest to us, as neither of us knew anything of sketching. The book
itself is worthy of mention, as it is the only copy we have ever seen.
It has attractive form and binding, and is called “Summer Gleanings.”
There is a page for each day of the summer months, with a charming,
and so often apt, quotation under each date. The pages are divided
into three sections, one for “Jottings by the Way,” one for a “Pencil
Sketch,—not for exact imitation, but what it suggests,” and a third
for “Pressed Flowers.” As it was a gift, and of no use but for the
purpose for which it was intended, we decided it must be taken along,
although one said it would be “awfully in the way.”

We enjoyed camping at noon by the roadside so much last summer, when
the hotels were scarce, that we planned to make that the rule of this
journey, and not the exception. We thought the hour after luncheon,
while Charlie was resting, would be just the time to try to sketch.
Our first “camp” was under a large tree, just before we crossed into
New Hampshire. We looked about for something to sketch, and a few
attempts convinced us that, being ignorant of even the first rules
of perspective, our subjects must be selected with reference to our
ability, regardless of our taste. We went to work on a pair of bars—or
a gate, rather—in the stone wall opposite. We were quite elated with
our success, and next undertook a shed. After this feat, we gathered
a few little white clovers, which we pressed in our writing tablet,
made a few comments in the “jotting” column, and the “Summer Gleanings”
began to mean something.

We cannot tell you all we enjoyed and experienced with that little
book. It was like opening the room which had “a hundred doors, each
opening into a room with another hundred,” especially at night, when
our brains, fascinated and yet weary with the great effort spent on
small accomplishment, and the finger nerves sensitive with working over
unruly stems and petals, we only increased a thousandfold the pastime
of the day by pressing whole fields of flowers, and attempting such
sketching as was never thought of except in dreamland. A word or two
about the quotations, then you may imagine the rest. What could be more
apt for the first day of our journey than Shelley’s

    “Away, away from men and towns
    To the wild wood and the downs,”

or, as we came in sight of the “White Hills,” Whittier’s

    “Once more, O mountains, unveil
    Your brows and lay your cloudy mantles by.”

and

    “O more than others blest is he
    Who walks the earth with eyes to see,
    Who finds the hieroglyphics clear
    Which God has written everywhere,”

as we journey along the Connecticut. Especially apt were the lines by
Charles Cotton, when we had driven several miles out of our way to
spend Sunday in Rumney, because we remembered the place so pleasantly:

    “Oh, how happy here’s our leisure!
    Oh, how innocent our pleasure!
    O ye valleys! O ye mountains!
    O ye groves and crystal fountains!
    How I love at liberty
    By turns to come and visit ye!”

Once more, as we drove along the Saco—

                        “All, all, is beautiful.
    What if earth be but the shadow of heaven.”

If you think we are writing up a book instead of a journey, let us tell
you that the book cannot be left out if the journey is to be truly
chronicled, for it was never out of mind, being constantly in sight,
nor was it any trouble. In this respect, too, we fared better than the
Denver ladies, for they were real artists, and never had any comfort
after the first day, for their “oils” would not dry, even when they
pinned them up around the buggy.

We should have been miserable if we had stayed in Hooksett all the
time we have been telling you about the sketch book, but we were off
early in the morning for Concord, and as we drove into the city,
Charlie knew better than we which turn to take to find the welcome
which always awaits us. The clouds were very black when we left our
friends at four o’clock, feeling we must go a few miles farther that
day; and when we had driven a mile or two a sudden turn in the road
revealed to us “cyclonic” symptoms. We saw an open shed, and asked
a portly old man if we could drive in, as it looked like rain. “Yes,
and quick too,” he said, hobbling ahead of us. We were scarcely under
cover before the cloud burst, and such a gust of wind came as it seemed
must have overturned our phaeton if we had been exposed to it. We threw
our wraps over our heads and ran to the house, where we were kindly
received, amid the banging of doors and crackling of glass. The rain
fell in sheets and the lightning flashes almost blinded us, but in an
hour, perhaps less, we were on our way again, dry and peaceful, the sun
shining and the clean, washed roads and prostrate limbs of trees simply
reminding us there had been a shower. We spent the night at Penacook,
formerly Fisherville.

By this time we had decided we would deviate from our straight course
to Mt. Washington just a bit, only a few miles, and spend a night at
Weirs. We remembered very well our last drive from Weirs to Penacook
via Tilton and Franklin, and thought to take the same course this time.
Franklin came to hand all right, but where was Tilton? We were sure
we knew the way, but were equally sure Tilton should have put in an
appearance. We inquired, and were much surprised when told we had taken
a wrong turn, or failed, rather, to take the right one seven miles
back. We had not only lost our way to Weirs, but we were off our course
to Mt. Washington, and there is no such thing as going “across lots” in
that part of the country. Not knowing what to do, we said we would have
luncheon, and take time to accept the situation.

At this point we discovered that our diary was left twenty miles back
at Penacook. Our first dilemma paled before this, for that diary means
something; indeed, it means everything. Without it, life would not be
worth living—even were it possible. We must have it. But how should we
get it? We went back to the man in the garden, and he told us a train
would go down directly, and we could get back the same afternoon, he
thought. We considered it only a moment, for having lost our way and
the diary, we feared losing each other or Charlie next. We returned
to the carriage, unharnessed Charlie, tied him to a telegraph pole,
then took our luncheon. After a good rest our way seemed clear, and we
started on towards Bristol, resolved that we would make no more plans,
but give ourselves up to the guidance of Fate. We find in the “jotting
column” for that day, “A criss-cross day.” Our honest intention to
go straight to Mt. Washington was overthrown, and we found ourselves
at night castaways on the shores of Newfound Lake, while our letters
awaited us at Weirs, and the diary was speeding its way to Plymouth, in
response to a telegram.

Eleven miles driving the next morning brought us to the Pemigewasset
House, Plymouth, just in season to telephone our mail from Weirs on the
one o’clock train. We felt like embracing the express boy who handed us
the precious sealed package from Penacook. Thanks and a quarter seemed
a poor expression of our real feelings. Perfect happiness restored,
where should we go to enjoy it over Sunday? Fate suggested Rumney,
and we quickly assented, remembering its delightful quiet, and the
lovely drive of eight miles. We could go across from Plymouth to Centre
Harbor, and thence to Conway, as we had planned, but we would not. We
had been defeated and determined to stay so. The drive along the valley
was as lovely as ever, and a look of pleasant recognition was on the
face of our hostess at the “Stinson House” in Rumney. After supper we
took our sketch book and strolled through the meadow to the river bank,
quite artist like. We spent the next day quietly in our room, reading
and writing, until towards night, then drove two miles to call on a
lady who had found us out through the Transcript, and assured us a
welcome if we ever drove to Rumney again. We had a delightful hour with
our new friends, and left them with a promise to return in the morning
for a few days.

It would fill the Transcript if we were to tell you all we enjoyed in
that little visit, the adventures, pedestrian excursions, camping on
islands, nights in caves and barns, related by our friends, which made
us long to explore for ourselves the region about Rumney. Some of the
Transcript readers may remember a letter two years ago (Feb. 15, 1884),
from one of a party of six who braved Franconia Notch in winter. We
read it with great interest at the time, and wondered from which house
in Rumney so brave and jolly a party started. Our curiosity was more
than gratified by finding ourselves guests in the hospitable home, and
by meeting several of the party, two of whom arrived from Boston while
we were there. One morning we bowled in the loft of the ideal barn,
and one rainy afternoon we had lessons in perspective. Miss D. proved
a good instructor, and we thought we were fair pupils as we talked
glibly of the station point, point of sight, base and horizontal lines,
and the vanishing point, and reproduced Mrs. Q.’s desk by rule.

We reluctantly left our friends to their camping preparations, while
we traveled over once more the route of the sleighing party. This was
our fourth drive through the Pemigewasset Valley, but its beauty is
ever new. We took two hours’ rest at the entrance of a cathedral-like
archway of trees, which now adorns our parlor in “oils.” We tried to
sketch properly, but, alas! all our points were “vanishing points”
without Miss D. at hand, and we returned to the ways of ignorance. We
spent the night at “Tuttle’s,” and heard from the cheery old lady and
“Priscilla” the story of the sleighing party who were refused shelter
at the Flume House, and though half-perished with cold had to drive
back seven miles to spend the night with them. She told us how sorry
she was for them, and how she built a roaring fire in the old kitchen
fireplace, and filled the warming-pans for them. We imagined how good
they must have felt buried in the hot feathers that cold night.

We did not visit the Flume this time, but just paid our respects to the
Old Man, took breath and a sketch at Echo Lake, and gathered mosses
as we walked up and down the steep places through the Notch. We spent
the night in Bethlehem, and enjoyed a superb sunset. We went several
miles out of our way the next day to see the Cherry Mountain slide,
which occurred the week before. We were introduced to the proprietor
of the ruined farm, caressed the beautiful horse, pitied the once fine
cow, which now had scarcely a whole bone in her body, and learned many
interesting details from the daughter, a bright girl. It was a forlorn
spectacle, and a striking contrast to the drive we had after retracing
our steps to Whitefield. Charlie had traveled far enough for such a hot
day, but we knew the Lancaster post office had something for us, and we
could not wait, so started leisurely, promising to help poor Charlie
all we could. He understood us well enough to stop at the foot of every
hill, and at the top of very steep ones, to let us get out and walk. We
were repaid a thousand times by the magnificent views of the Franconia
range until we reached the highest point, when the glories north opened
before us. We were now facing new scenes for the first time since we
left home, and yet we felt at home in Lancaster, for another Lancaster
is our near neighbor. The postmaster looked relieved to find owners
for his surplus mail, and as he handed out the seventh letter with a
look of having finished his task, we said, “Is that all?” for one was
missing. “I think that will do for once,” he said. Two weeks later we
sent him a card and the missing document came safely to hand down in
Maine.

Fate knows we like to drive north, and led us onward. We followed the
Connecticut through the lovely valleys, crossing it and driving in
Vermont one afternoon, enjoying the new country until we had left the
White Mountains sixty miles behind us. We then turned directly east,
and ten miles along the Mohawk River brought us to the entrance of
Dixville Notch. We were bewildered by its beauty, grander even than
the Franconia Notch. We reached the Dix House, the only habitation in
that wild spot, at three o’clock, and as soon as we could register our
names we hastened away for Table Rock, a narrow peak 800 feet above
the meadow in front of the Dix House and 3150 feet above the sea. It
was the roughest climb we ever attempted—almost perpendicular, and
everything we took hold of seemed to give way.

Once at the top we looked aghast at the narrow path, hardly four feet
wide, then with open arms rushed across and embraced the flagstaff on
Table Rock. It seemed as if the foundation was rocking beneath us, but
after a little time we went back and forth confidently. The air was
clear and the view very fine. Just below the summit, a tiny path, with
scarcely a foothold, led to an ice cave, and we refreshed ourselves by
looking into its cooling depths. When safely at the foot again we cut
some spruce walking sticks for souvenirs and stripped the bark as we
walked back to the Dix House.

It rained the next day and the mountains were visible through the
mist only now and then. We sketched Table Rock and the Notch profile
in instalments, reading and writing between times, and enjoyed the
very lonesomeness of the place. The clouds made way for the moon at
night, but we were disheartened next morning to find they had settled
down closer than ever, although the rain was over. We could not wait
another day, and packed up, hoping it would all come out right, as
many times before. Our wildest hopes were more than realized when we
entered the Notch, and found it clear ahead. The clouds had driven
through and settled about the meadows. It is two miles through the
Notch, and we walked nearly all the way. Everything is moss-grown and
marked with decay. The Notch has its Old Man, its Flume and Cascades,
and our exclamations burst forth at every turn. Such mosses, such high,
ragged bluffs, such babbling brooks, and all so fresh after the rain!
Was ever anything so beautiful? Suddenly we found ourselves in open
space again, and driving along the Clear Stream meadows, we passed the
little enclosure where are the graves of the first two inhabitants of
this lonely region. Six or eight miles more brought us to Errol Dam,
where we left Charlie in good care, while we took a five hours’ trip on
a tiny mail steamer. We thought we were to be the only passengers, but
a young woman with an invalid brother, bound for the Rangeley Lakes,
came at the last moment. We steamed along the Androscoggin River until
within a half mile of Lake Umbagog, then turned into the Magalloway. In
course of time the little Parmachenee pushed up against a bank and we
were landed in the glaring sun, to wait while the mail was carried two
or three miles, and the two men had dinner.

Fortunately we had a luncheon with us, or we should have had to content
ourselves with crackers and molasses, and “bean suasion” with the
brother and sister, at the only house in sight. We were back at Errol
Dam at four o’clock, and as we paid the four dollars for our little
trip the man said, “Too much, but we have to live out of you folks.”

There is a stage route from Errol Dam to Bethel, Me., but we preferred
to follow the Androscoggin, so that eventful day finished off with a
fourteen-miles drive through the forest, over a road badly washed,
with the river rushing madly along, as if bent on its own destruction,
then taking breath for awhile and looking placid as the Connecticut,
but directly in a turmoil again as the rocks obstructed its course.
Just as the sun dropped, we emerged from the forest into a broad plain,
and four houses, widely separated, were in sight—the first habitations
we had seen since we left Errol Dam. We knew one of them must be
Chandler’s, where we had been directed for the night. It was a lonesome
place, and we did not feel quite comfortable when we found ourselves
in a room on the first floor, having four windows and two doors, with
no means of fastening any of them, and a “transient” man in the room
adjoining. I am not sure but the Denver ladies’ “loft” and “boy” might
not have seemed preferable, only we had a revolver. Suffice it to say,
our experience since we left Dixville Notch in the morning had been
sufficiently fatiguing to insure rare sleep, in spite of open doors,
barking dogs and heavy breathing of the “transient,” and after a very
palatable breakfast we took our leave, grateful for such good quarters
in such a benighted country.

We drove thirty miles that day, following the Androscoggin all the
way. Berlin Falls and the Alpine Cascades, along the way, are worth
going miles to see. We camped at noon between Berlin Falls and Gorham
and had a visit from five boys of various nationalities, some with
berries and some with empty pails. They sat down on the ground with us
and showed much interest in our operations, jabbering in their several
dialects. “I know what she’s doing: she’s making them mountains,” one
whispered. We looked quite like traveling parties we have seen, with
Charlie munching his oats, and we asked them if they did not think we
were gypsies. “No, indeed, we never thought such a thing; we thought
you were ladies from Gorham.” With this compliment we drove on toward
Gorham, dropped our mail, and then turned directly eastward with the
Androscoggin, to enjoy for the first time the drive from Gorham to
Bethel, called the North Conway drive of that region. We spent a night
at Shelburne, almost as nice as Rumney, and another at Bethel.

With much regret we now parted from the Androscoggin, and aimed for the
Saco at Fryeburg. The heat was so intense that we stopped, ten miles
sooner than we intended, at Lovell, driving the next day to Hiram,
and the next to Hollis, so full of delightful recollections of the
wonderful hospitality of stranger friends a few years ago. That charmed
circle is now broken by death and change, but a welcome was ready for
us from those who had heard about our visit there, and we were at home
at once. There were many summer guests, but a cosy little attic room,
full of quaint things, was left for us. The Saco runs just before the
house, and we took the little walk to the “Indian’s Cellar” where the
river rushes through the narrow gorge, and it charmed us as much as
before.

We not only felt at home in Hollis, but really at home, for all between
us and home was familiar, whatever route we might take. We eagerly
drove towards Saco, for that was our next mail point, and the letters
that came direct, and those that followed us around the country, came
to hand there. We talked over their newsy contents as we drove miles
on Old Orchard Beach that afternoon. We spent the night at Bay View,
and part of the next day, for the thunder showers followed one after
another so closely, we could not get an order to the stable, and time
for a dry start in between. We finally ordered Charlie harnessed after
one shower, and brought to the door after the next. This plan worked
too well, for after all our hasty packing off, sides on, boot up, all
ready for a deluge, it never rained a drop. We called at the Saco post
office again, and then took a road we thought would take us by the
house of a friend in Kennebunkport, but it proved to be a lonely road
with neither friends nor foes, and before we knew it Kennebunkport was
left one side, and we were well on our way to Kennebunk. Despite our
muddy and generally demoralized condition, we called on friends there
before going to the hotel for the night. We drove thirty-seven miles
the next day, through Wells, York and Portsmouth, to Hampton. Ten miles
the next morning took us to Newburyport, where we stopped over Sunday
for a visit.

All was well at home, so we thought we would still follow the ocean,
as this was a sort of water trip. (We had followed the Merrimac,
Pemigewasset, Connecticut, Mohawk, Androscoggin and Saco rivers.) The
old towns, Newbury, Rowley, Ipswich and Essex, are always interesting,
and Cape Ann is so delightful we could not resist the temptation to
“round” it again, and have another look at Pigeon Cove, one of the
loveliest places we have ever seen.

We drove on through Gloucester to Rockport on the Cape, and there
passed the night. We were hardly out of sight of the hotel in the
morning before it began to rain, and the thunder rumbled among the
rocks as if it would unearth them. We did not enjoy it, and just as it
reached a point unbearable, and the rain was coming in white sheets, we
saw a private stable and begged the privilege of driving in. We were
urged to go into the house, but declined, thinking the shower would
soon be over. For a full half hour we sat there, rejoicing after each
flash that we still lived, when a man appeared and insisted we should
go in, as the rain would last another hour, and it would be better for
our horse to have his dinner. We declined dinner for ourselves, but the
delicious milk the good wife brought us was very refreshing, and if we
had not accepted that boiled rice, with big plums and real cream after
their dinner, it would have been the mistake of our lives.

Soon after noon the sun came out in full glory, and we left our kind
host and hostess with hearty thanks, the only return they would accept.
Everything was fresh after the shower, and the roads were clean as
floors. Full of enthusiasm we drove on and by some mistake, before
we knew it, Cape Ann was “rounded” without a glimpse of the “pretty
part” of Pigeon Cove. We had no time to retrace our way, so left
Pigeon Cove, and Annisquam friends, for the next time, and hurried
on through Gloucester, anticipating the wonderfully beautiful drive
of twenty miles before us. At Magnolia we inquired for friends, and
were directed to the cottage struck by lightning that morning. The
waves dashed angrily on the rocks at Magnolia Point, and the surf
at Manchester-by-the-Sea would have held us entranced for hours. It
was the time for driving and we met all the fine turnouts and jaunty
village carts as we went through Beverly Farms, with the tangled slopes
and bewitching little paths or cultivated terraces with broad avenues,
the stately entrances assuring you that both paths and avenues lead to
some princely “cottage.”

A night at Beverly was followed by a crooked wandering through Salem
and Marblehead Neck, then on through Swampscott and Lynn to Maplewood,
where we spent an hour or two, then drove into Boston. The city was
draped in memory of General Grant. We drove through the principal
streets down town, then over Beacon Hill and through Commonwealth
avenue to the Mill-dam, winding up our day’s drive of nearly forty
miles by pulling over Corey Hill on our way to Brighton, where we gave
Charlie and ourselves a day’s rest. As we were packing our traps into
the phaeton for the last time on this trip, for we usually drive the
forty miles from Boston, or vicinity, to Leominster in one day, our
friend gave the phaeton a little shake and said, “This will wear out
some day; you must have driven two thousand miles in it.” “Oh! yes,”
we said, and referring to that encyclopedic diary, exclaimed, “Why, we
have driven over five thousand miles!” He complimented its endurance,
but we thought of the “one hoss shay.”

It was a bright day, and the familiar roads seemed pleasant as we drove
along through Newton, Watertown and Stow, leaving Lexington and Concord
one side this time. We found a very pretty spot for our last “camp,”
and there we squared our accounts, named our journey and pressed a
bright bit of blackberry vine for the sketchbook. The afternoon drive
was even more familiar. We let Charlie take his own time, and did not
reach home until eight o’clock, and finding everybody and everything
just as we left them nearly five weeks before, gradually all that had
come between began to seem like one long dream.

“Summer Gleanings” lies on our table, and we often take it up and live
over again the pleasant days recorded there in “timely jottings,” crude
little sketches, and pretty wayside flowers, and then we just take a
peep into the possibilities of the future by turning over a leaf and
reading—

  “To one who has been long in city pent,”

and think what a nice beginning that will be for our fifteenth
“annual.”




CHAPTER VII.

THE CATSKILLS, LAKE GEORGE AND GREEN MOUNTAINS.


In answer to the oft-repeated queries, “Did you have your journey
last summer?” and “Where did you go?” we reply, “Oh, yes; we had a
delightful journey. We were away four weeks and drove five hundred and
seventy-five miles. We went all through Berkshire, up the Hudson, among
the Catskills, then on to Albany, Saratoga, Lake George, Lake Champlain
and home over the Green Mountains.”

Lovers of brevity, people who have no time or fondness for details,
and those who care more for the remotest point reached than how we got
there, will stop here. Those of more leisurely inclination, who would
enjoy our zigzagging course, so senseless to the practical mind, and
would not object to walking up a hill, fording a stream or camping by
the wayside, we cordially invite to go with us through some of the
experiences of our fifteenth annual drive.

We were all ready to go on the Fourth of July, but Charlie does not
like the customary demonstrations of that day, and for several years
he has been permitted to celebrate his Independence in his stall.
There were three Fourth of Julys this year, and we waited patiently
until Independence was fully declared. All being quiet on Tuesday,
the sixth, we made ready, and at a fairly early hour in the morning
everything had found its own place in the phaeton and we were off. As
usual, we had made no plans, but our thoughts had traveled Maineward,
until at the last moment the Catskills were suggested. The heat which
often lingers about the Fourth was at its height, and the thought of
Princeton’s bracing air was so refreshing we gladly started in that
direction. We drove leisurely, taking in the pretty views and gathering
flowers, camped by the roadside two hours at noon, and then on through
Princeton to Rutland. We visited that pretty town three years ago, when
the Mauschopauge House was being built, and we resolved then to spend
a night some time under its roof. It is finely located, commanding
extensive views, and is in every way a charming place to spend a
scorching summer night. The cool breezes blowing through our room,
the glorious sunset, and the one lone rocket, the very last of the
Fourth, that shot up seemingly from a dense forest, two miles away, and
impressed us more than a whole program of Boston pyrotechnics, calling
forth the remark, “How much more we enjoy a little than we do a great
deal,” to which a lady, kindly entertaining us, replied, “Oh, you are
too young to have learned that,” all these are fresh in our memory.

Just as we were leaving in the morning, our kindly lady introduced us
to a stately looking Boston lady, and told her of our habit of driving
about the country. “Oh,” she says, “that is charming. I do not like
woman’s rights, but this is only a bit of Boston independence.”

It was hot after we left breezy Rutland, and we drove the twelve
miles to North Brookfield very leisurely, taking our lunch before we
visited our friends there, and at once declaring our determination to
leave before supper, as it was too hot to be any trouble to anybody.
We sat in the house and we sat in the barn, but there was no comfort
anywhere. Late in the afternoon we resisted the protests, but not the
strawberries, and started off for the eleven miles to Ware. Our dread
of the heat was all wasted, for we had a very pleasant drive, but, when
we were once in that roasting, scorching hotel, we almost wished we had
not been so considerate of our friends.

Twenty-five miles driving the next day, stopping at the comfortable
hotel in Belchertown for dinner, brought us to Northampton. We drove
about its lovely streets an hour before going to the hotel, and passed
the evening with friends, who took us through Smith College grounds by
moonlight, on our way back to the hotel. The luxuries of Northampton
offset the discomforts of Ware, and we were filled with the atmosphere
which pervades the country all about, through Mr. Chadwick’s glowing
descriptions, as we followed along the Mill River, marking the traces
of the disaster on our way to Williamsburg. Up, up we went, until we
found ourselves on the threshold of Mr. Chadwick’s summer home, in
Chesterfield. He took us out into the field to show us the fine view,
with a glimpse of old Greylock in the distance. We were on the heights
here, and went down hill for a while, but it was not long before we
were climbing again, and after six miles of down and up we sought
refuge for the night in Worthington.

There was rain and a decided change in the weather that night, and a
fire was essential to comfort during the cheerless early morning hours.
We took the opportunity to rest Charlie and write letters, and the ten
miles’ drive to Hinsdale in the afternoon was quite pleasant. It was
refreshing for a change to be chilly, rather than hot and dusty. At
Peru, six miles from Worthington, we reached the point where the waters
divide between the Connecticut and the Housatonic.

The night at Hinsdale was without special interest, but the drive from
there to Stockbridge will never be forgotten. Could it be that only
two days before we were dissolving with the heat, and now we needed
our warmest wraps. The dust was laid, all Nature fresh, Charlie was
at his best, and away we sped towards the lovely Berkshire region,
with its fine roads, beautiful residences, cultivated estates and the
superb views along the valley of the Housatonic, in the grand old towns
of Pittsfield, Lenox, Lee and Stockbridge. Mr. Plumb, the well-known
proprietor of the quaint old inn in Stockbridge, remembered our visit
there eleven years ago, and asked us if we found our way to New York
that time. He said he remembered telling us if we had found our way so
far, we should find no difficulty in crossing the State line. Somehow,
we were afraid of the New York State line then, but we have so far
overcome it, that, after we crossed this year, we felt so much at home
that the revolver was packed away a whole day, for the first time since
we have carried it.

Any Berkshire book will tell you all about Mr. Plumb’s inn, the
Sedgwick burial place, Jonathan Edwards and all the rest, and we will
go on, leaving enough to talk hours about. We cannot go through Great
Barrington without lingering a bit, however, giving a thought to
Bryant and the lovely poems he wrote there, before we are diverted
by the wonderful doings of Mrs. Mark Hopkins. An imposing structure
puzzled us. “What is it?” we asked a man. “It is a mystery,” he said.
We afterward were told that it was designed for Mrs. Hopkins’s private
residence at present, but would be devoted to art some time in the
future. We cannot vouch for the latter statement, but we can for
the magnificence of the edifice, as well as for the church with its
wonderful Roosevelt organ and royal parsonage, largely due to Mrs.
Hopkins’s liberal hand. Many travel by private car, but Mrs. Hopkins
has a private railroad, and when she wishes to visit her San Francisco
home, her palace on wheels is ordered to her door, as ordinary mortals
call a cab.

Sheffield had even more attractions than Great Barrington and Mrs.
Hopkins, for there we got home letters. Next comes Salisbury, and now
we are in Connecticut. We spent the night at an attractive hotel in
Lake Village, and fancied we were at Lake Winnipiseogee, it was so
like Hotel Weirs. Perhaps you think we forgot we were going to the
Catskills. Oh, no; but we had not been able to decide whether we would
go to West Point and drive up the Hudson, or to Albany and drive down,
so we concluded to “do” Berkshire until our course was revealed. The
turnpike to Poughkeepsie was suggested, and as we had reached the
southern limit of the so-called Berkshire region, it met our favor, and
we went to Sharon, then crossed the New York State line, which is no
more formidable than visible. Still there was a difference. It seemed
as if we were among foreigners, but the courteous answers to inquiries
and manifest kindly feeling won us at once.

Turnpikes are too public for a wayside camp, and as there was no hotel
at hand, and Charlie must have rest, we asked permission of a farmer to
drive into a little cosy corner where we could all be very comfortable.
He would leave his dinner, although we protested, and helped unharness
Charlie, then he brought us milk and luscious cherries, and when
dinner was over, his wife came and invited Charlie to eat some of the
nice grass in her front yard. We led him to his feast, and had a very
pleasant chat with her, while he reveled in New York hospitality. This
was in Armenia. From there we drove over the mountain to Washington
Hollow, where we had a comfortable night in a spacious, old-fashioned,
homelike hotel. The twelve miles to Poughkeepsie were very pleasant,
and after we had nearly shaken our lives out over the rough pavement in
search of a guidebook of the Catskills, we were ready for dinner and a
two-hours’ rest at a hotel. The afternoon drive of seventeen miles to
Rhinebeck on the old post road from New York to Albany was fine.

This was our first drive along the Hudson; but were it not for the
occasional glimpses of the farther shore through the wooded grounds, we
might have fancied ourselves driving through Beverly-Farms-by-the-Sea.
The stately entrances and lodges of these grand old estates, with their
shaded drives, towards the turrets and towers we could see in the
distance, looked almost familiar to us.

It rained very hard during the night at Rhinebeck and until ten
o’clock in the morning. While waiting for the final shower, we
discussed our route for the day, and somehow inclination got the better
of wisdom, and we left the old post road for one which we were told
would take us near the river. When shall we learn that river roads
are rarely near the river? We hope we learned it for life that day,
for repentance set in early, and has not ceased yet, because of our
compassion for Charlie.

The roads grew heavier every hour, and the twenty-six miles seemed
endless. We scarcely saw the river, and the outline of the Catskills
was all there was to divert us. We will touch as briefly as possible
on the dinner at Tivoli. “Driving up the Hudson must be charming,”
our friends wrote us with envy, but we forgot its charms when we were
placed at the table which the last members of the family were just
leaving, and the “boiled dish” was served. We were near the river,
however, for which we had sacrificed comfort for the day. We survived
the ordeal, smothering our smiles at the misery our folly had brought
us, and with renewed avowals that we would never be enticed from a
straightforward course by a river road again, we went on our wretched
way. Thunder clouds gathered and broke over the Catskills, but the
grumbling thunder was all that crossed the river to us. The fact that
somehow the river was to be crossed, and exactly how we knew not, did
not make us any happier. You may remember Charlie is particular about
ferries.

Is there no end to this dragging through the mud, we thought, as the
showers threatened, the night came on and no one was near to tell
us whether we were right or wrong, when we came to turn after turn
in the road. We were about lost in mud and despair, when we heard a
steam whistle, and came suddenly upon express and freight trains, a
railway station and ferryboat landing all in a huddle. Charlie’s ears
were up and he needed all our attention. We drove as near as he was
willing to go, then went to inquire the next step. No old scows this
time, happily, but a regular ferryboat, and the ferryman has a way of
whispering confidentially to timid horses which wins them at once, so
we were soon safely landed into the darkness and rain on the other
side. We spent the night in Catskill Village, and gave the evening up
to study of the ins and outs of the Catskills. The heavy rain all night
and half the morning prepared more mud for us, and we were five hours
driving twelve miles. The wheels were one solid mass of clay mud, and
we amused ourselves watching it as it reluctantly rolled off.

We took directions for the old Catskill Mountain House, but, luckily
for Charlie, we guessed wrong at some turn where there was no
guide-board, or place to inquire, and brought up at the Sunny Slope
House at the foot of the mountain instead of at the top. We walked two
miles after supper and were tempted to stay over a day and walk up the
four-mile path to the famous Kaaterskill House, but it was a beautiful
day to go through Kaaterskill Clove, and it seemed best to make sure of
it. It was up hill about four miles, and as interesting as Franconia
and Dixville notches, with its Fawn’s Leap, Profile, Grotto, Cascades
and superb views. All this we should have missed if we had gone
over the mountain. We dined at Tannersville and fancied we were in
Jerusalem, for every hotel in the place was full of Jews. The afternoon
drive along the valley was very restful, after the morning’s rough
climb.

We were now in a country entirely new to us, and we little dreamed that
the Schoharie Kill or Creek driving would eclipse the Hudson. We had at
last found a river road which followed the river. The shore scenery was
simply exquisite. Miles of hills—mountains we should call them—with
cultivated grain fields even to the summit. Surely we had never seen
anything more lovely. The roads were not like the post road on the
Hudson; indeed, they were the worst roads we ever encountered. Annual
overflows undo the repairs which are rarely made, and in many places
the highway is simply the bed which the creek has deserted. At home we
improve roads by clearing the stones from them, but there they improve
them by dumping a cartload of stones into them. We learned this fact by
hearing an enterprising citizen declare he would do it himself, if the
town authorities did not attend to their duty, and we can testify to
the truth of it, having been over the roads.

Our hotel experiences were new, too. We spent one night at Lexington,
and when Charlie was brought to the door and all was ready for our
departure we noticed something wrong about the harness. Investigation
proved that things were decidedly mixed at the stable, and probably
a part of Charlie’s new harness had gone to Hunter, ten miles back,
after the skating rink frolic of the night before. We had suspected our
choice of hotels for that night was not a happy one, but the landlord
did his best. He despatched a man to Hunter, and took our bags back to
our room, saying we should stay till the next day at his expense. We
resumed our reading and writing, the stray harness returned that night,
and early next morning we shook the dust of Lexington from us and were
on our way again.

We drove twenty-six miles that day over the crazy roads close by the
Schoharie all the way. We had been hemmed in for some time, with the
creek on one side and overhanging rocks on the other, when we came
suddenly to a ford, the first we had chanced to come across in our
travels, and we feared it might be more objectionable to Charlie than a
ferry, for he is really afraid of water. Only a few rods to the right
was a leaping, foaming cascade seventy-five or one hundred feet high,
which was a real terror to him, but he seemed to take in the situation
and to see at once, as we did, that escape or retreat was impossible
and the stream must be crossed. Oh, how we dreaded it! but we drew
up the reins with a cheering word to him and in he plunged, pulling
steadily through in spite of his fright. “Well, that is over, what
next?” we wondered.

We wanted to drive to Middlebury for the night, but a fatherly old man
we saw on the road said, “I wouldn’t drive eight miles more tonight if
I were you; it will make it late, and you better stop at Breakabean.”
We asked the meaning of the unique name and were told it signified
rushes, but we saw none. Things were rushing, however, at the speck of
a hotel, which was undergoing general repairs and cleaning. The cabinet
organ was in the middle of the sitting-room and everything socially
clustered around it. Out of two little rooms up stairs we managed to
get things convenient. To be sure we had to pin up a shawl for a screen
in our dressing-room, and a few such little things, but we assured our
hostess we could be comfortable and should not be annoyed by the brass
band of native talent which would practise in the little dancing-hall
close by our rooms. When we went down to supper all was peaceful; the
organ had retired to its corner and things were “picked up” generally.

There were two ways we could take the next day, but to avoid the
mountain we were strongly advised to take the ford. We objected, but
yielded at last, being assured it was by far our best course. If it
was the best we are heartily glad we took it, and we got through the
morning safely, but we are never going there again. We reached the ford
in time, but had we not known it was a ford by directions given and
unmistakable signs, we should as soon have thought of driving into the
sea. The water was high, current strong—how deep we knew not—and it
was quite a distance across. Charlie was sensible as before. We tucked
our wraps in close, for where roads are made of rocks you cannot expect
a smooth-running ford, and in we plunged again. Directly the water was
over the hubs, and we felt as if it would reach the carriage top before
we could get across. We held our breath in the spot where the current
was strongest, but Charlie pulled steadily and all went well.

We understood our course would be level after the ford. The man must
have forgotten the tow-path. From the ford we went right up on to the
side of a cliff, and for a mile or more we were on the narrowest road
we ever drove on, with the cliff fifty to one hundred feet straight
up on our left, and a hundred feet down on our right was the river,
or Schoharie Creek, with nothing to hinder our being there at short
notice, not even a stick for protection. When we got to a rational road
we inquired if we had been right, and were told “Yes, if you came by
the tow-path; you would have had to ford three times if you had kept
the valley.”

We told you at the outset that the Schoharie Valley is very beautiful.
It lies now like a picture in our memory, and despite rocks, fords and
tow-paths, we were very reluctant to leave it, but we were aiming for
Saratoga, and at Schoharie we were advised to go by the way of Albany.
It was the week of the bi-centennial celebration, and nothing but
Albany was thought of, so we fell in with the multitude, and with a
last look at Schoharie, turned east. The country was dull by contrast
for a while, but became more interesting as we drew nearer the Hudson.
We spent the night at Knowersville, and after everybody else had
boarded the crowded excursion train to the Capital we leisurely started
off via the plank road. Every grocer’s wagon or coal cart we met had a
bit of ribbon, if no more, in honor of the occasion; and miles before
we reached the city, strips of bunting adorned the humble dwellings.
The city itself was one blaze of beauty. The orange, generously mixed
with the red, white and blue, made the general effect extremely
brilliant. We drove through all the principal streets and parks,
dodging the processions—which were endless—with their bands and gay
paraphernalia, to say nothing of the “trade” equipages, which suggested
that all the business of Albany was turned into the streets. We went
all over the Capitol building and had a fine view of the surrounding
country from its upper rooms; then, feeling we had “done” the
bi-centennial to our satisfaction, we drove nine miles up the Hudson
to Cohoes for the night. When the porter brought our bags in, he said,
with evident delight, “He’s given you the best rooms in the house,” and
they were very nice; but luxuries are not always comforts, and we have
not forgotten sitting bolt upright on the top of a marble table, with
our book held high, in order to get near enough to the gaslight to read.

Everybody we saw the next day was dressed up and bound for Albany, for
the President was to be there, but we were impatient for our letters at
Saratoga and went on. The twenty-five miles was easily accomplished,
and we found a large mail. In the evening we strolled about, enjoyed
the fireworks in Congress Park, and talked over our plans for the next
day. We had seen all the attractions about Saratoga in previous visits,
except Mt. McGregor. We had thought to let Charlie rest, and go by
rail, but were told we could drive up without the least difficulty,
and that it was right on our way to Glen’s Falls. This seemed our
best course, and we tried it, only to find, when too late, that the
road had been neglected since the railroad was built, and was in a
very rough condition. One led Charlie up and down the mountain, and
the other walked behind to pick up any bags or wraps which might be
jolted out on the way. The view from the hotel and the Grant Cottage is
very pretty, and if we had been free from encumbrance, we should have
enjoyed the walk up and down very much. As it was, we could only laugh
at ourselves and say, “Poor Charlie!” We had been to Mt. McGregor,
however, and that is something, and it chanced to be the anniversary of
General Grant’s death.

We spent the night at Glen’s Falls, and tried in vain to find some one
who could tell us how to go home over the Green Mountains. We knew the
way from Lake Champlain, having driven up that way several years ago,
and finally concluded the longest way round might be the pleasantest
way home. We had been to Lake George, and that was one reason we wanted
to go again; so off we skipped over the nine miles’ plank road, and sat
for two hours on the shore in front of the Fort William Henry House
writing letters, which ought to have been inspired, for we dipped
our pens in the waters of the beautiful lake. When we went to the
stable for Charlie, we found an old man who knew all about the Green
Mountains, and if we had seen him at Glen’s Falls we should have been
on our direct way home. Our last plan was too pleasant to repent of
now, and we took directions towards Lake Champlain. We had to retrace
our way on the plank road several miles, then go across country to Fort
Ann, a distance of sixteen miles. It is perplexing when you leave the
main roads, there are so many ways of going across, and no two people
direct you the same, which makes you sure the road you did not take
would have been better.

At Fort Ann we had comforts without luxuries, in the homeliest little
old-fashioned hotel, and stayed until the next afternoon to give
Charlie a rest, then drove twelve miles to Whitehall, where we had a
good-looking hotel and no comforts. There were things enough, but they
needed the touch of a woman’s hand. It must have been a man who hung
the looking-glass behind the bed. We rearranged, however, and borrowed
a table and chair from an open room near by, and got along very well.
These were trifles compared with the pouring rain, which was making mud
out of the clayey soil which the Catskills could hardly compete with.
We almost repented, but would not turn back when only fourteen miles
were between us and friends. We think the men who held a consultation
as to our best way to Benson must have conspired against us, or they
never would have sent us by the Bay road. The rain ceased, but the mud,
the slippery hills and the heathenish roads every way! We turned and
twisted, stopped at every farmer’s door to ask if we could be right,
and more than once got the most discouraging of all answers, “Yes, you
_can_ go that way.” The spinning of a top seems as near straight as
that drive did. I know we could not do it again, and I am surer yet we
shall not try.

When, at last, we struck the stage road, things seemed more rational,
and Charlie’s ears became very expressive. As we drove into Benson he
tore along and nearly leaped a ditch in his haste to turn into our
friend’s stable, where Cousin Charlie fed him so lavishly with oats
seven years ago. No one seemed to know exactly how we got there, but
our welcome was none the less hearty.

Now we were all right and needed no directions, for from this point
our way over the Green Mountains was familiar, and after a short visit
we turned towards home, anticipating every bit of the one hundred
and fifty miles’ drive. At Fairhaven we lunched with another cousin
while Charlie rested, and then had a most charming drive to Rutland.
We now follow the line of the Central Vermont and Cheshire Railroad
quite closely all the way to Fitchburg; but, fine as the scenery is by
rail, one gets hardly a hint of its beauty by the carriage road. We
rode seven miles on the steps of a car when returning from Saratoga
later in the season, hoping for a glimpse, at least, of the beautiful
gap between Ludlow and Chester, which compares favorably with Dixville
Notch or Kaaterskill Clove, but a good coating of dust and cinders was
the only reward. For more than a mile the carriage road winds through
the gorge, the mountains high and very close on either side, and
apparently without an opening.

One of the delights of our wanderings is to stop at a strange post
office, and have a whole handful of letters respond to our call.
Chester responded very generously, for here the truant letters, which
were each time a little behind, and had been forwarded and reforwarded,
met the ever prompt ones and waited our arrival. A few miles from
Chester we found lovely maidenhair ferns by the roadside, and were
gathering and pressing them, when an old man, in a long farm wagon,
stopped and asked if we were picking raspberries. We told him it was
rather late for raspberries, but we had found pretty ferns. To our
surprise this interested him, and he talked enthusiastically of ferns
and flowers, saying he had one hundred varieties in his garden, and
asking if we ever saw a certain agricultural journal which was a
treasure-house of knowledge to him. Still he was not a florist, but a
vegetable gardener, and we learned ever so much about the business, and
for a while could talk glibly of Angel of Midnight corn and Blue-eyed
(?) pease and so on. He gave quite a discourse, too, on the advantages
of co-operation and exchange of ideas. He told us how much he enjoyed
a fair at the New England Institute Building, and was interested to
know that we saw it when in flames. Our pleasant chat was brought to a
sudden stop, just as he was telling us of his ambitious daughter and
other family details, by other travelers, for whom we had to clear the
road.

We spent a night pleasantly at Saxton’s River, and received the
courtesies of friends, then on through Bellows Falls and Keene towards
Monadnock. We wanted to go to the Mountain House for the night, but it
was several miles out of our way, and we were tired as well as Charlie,
with thirty miles’ driving in the heat, so contented ourselves with
recollections of two delightful visits there, and stopped at Marlboro,
five miles from Keene.

When we were packing up in the phaeton, the next morning, a lady
brought us three little bouquets, the third and largest for Charlie, we
fancy. It was a very pleasant attention to receive when among strangers
and gave us a good send-off for our last day’s drive. Forty miles is
a long drive at the end of a long journey, but Charlie seemed fully
equal to it, and all went well as we journeyed along the familiar route
through Troy, Fitzwilliam, Winchendon, Ashburnham and Fitchburg. We
dined at Winchendon and visited the friends in Fitchburg from whom we
have a standing invitation for our last tea out. The five miles from
Fitchburg to Leominster Charlie never counts. He knows his own stall
awaits him. Our last day, which began so pleasantly with a floral
testimony from a stranger, ended with a night-blooming cereus reception
in our own home.

“Did you take Summer Gleanings,” do I hear some friend ask? Oh yes, we
took it, but not one sketch did we add to it. The fever for sketching
ran high last year and spent itself, but every day of the July pages is
radiant with pressed flowers and ferns. One more trip and the book will
be full, “a thing of beauty,” which will be “a joy forever.”




CHAPTER VIII.

NARRAGANSETT PIER AND MANOMET POINT.

    “Think on thy friends when thou haply seest
    Some rare, noteworthy object in thy travels;
    Wish them partakers of thy happiness.”


We thought of omitting our annual letter to the Transcript, believing
that vacations in everything are good; but, even before the journey
existed, except in mind, a report of it was assumed as a matter of
course, as the part belonging to our friends, who have not found
opportunity to travel in our gypsy fashion. Then, too, we remembered
the lines above, quoted by Andrew Carnegie, as we journeyed with him in
his “Four in Hand through Britain,” and still more delightful “Round
the World,” all in a hammock in those scorching July days, without a
touch of fatigue or sea-sickness. Even a carriage journey on paper has
some advantages, no dust, no discomfort of any kind; but we prefer the
real thing, and enjoyed it so much we will change our mind and tell
you a little about it. The places are all so familiar, and so near the
“Hub” of the universe, that when you get to the end you may feel, as we
did, as if you had not been anywhere after all. We did, however, drive
four hundred miles, and had a very delightful time.

Before we really start, we must introduce to you the new member of our
party. With deep regret and many tender memories we tell you we parted
with our Charlie last spring, and a big, strong Jerry came to take his
place. A friend in cultured Boston said, “Why, how will Jerry look in
the Transcript?”

We did not go until September, and, like every one else, you may
wonder why we waited so late, when we have often started as soon as
the “crackers” were fired off. Well, Jerry had not become used to our
climate, although July was hot enough for any Southerner. Then the
company season came, and various things made it advisable to wait
until September. We were quite reconciled, because you know all those
“conjunctions” of the planets were to culminate in August, and it
seemed likely the world was to be turned upside down. We thought it
would be so much pleasanter to be swallowed up by the same earthquake,
or blown away by the same cyclone as our home friends.

Jerry waxed in strength, the world still stood, the last summer guest
had departed, and on the afternoon of Sept. 8, we started for Stow.
“What on earth are you going there for?” and similar comments reveal
the impressions of our friends; but we knew why, and do not mind
telling you. We were going to Boston to begin our journey, and we could
not go beyond Stow that afternoon, without going farther than we liked
to drive Jerry the first day, for he is young and we were determined
to be very considerate of him. We knew we should be comfortable at the
little, weather-beaten hotel, and that Jerry would have the best of
care.

How lovely that afternoon drive! It was the day after those terrific
storms and gales, the final “conjunction,” probably, and there was an
untold charm in everything. As we drove leisurely along, gathering
flowers to press for “Summer Gleanings,” we thought of our friends
who were speeding their way back to New York just at the time when the
country is loveliest, and knew they were envying us. Still, somehow it
did not seem as if we were traveling, but only going to drive as we had
been doing all summer. Perhaps we missed the July heat and dust!

“Still as Sunday” gives no idea of the quiet of Stow. It seemed as if
one might live forever there, and perhaps one could, if permitted, for
just as we were leaving the hotel for a little stroll, our landlady was
saying to some “patent medicine man,” “We don’t have any rheumatism
here, nobody ever dies, but when they get old they are shot.”

We had not walked far before we came to a cemetery, and, remembering
the landlady’s remark, we went in to read the inscriptions. No allusion
was made to shooting, but if it was a familiar custom the omission is
not strange. We noted a few epitaphs which interested us:

    “When I pass by, with grief I see
    My loving mate was taken from me.
    Taken by him who hath a right
    To call for me when he sees fit.”

    “A wife so true there are but few,
        And difficult to find,
    A wife more just and true to trust,
        There is not left behind.”

    “A while these frail machines endure,
        The fabric of a day,
    Then know their vital powers no more,
        But moulder back to clay.”

    “Friends and physicians could not save
    My mortal body from the grave.”

There were six stones in close proximity bearing these familiar lines—

    “Stop, traveler, as you pass by,
    As you are now, so once was I.
    As I am now, so you must be.
    Prepare for death and follow me.”

All that night was lost, for we never woke once. Was it the stillness?
or was it that cosy, bright room, with its very simple, but effective,
“homey” touches? Be that as it may, we were fresh as the morning, and
ready to enjoy every mile of the drive to Boston, gladdening our hearts
with the sight of friends as we tarried now and then. We in Boston and
our Boston friends in the country was something new, but a room at
the B. Y. W. C. A. is next to home, and we heartily recommend it to
homeless ladies traveling as we were, or on shopping expeditions. The
night, with the unceasing din of the horse cars, and the thousand and
one noises peculiar to the city, was a marvelous contrast to Stow, but
in time we became adjusted to our environments, and were lost in sleep.

How delightful to be in Boston, and know that there were only two
things in the whole city we wanted—a Buddhist catechism and a horn
hairpin. These procured, we went for Jerry and began the day, which was
to be devoted to making calls. We went spinning along over the smoothly
paved Columbus avenue on our way to the Highlands, and rattled back on
cobble-paved Shawmut avenue. Dinner over, off we started for Allston,
Somerville and Cambridge, and as it was not yet five o’clock when we
came back over the Mill-dam, we could not resist turning off West
Chester Park, and hunting up some friends in Dorchester, returning in
early evening. Jerry seemed perfectly at home; perhaps he has been used
to city life in Kentucky. The day was long and full of pleasant things,
but the diary record was brief; for just this once we will confess we
were tired. Secured the catechism and hairpin, and oh! we forgot, a bit
of embroidery we got at Whitney’s, and mailed to a friend who asked us
to do so if we “happened to be near there,” drove eighteen miles and
made twelve calls, that was all.

During the day we decided to stay over Sunday, as a cousin we wanted to
see was coming. Jerry rested all day, and we did, except the writing of
many letters, dining with a friend, and attending service at the only
church we saw lighted on the Back Bay in the evening. We thought of
many things to do and places to go to, and wondered how we should like
to take a carriage journey and spend all the nights in Boston. There
would be no lack of pleasant driving, and if we missed the variety
in hotels, we could easily remedy that by going from one to another.
Boston would supply that need for a while, and we are sure Jerry would
be more than glad to find himself at Nims’s in Mason street, day or
night. But we had other things in view for this journey, and, the
cousin’s whereabouts being wrapped in mystery, we left Boston early
Monday morning.

Now, we will take you by transit, hardly excelled in rapidity by
the feats of occultism, to Narragansett Pier, and while you are
taking breath in our charming room in that vine-covered hotel at the
jumping-off place, with the surf rolling up almost under the windows,
we will just tell you a bit about the journey as we had it; driving
all day in the rain on Monday and enjoying it, making hasty doorstep
calls, spending the night at Lake Massapoag House in Sharon, and on
through the Attleboros to Pawtucket the next day, dining Wednesday with
friends in Providence, then on to East Greenwich for the night. A drive
of twenty-one miles Thursday morning, and we are with you again at the
Pier, where our first exclamation was, “Oh! let’s stay here!” We like
the mountains, but the ocean is quite satisfying if we can have enough
of it, and as our host said, here there is nothing between us and
Europe, Asia and Africa. We wrote letters all the afternoon, with one
eye on the surf, and the next morning we drove to Point Judith, where
we investigated the wrecks, went to the top of the light-house, and
were much interested in hearing all about the work at the life-saving
station. We took a long walk, and visited the Casino in the afternoon.

We were still enthusiastic about the Pier, but the next morning was
so beautiful it seemed wise to enjoy it in Newport. The captain could
not take our horse across from the Pier, and we drove twelve miles
back to Wickford to take the ferryboat. It was quite cool, but with
warm wraps it was just right for a brisk drive. We had time for dinner
before going to the boat. The hour’s sail was very delightful, and at
half after two we were in Newport, with nothing to do but drive about
the city until dark. We saw all there was to be seen, even to the
hydrangea star described in the Transcript by “M. H.” We did not know
which was Vanderbilt’s and which Oak Glen, but that mattered little
to us, for to all intents and purposes they all belonged to us that
bright afternoon, and are still ours in memory. We fell into the grand
procession of fine turnouts on the prescribed ocean drive, but the
people generally did not look as if they were having a good time. They
had a sort of “prescribed” look, except one young lady we met several
times, perched in a high cart, with a bright-looking pug for company;
she really looked as if she was enjoying herself.

The charm of Newport fled when we were inside the hotel. The fountain
in the park below our window was very pretty, but it could not compete
with our ocean view at the Pier, and we had to sit on the footboard of
the bed, too, in order to see to read by the aspiring gaslight.

We walked around the Old Mill and went into the Channing Church and
then left Newport for Fall River. There we called on several friends,
then inquired for some place to spend a night, on our way to Plymouth,
and were directed to Assonet. We had never heard of Assonet before, but
we did not mind our ignorance when the widow, who “puts up” people,
told us the school committee man where her daughter had gone to teach
had never heard of it. Our good woman thought at first she could not
take us, as she had been washing and was tired, but as there was no
other place for us to go, she consented. When she saw our books, she
asked if we were traveling for business or pleasure, and as F——
drove off to the stable she remarked on her ability; she thought a
woman was pretty smart if she could “turn round.” We had a very cosy
time. People who always plan to have a first-class hotel lose many
of the novel experiences which make a pleasant variety in a journey
It is interesting occasionally to hear the family particulars and be
introduced to the pet dogs and cats, and walk round the kitchen and
backyard, where the sunflowers and hollyhocks grow from old-time habit,
and not because of a fashion.

The Samoset House at Plymouth seemed all the more luxurious after the
modest comforts at Assonet. We “did” Plymouth once more, this time
taking in the new monument, and having plenty of time, we drove down to
Manomet Point for a night. The Point is quite a resort for artists, but
as we have given up sketching, we did not delay there, but returned to
Plymouth and on to Duxbury. We did not ask Jerry to travel the extra
miles off the main route to take in Brant Rock and Daniel Webster’s old
home, as this was our second drive in this vicinity, and rather than
drive two miles to a hotel possibly open, we took up with the chances
near by. We found oats at a grocery store, but it was too cold to camp;
indeed, we did not have one of our wayside camps during the entire
journey. There was no hotel, no stable, no “put-up” place or available
barn, but the grocer, appreciating our dilemma, said he could easily
clear a stall back of his store, and while he was helping us unharness,
we saw a large house perched on a high bluff not far away. Although it
was a private boarding-house we made bold to cross the fields, mount
the many flights of steps and ask for dinner, which was willingly
granted.

You will surmise we are bound for Boston again, and will not be
surprised to find us with friends on the Jerusalem Road, after enjoying
the beauties of this road from Cohasset to Hingham, where we went for
a handful of letters only equalled by that parcel at Providence.

Oh, how cold it was the next day! The thought of Nantasket Beach made
us shiver, and preferring to think of it as in “other days,” we turned
our faces inland and drove a pretty back way to South Hingham. Of
course we could have driven right into Boston, but it was Saturday, and
we thought we would have a quiet Sunday somewhere and go into the city
Monday. After protracted consultation we agreed on a place, but when
we got there there was no room for us, as a minstrel troupe had taken
possession. Hotels four, eight and nine miles distant were suggested.
In consideration of Jerry we chose the four miles’ drive. We will not
tell you the name of the town, suffice it to say we left immediately
after breakfast. It was a beautiful morning—far too lovely to be
spoiled by uncongenial surroundings. We intended to drive to the next
town, where we had been told there was a hotel. We found none, however,
but were assured there was one in the next. So we went on, like one in
pursuit of the end of the rainbow, until the last man said he thought
there was no hotel nearer than the Norfolk House!

Here we were almost in Boston, Sunday, after all the miles we had
driven to avoid it. “All’s well that ends well,” however, and a little
visit with the “Shaybacks” at home, not “in camp,” could not have
been on Monday, and before we reached the Norfolk House we were taken
possession of for the night by a whole household of hospitable friends.

Monday morning we drove into the city proper, and hovered in its
vicinity several days, calling on friends we did not see before and
driving here and there, among other places to Middlesex Fells, so often
spoken of. We ended our journey as we began it, searching for our
clerical cousin, but all in vain. We did see so many of our friends of
the profession, however, from first to last, that privately we call it
our “ministerial” journey.

Everything must have an end, but we did wish we could go right on for
another month. The foliage was gorgeous and the yellowish haze only
made everything more dreamy and fascinating. We prolonged our pleasure
by taking two days to drive home, straying a little from the old
turnpike, and driving through Weston, spending the night in Framingham,
and then on through Southboro to Northboro, Clinton and Lancaster to
Leominster. The country was beautiful in contrast with flat, sandy
Rhode Island. We gathered leaves and sumacs until our writing tablet
and every available book and newspaper was packed, and then we put a
great mass of sumacs in the “boot.” Finally our enthusiasm over the
beauties along the way reached such a height that we spread our map and
traced out a glorious trip among the New Hampshire hills, and home over
the Green Mountains, for next year.

“Summer Gleanings” is now complete, and the last pages are fairly aglow
with the autumn souvenirs of our sixteenth annual drive.




CHAPTER IX.

BOSTON, WHITE MOUNTAINS AND VERMONT.—A SIX HUNDRED MILE DRIVE.


In self-defence we must tell you something of our seventeenth annual
“drive,” for no one will believe we could have had a good time, “on
account of the weather;” and really it was one of our finest trips. We
regret the sympathy, and pity even, that was wasted on us, and rejoice
that now and then one declared, “Well, I will not worry about them, for
somehow they always do have a good time, if it does rain.”

If two friends, with a comfortable phaeton and a good horse, exploring
the country at will, gladly welcomed and served at hotels hungry for
guests, with not a care beyond writing to one’s friends, and free to
read to one’s heart’s content, cannot have a good time, whatever the
weather may be, what hope is there for them?

Why has no one ever written up the bright side of dull weather? The sun
gets all the glory, and yet the moment he sends down his longed-for
smiles, even after days of rain, over go the people to the other side
of the car, the brakeman rushes to draw your shutter, the blinds in
the parlor are closed, and the winking, blinking travelers on the
highway sigh, “Oh, dear, that sun is blinding,” and look eagerly for a
cloud. Then, if the sun does shine many days without rain, just think
of the discomfort and the perpetual fretting. Clouds of dust choke
you, everything looks dry and worthless, the little brooks are moping
along, or there is only a dry stony path that tells they once lived,
and the roadsides look like dusty millers. Now, fancy a drive without
the sunshine to blind your eyes, no dust (surely not, when the mud
fairly clogs the wheels), every tree and shrub glistening and all the
little mountain streams awakened to life and tearing along, crossing
and recrossing your path like playful children; indeed, all Nature’s
face looking like that of a beautiful child just washed. Really, there
is no comparison.

Perhaps you are thinking that is a dull day drive. Now, how about a
drive when it pours. Oh, that is lovely—so cosy! A waterproof and veil
protect you, and the boot covers up all the bags and traps, and there
is a real fascination in splashing recklessly through the mud, knowing
you have only to say the word and you will come out spick and span in
the morning.

We have purposely put all the weather in one spot, like “Lord” Timothy
Dexter’s punctuation marks, and now you can sprinkle it in according to
your recollection of the September days, and go on with us, ignoring
the rain, as we did, excepting casual comments.

Our journey was the fulfilment of the longing we felt for the
mountains, when we were driving home from our Narragansett Pier and
Newport trip one year ago. Perhaps you remember those hazy, soft-tinted
days, the very last of September. The air was like summer, as we drove
along through Framingham to Southboro, gathering those gorgeous sumacs
by the wayside, and wishing we could go straight north for two weeks.

The morning of Sept. 6th, 1888, was very bright, just the morning to
start “straight north,” but with our usual aversion to direct routes
we turned our faces towards Boston. We could not stop at Stow this
time, for the old hotel, where we slept so sweetly our first night one
year ago, is gone, and only ashes mark the spot. Waltham had a place
for us, however. A cold wave came on during the night, and we shivered
all the way from Waltham to Hull, except when we were near the warm
hearts of our friends on the way.

The ocean looked cold, but nothing could mar that quiet drive of
five miles on Nantasket Beach just before sunset. We were lifted far
above physical conditions. We were just in season to join in the last
supper at The Pemberton, and share in the closing up. We were about
the last of the lingering guests to take leave in the morning, after
dreaming of driving through snowdrifts ten feet deep, and wondering if
we should enjoy the mountains as well as we had fancied. The weather,
however, changed greatly before noon, and it was very sultry by the
time we reached Boston. Prudence prompted us, nevertheless, to add to
our outfit, against another cold wave. We found all we wanted except
wristers. Asking for them that sultry afternoon produced such an effect
that we casually remarked, to prove our sanity, that we did not wish
them to wear that day.

Night found us at Lexington, pleading for shelter at the Massachusetts
House. Darkness, rain and importunity touched the heart of the
proprietor, and he took us into the great hall, which serves for parlor
as well, saying all the time he did not know what he should do with
us. We wanted to stay there, because we do not often have a chance to
stay in a house that has traveled. The signs are over the doors just
as when it stood on the Centennial grounds, and many things seem quite
natural, although we did not chance to be among the distinguished
guests entertained under its roof when in Philadelphia.

Our stay there was made very pleasant by a lady who gave us interesting
accounts of her journeys by carriage with “Gail Hamilton” and her
sister.

Here ended our one hundred miles preliminary, and bright and early
Monday morning we were off for the mountains. The day was just right
for a wayside camp, and just at the right time we came to a pretty pine
grove, with seats under the trees. We asked a bright young woman in the
yard opposite if we could camp there, and were given full liberty. She
said Jerry might as well be put into the barn, then helped unharness
and gave him some hay. Jerry was happy.

He does not have hay—which is his “soup,” I suppose—when he camps. We
went to the grove with our little pail filled with delicious milk, and
a comfortable seat supplied by our hospitable hostess. When we went to
pay our bill, everything was refused but our thanks. We said then, “If
you ever come to Leominster you must let us do something for you.”

“Oh, do you live in Leominster? Do you know ——?”

“Oh, yes, she is in our Sunday-school class.”

This is only one of the many pleasant incidents of our wanderings.

We spent that night at Haverhill and had one more camp, our last for
the trip, this time on the warm side of a deserted barn.

Two and a half days’ driving up hill and down to Dover, and over a good
road through Rochester and Farmington, brought us to Alton Bay, where
we all went on board the Mt. Washington for the sail of thirty miles to
Centre Harbor. Jerry was tied in the bow, and as we got under way the
wind was so strong we should have had to wrap him up in our shawls and
waterproofs if the captain had not invited him inside. We braved it on
deck, for Lake Winnipiseogee is too pretty to lose.

We “did” Centre Harbor some years ago, so drove on directly we landed.
At Moultonboro we stopped to make some inquiries, and while waiting,
the clouds grew very mysterious, looking as if a cyclone or something
was at hand, and we decided to spend the night there. The people were
looking anxiously at the angry sky; and the Cleveland flag was hastily
taken down; but no sooner were we and the flag under cover than the sun
came out bright, dispelling the blackness. We wished we had gone on as
we intended, and looked enviously on the Harrison flag, which waved
triumphantly, not afraid of a little cloud.

We saw a large trunk by the roadside as we drove through the woods next
morning. We gave all sorts of explanations for a good-looking trunk
being left in such an out-of-the-way place, but, not being “reporters,”
we did not “investigate” or “interview,” but dismissed the matter with,
“Why, probably it was left there for the stage.” We do not feel quite
satisfied yet, for why any one should carry a trunk half a mile to take
a stage when we had no reason to think there was any stage to take, is
still a mystery.

We got all over our disappointment at stopping early for the cloud, for
the drive, which was so lovely that bright morning, would have been
cold and cheerless the night before. It seemed as if we went on all
sides of Chocorua, with its white peak and pretty lake at the base. Why
has somebody said—

    “Tired Chocorua, looking down wistfully into
    A land in which it seemed always afternoon.”

One might spend a whole summer amid the charming surroundings of North
Conway, but we had only a night to spare. There were many transient
people about, as is usual in the autumn. The summer guests had
departed, and now some of the stayers-at-home were having a respite.
We wished all the tired people could try the experience of an old lady
there, who said she “could not make it seem right to be just going to
her meals and doing nothing about it.”

Oh, how lovely that morning at North Conway! This was the day we were
to drive up Crawford Notch; and what about all the prophecies of our
seashore friends? Where were the snowdrifts we dreamed of? The air was
so soft we put aside all wraps, and, as we leisurely drove along the
bright, woodsy road, I wonder how many times we exclaimed, “This is
heavenly!” We fairly drank in the sunshine, and fortunately, for it was
the last we had for a full week.

We dined at the hotel in Bartlett, and strolled about the railway
station near by, so tempting to travelers, having a pretty waiting-room
like a summer parlor, with its straw matting and wicker furniture.
We took our time so leisurely that we found we could not get to the
Crawford House in season to walk up Mt. Willard, as we had planned, so
stopped at the old Willey House, this side. It was quite too lovely to
stay indoors, and, after we had taken possession of the house, being
the only guests, we took the horn our landlady used to call the man
to take care of Jerry, and went down the road to try the echo, as she
directed us. It was very distinct, and after we got used to making such
a big noise in the presence of those majestic mountains, we rather
liked it. We gathered a few tiny ferns for our diaries, and took quite
a walk towards the Notch, then came “home,” for so it seemed. We had
chosen a corner room in full view of Mt. Webster, Willey Mountain, and
the road over which we had driven, and where the moon would shine in at
night, and the sun ought to look in upon us in the morning. The moon
was faithful, but the sun forgot us and the mountains were veiled in
mists.

Will there ever be another Sunday so long, and that we could wish many
times longer? We had the warm parlor to ourselves and just reveled in
a feast of reading, watching the fluffy bits of mist playing about
Mt. Webster, between the lines. Just fancy reading “Robert Elsmere”
four hours on a stretch, without fatigue, so peaceful was it away from
the world among the mountains. After dinner we drove to the Crawford
to mail a letter and back to the Willey, having enjoyed once more in
the short one hour and a half one of the grandest points of the whole
mountain region, the White Mountain Notch. We were now fresh for
another long session with Robert and Catherine. It was raining again,
and steadily increased through the night until it seemed as if there
would not be a bridge left of the many we had crossed the day before.

We were interested in the fate of the little bridges, for we were to
retrace our steps, seventeen or eighteen miles, to Glen station. We had
driven up through the Notch because—we wanted to; and we were going
back all this distance because we wanted to go on the Glen side of the
mountains; for with all our driving, we had never been there. What a
change from the drive up on Saturday! How lively the streams; and the
little cascades were almost endless in number.

The foliage looked brighter, too. The roads were washed, but the
bridges all stood. We dined once more at Bartlett, then on to Jackson
via Glen Station. We had not thought of Jackson as so cosily tucked in
among the mountains.

Again we were the only guests at the hotel, and the stillness here was
so overpowering, that it required more courage to speak above a whisper
in the great empty dining-room than it did to “toot” the horn in Willey
Notch.

We usually order our horse at nine, but when it pours, as it did at
Jackson, we frequently dine early and take the whole drive in the
afternoon. These rainy stop-overs are among the pleasant features of
our journeys. Who cannot appreciate a long morning to read or write,
with conscience clear, however busy people may be about you, having
literally “nothing else to do”? It does not seem to trouble us as it
did the old lady at North Conway. It was cool in our room, and we took
our books down stairs, casually remarking to the clerk, who apparently
had nothing to do but wait upon us, that we had been looking for the
cheery open fire we saw in the reception room the evening before. He
took our modest hint, and very soon came to the parlor, saying we would
find it more comfortable in the other room, where there was a fire.

Early in the afternoon we were off, full of anticipation of a new
drive, and by many the drive from Jackson to Gorham through Pinkham
Notch and by the Glen House is considered the finest of all. The
foliage was certainly the brightest and the mud the deepest of the
whole trip, and we enjoyed every inch of the twenty miles. We fully
absorbed all the beauty of the misty phases of the mountains, and did
not reject anything, thinking instead how we would some time reverse
things and drive from Gorham to Jackson on a pleasant day.

Another famed drive is the one from Gorham to Jefferson. Part of
this was new to us, too, and we must confess that the “misty phases”
were too much for our pleasure that time. Not a glimpse of the peaks
of the Presidential range was to be had all that morning. Even the
Randolph Hills were partly shrouded in mists. We dined at Crawford’s
at Jefferson Highlands, and one of the guests said Mr. Crawford had
promised a clear sunset, but what his promise was based on we could not
imagine.

It does not seem as if anything could entirely spoil the drive from the
Highlands to the Waumbek at Jefferson, and from Jefferson to Lancaster
the views are wonderfully beautiful. The clouds relented a little as
we slowly climbed the hills, and just as we reached the highest point
we turned back once more for a last look at the entire White Mountain
range, and we had a glimpse of the peak of Mt. Washington for the first
time since the morning we left North Conway.

A moment more, and the Summit House glistened in sunlight, a stray ray
from behind a cloud. As we began to descend, what a change of scene!
Sun-glinted Washington was out of sight behind the hill, and before
us were threatening clouds, black as midnight, and the mountains
of northern New Hampshire looked almost purple. The sky foreboded
a tempest rather than Mr. Crawford’s promised sunset, but while we
were thinking of it there was a marvelous change. Color mingled with
the blackness, and as we were going down the last steep hill into
Lancaster, there was one of the most gorgeous sunset views we ever
witnessed. We drove slowly through the broad, level streets to the
outer limit of the town, and then turned back, but did not go to the
hotel until his majesty dropped in full glory below the horizon.

The sun set that night for the rest of the week, and the clouds were on
hand again in the morning. We went to Lancaster just for a look towards
Dixville, but we made this our turning-point. The drive to Whitefield
is very like the one just described, only reversed. There were no
sun-glints this time, but memory could furnish all the clouds refused
to reveal, for that ride was indelibly photographed on our minds.

From Whitefield we drove to Franconia, and as we went through Bethlehem
street we thought it seemed pleasanter than ever before. The gray
shades were becoming, somehow.

Having driven through Franconia Notch five times and seen the “boulder”
before and after its fall, we did not fret about what the weather might
be this time. We had been through in rain and sunshine, in perfect,
gray, and yellow days, and never failed to find it charming. This
time it poured in torrents. We dined at the Flume House, and watched
those who were “doing” the Notch for the first time, and almost envied
them as they gayly donned their waterproofs and were off for the Pool
and Flume. One party declared they had laughed more than if it had
been pleasant, and all in spite of that ruined Derby, too, which the
gentleman of the party said he had just got new in Boston, and intended
to wear all winter. They had passed us in the Notch in an open wagon,
with the rain pelting their heads.

The drive to Campton that afternoon was one of those “cosy” drives. It
never rained faster, and the roads were like rivers. Memory was busy,
for it is one of the loveliest drives in the mountains. It was dark
when we reached Sanborn’s, at West Campton, but it is always cheery
there, and the house looked as lively as in summer.

One might think we had had enough of mountains and mists by this time,
but we were not yet satisfied, and having plenty of time, we turned
north again, just before reaching Plymouth, with Moosilauke and the
Green Mountains in mind. A happy thought prompted us to ask for dinner
at Daisy Cottage in Quincy, and unexpectedly we met there one of the
party who braved Franconia Notch in winter a few years ago, and who
told the tale of their joys and sorrows in the Transcript. We mailed
our cards to the friends whose house was closed, and then on to Warren,
near Moosilauke. We experienced just a shade of depression here,
perhaps because the hotel, which had been full of guests all summer,
was now empty and cold, or possibly the sunshine we absorbed at North
Conway—“canned” sunshine, Mr. Shayback calls it—was giving out. Be
that as it may, our enthusiasm was not up to the point of climbing a
mountain to see what we had seen for eight successive days,—peaks
shrouded in white clouds. The sun did shine in the early morning; but
it takes time to clear the mountains, and the wind blew such a gale
we actually feared we might be blown off the “ridge” on Moosilauke
if we did go up. We waited and watched the weather, finished “Robert
Elsmere,” and began for a second reading, and after dinner gave up
the ascent. By night we were reconciled, for we had the most charming
drive of twenty miles to Bradford, Vt., crossing the Connecticut at
Haverhill, and saying good-by to New Hampshire and its misty mountains.

A new kind of weather was on hand next morning, strangely like that we
have become accustomed to, but not so hopeless.

These dense fogs along the Connecticut in September are the salvation
of vegetation from frosts, we were told, but they are fatal to views.
We drove above and away from the fog, however, on our way over the
hills to West Fairlee, but it rested in the valley until nearly noon.
It was encouraging to learn that fair weather always followed.

A “bridge up” sent us a little way round, but we reached West Fairlee
just at dinner time, and while Jerry was at the blacksmith’s we
strolled about the village with friends. The afternoon drive to Norwich
on the Connecticut—a pretty, old university town—was very pleasant.
We were directed to the hotel, but when a lady answered the door bell,
we thought we must have made a mistake, and were asking hospitality at
a private mansion. There was no sign; the yard was full of flowers,
and the big square parlor, with the fire crackling under the high old
mantel, the fan-decorated music-room through the portieres—everything,
in fact, betokened a home. And such in truth it was, only, having been
a hotel, transients were still accommodated there, as there was no
other place in Norwich. When the very gallant colored boy ushered us
into a room the size of the parlor below, with all the homey touches,
we felt really like company. The delicious supper, well served from the
daintiest of dishes, confirmed the company feeling.

We started out in the densest of fogs from our luxurious quarters in
Norwich, but soon left it behind, and the drive along White River was
very lovely. We had to dine at a “putting-up” place, with another
fellow-traveler, in a kitchen alive with flies; and at Bridgewater,
where we went for the night, we were received by a woman with mop and
pail in hand—a little “come down” after our fine appointments. We must
not forget our pleasant hour in Woodstock that afternoon. We drove
through its pretty streets, called on friends, and took a look at the
fair grounds, for everybody was “going to the fair.”

Fine appointments are not essential to comfort, and when we were all
fixed in our little room, with a good book, waiting once more for it
to simply rain, not pour, we were just as happy as at Norwich. After
dinner we challenged the weather, and set forth for Ludlow. We overtook
the little Italian pedler, with what looked like a feather bed on his
back, who had sat at table with us, and was now ploughing his way
through the mud. His face was wreathed in the most extravagant smiles
in response to our greeting. The rain had spent itself, and we enjoyed
walking down the mountain as we went through Plymouth. It seemed an
unusual mountain, for there was no “up” to it, but the “down” was
decidedly perceptible.

Ludlow was as homelike as ever, and the Notch drive on the way to
Chester as interesting. The foliage, usually so brilliant at that
season, had changed scarcely at all; only a touch of color now and
then, but the streams were all up to danger point.

Bellows Falls was unusually attractive. We drove down the river, then
crossed to Walpole, N. H., for the night.

The washouts here were quite serious, and we repented leaving Vermont
to go zigzagging on cross-roads and roundabout ways in New Hampshire.
I wish we had counted the guideboards we saw that day that said,
“Keene eleven miles.” We had Brattleboro in mind, but after making
some inquiries at Spofford Lake, we decided to put Brattleboro out of
mind and Keene guideboards out of sight, and go to Northfield. We
dined that day in a neat little hotel in the smallest town imaginable,
and expected country accommodations at Northfield, but some of the
Moody Institute young ladies directed us to the new hotel “everybody
was talking about.” What a surprise to find ourselves in an elegantly
furnished hotel on a high hill, with a commanding view. The steam heat
and general air of comfort and luxury were truly delightful.

Another mountain was in our way, and the long, slow climb seemed
endless. Near the summit we saw an old lady who said she had lived
there twelve years, and added that it was pretty lonesome at the time
of the big snowstorm last winter, for the road was not broken out for a
week. We think we prefer a blockade at Southboro, in a warm car, with
plenty of company.

A gentleman, speaking of an extended tour by carriage some years ago,
said he thought Erving, Mass., the most forlorn place he was ever in.
We fully assent. We were cold after coming over the mountain, and that
dreary parlor, without a spark of fire or anything to make one in, and
a broken window, was the climax of cheerlessness. The dinner was very
good, but the waiting was dreary. We walked to the railway station, but
that was no better, so we went to the stable for our extra wraps, and
then tried to forget the dreary room and lose consciousness in a book.
This was not a good preparation for a long drive, but a little hail
flurry as we drove through Athol took some of the chill out of the air,
and the drive to Petersham was more comfortable. At the little hotel in
that airy town, fires were built for us up and down stairs, and Erving
was forgotten.

And now comes our last day’s drive, for although Jerry had traveled
already over six hundred miles on this trip, he was fully equal to the
thirty miles from Petersham to Leominster. We forgot to ask to have the
phaeton washed, and it looked so bad we stopped at a watering-trough in
the outskirts of the town and washed off the shields with newspapers.
After this we felt so respectable and self-confident that we did not
heed our ways, until a familiar landmark in the wrong direction brought
us to the certain knowledge that we were decidedly off our road.

We saw a young man and he knew we were wrong, but that was all he knew
about it, so we turned back and presently came across an older and
wiser man, who said, pityingly, “Oh, you are wrong, but if you will
follow me, I will start you right.” We meekly followed for a mile and
a half perhaps, but it seemed twice that, then he stopped and directed
us to Princeton. We had no more difficulty, but were so late at the
Prospect House that a special lunch was prepared for us, dinner being
over.

It grew very cold, and was dark before we got home, but Jerry knew
where he was going and lost no time. Although he had been through about
ninety towns, and been cared for at over thirty different hotels, he
had not forgotten Leominster and his own stall. Do you suppose he
remembers, too, his old Kentucky home?




CHAPTER X.

BY PHAETON TO CANADA—NOTES OF A SEVEN HUNDRED MILES TRIP.


Where shall we begin to tell you about our very best journey? Perhaps
the beginning is a good starting point, but we must make long leaps
somewhere or the story will be as long as the journey. We have taken
a great many phaeton trips—we think we will not say how many much
longer—but we will say softly to you that two more will make twenty.
They are never planned beforehand, so of course we did not know when we
started off on the morning of July 8th that we were going to “skip to
Canada.” When the daily letters began to appear with little pink stamps
on them, some were so unkind as to doubt our veracity, and declare a
solemn belief that we meant to go there all the time, for all we said
we really did not know where we would go after we got to Fitchburg. If
it was in our inner mind, the idea never found expression until we had
that chance conversation at Burlington, a full week after we left home.

That week alone would have been a fair summer “outing.” The first
one hundred miles was along a lovely, woodsy road, taking us through
Winchendon, Fitzwilliam, Keene, Walpole, Bellows Falls and Chester to
Ludlow. The gap between Chester and Ludlow would be a charming daily
drive in midsummer. From Ludlow the fates led us over Mt. Holly to
Rutland, where we have been so many times and then seemed to leave us
entirely, unless the faint whisperings that we might go to Benson to
make a wedding call beforehand, and then decide on some route north,
was intended for a timely hint.

Whatever sent us or drew us there, we were glad we went, and once there
talking it all over with friends, who knew how to avoid the worst of
the clay roads, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to go
right on to Burlington, spending Sunday so restfully at Middlebury. Had
we doubted our course we should have been reassured, when we learned
from the cousin whose aching head was cured by the sudden shock of our
appearance, that we were just in season for the commencement exercises
that would make of a mutual cousin a full-fledged M. D. The evening at
the lovely Opera House was a pleasant incident.

Here again we came to a standstill, without a whispering, even. As we
were “doing” Burlington the next day, with cousin number one for a
guide (cousin number two took early flight for home, and missed the
surprise we planned for him), visiting the hospital, Ethan Allen’s
monument, and so on, we talked one minute of crossing Lake Champlain,
and going to Au Sable Chasm, and the next of taking the boat to
Plattsburg, then driving north. We did get so far as to think of the
possibility of leaving Jerry at Rouse’s Point, and taking a little trip
to Montreal and down the St. Lawrence to call on a friend who said to
us at her wedding, “You must drive up to see me next summer.” But we
did not think to explore the Canadian wilds with no other protector
than Jerry; for we had strange ideas of that country. We went to the
different boat-landings and made all sorts of inquiries; then returned
to the hotel for dinner and decision on something.

The city was so full of M. D.’s and their friends that the washing of
our phaeton had been neglected, and as the proprietor stood at the door
when we drove to the hotel, we thought we would appeal to his authority
in the matter. “Why,” he said, “are you driving yourselves; where are
you going? Come right into the office and let me plan a trip for you.”
We took our map and followed along, as he mentioned point after point
in northern Vermont where we would find comfortable hotels; and he
seemed to know so much of the country about that we asked finally how
it would be driving in Canada? Would it be safe for us? “Safe! You can
go just as well as not. You can drive after dark or any time—nicest
people in the world—do anything for you.” Then he began again with a
Canadian route via St. Armand, St. John, St. Cesaire, St. Hilaire, and
we began to think the country was full of saints instead of sinners
as we had fancied. We ran our finger along the map as he glibly spoke
these strange-sounding names and found he was headed straight for
Berthier, the very place we wanted to go to. We stopped him long enough
to ask how far from St. Hilaire to Berthier.

“Berthier! Drive to Berthier! Why, bless me, your horse would die of
old age before you got home!”

Evidently he had reached his limits. Berthier was beyond him. We,
however, could see no obstacles on our map, and it was only “an inch
and a half” farther (to be sure, our map was a very small one), and
Jerry is young and strong—why not try it, any way?

We ordered Jerry sent round at three o’clock, and in the meantime we
dined, and went with our helpful friend to the Custom House, as we
could not drive into Canada without being “bonded.” Whatever sort of an
operation this might be, we ascertained it could not be effected until
we got to St. Albans.

At three Jerry appeared, with the phaeton still unwashed and another
“M. D.” excuse. We never knew it took so many people to take care of
doctors.

We went first to see the cousin who had piloted us to see the wharves
and stations, to tell her the labor was all lost, for we were going to
Canada. We then went to the post office, and got a letter containing
information of special interest to us just then; for while we had been
driving leisurely up through Vermont, friends from Boston had whizzed
past us by rail, and were already at Berthier.

We drove only fourteen miles that afternoon, and did not unpack until
very late at the little hotel under a high bluff on one side, and over
the rocky Lamoille River on the other, for there was a heavy thunder
shower and we inclined to wait. The next morning we proceeded to St.
Albans to get “bonded.” It proved a very simple process. One went into
the custom house and the other sat reading in the phaeton. Presently
three men came out and apparently “took the measure” of Jerry. He only
was of any consequence evidently. The occupant of the phaeton was
ignored, or trusted. A little more time elapsed, and we were “bonded”
at a cost of twenty-five cents, and all right for Canada. We wonder if
the papers are good for another trip, for they have not been called for
yet.

We crossed the invisible line that afternoon, and never knew just where
the deed was done, but when we were directed to a little one-story
house, well guarded by jabbering Frenchmen, as the hotel in St. Armand,
we realized we were out of the States. We felt like intruders on a
private family, outside, but once inside we became members. All seemed
interested in our welfare, and asked about our “papers,” advising us
to have them looked at, as in case we had any difficulty farther on we
would have to return there.

There was some delay in giving us a room, for it had been cleared ready
for the paperhanger, and the bed had to be set up, etc. Our hostess
seemed so sorry to put us into such a forlorn place, and the rolls of
paper in the closet looked so tempting, we had half a mind to surprise
her by saying we would stop over a day and hang it for her. We gave
that up, however, but once in our room we had to “stop over” till
morning, for two men occupied the room adjoining—our only exit. If the
house was small, the funnel-holes were large, and we were lulled to
sleep by the murmuring of voices in the room below us. We caught the
words “drivin’,” “St. John” and “kind o’ pleasant,” and felt as if we
were not forgotten.

Our interview with the officer was very reassuring. He said no one
would molest us unless it was some mean person who might think,
“There’s a Yankee ‘rig’!” That did not frighten us, for we never come
across any mean people in our travels, and then a clear conscience in
this case gave confidence, for we surely did not wish to part with
Jerry; and trading horses seemed to be the only thing to be suspected
of.

We found a pretty woody camp that first noon, quite Vermontish, but
for the remainder of our two weeks’ sojourn in Canada it would have
been like camping on a base-ball ground. We needed no “line” to make
us realize we were in a different country. No windings and twistings
among the hills, but long stretches of straight level roads, clayey and
grassgrown, sometimes good, but oftener bad, especially after a rain,
when the clay, grass and weeds two or three feet in length stuck to the
wheels, until we looked as if equipped for a burlesque Fourth of July
procession.

After leaving St. Armand, to find an English-speaking person was the
exception, and as English is the only language we have mastered, our
funny experiences began. If we wanted a direction, we named the place
desired, then pointed with an interrogatory expression on the face. If
we wanted the phaeton washed and axles oiled, we showed the hostler the
vehicle with a few gesticulations. The oiling was generally attended
to, but the clay coating of the wheels was evidently considered our
private property, and it was rarely molested.

At the larger hotels we usually found some one who could understand a
little English, but in one small village we began to think we should
have to spend the night in the phaeton, for we could not find anything
that looked like a hotel, or any one who could understand we wanted
one. After going to the telegraph office, a store, and in despair,
attacking a man sawing wood—most hopeless of all, with his senseless
grin—we found two or three boys, and between them we were directed to
a little house we saw as we drove into the village, with the inevitable
faded sign, and thanked fortune we had not to stay there. “Well, you
wanted to drive to Canada, so you may go and see what you can do while
I stay with Jerry” (the most unkind word on the trip). With feigned
courage the threshold of the wee hotel was crossed. In Canada we
usually enter by the bar-room, and those we saw had an air of great
respectability and were frequently tended by women. All the doleful
misgivings were dispelled the moment we entered this tiny bar-room and
glanced through the house, for unparalleled neatness reigned there.
Three persons were sent for before our wants were comprehended. The
bright-faced girl from the kitchen proved an angel in disguise, for
she could speak a very little English, although she said she did not
have much “practix.” A gem of a boy took Jerry, and in half an hour
we were as much at home as in our own parlor. We were shown to a
little room with one French window high up, from which we watched the
Montreal steamer as it glided by on the Richelieu in the night. The
little parlor was opened for us; it was hardly larger than a good-sized
closet, but radiant with its bright tapestry carpet, Nottingham
curtains and gay table-cover. There was a lounge in one corner and a
rocking-chair before the large window, thrown open like a door, from
which we looked out upon a tiny garden in “rounds” and “diamonds,”
full of blossoms, and not a weed. This was like a bit of paradise, and
we now thanked fortune we were there. Our supper would make one wish
always for Canadian cooking. We left with regret and were very glad to
stop there again a week later, on our return trip. We were welcomed
like old friends, and the changes we had made in the arrangement of
furniture had been accepted.

At another much larger hotel we were under great obligations to
a Montreal traveling merchant, who received us, answered all our
questions about mails and routes, and gave our orders for supper and
breakfast. He spoke English well, only he did say several times he
would not “advertise” us to go a certain route, as it would be out of
our way.

We dined at the Iroquois, on the “mountain,” the resort of Canada.
It is a large English hotel with all the appointments, and a pretty
lake is seen a little farther up the mountain, through the woods. We
illustrated the Canada Mountains we saw, to a friend in New Hampshire,
by placing balls of lamp-wicking on her table; they have no foothills
and look like excrescences.

One night in quite a large hotel, we had no fastening on our door. We
were assured we were perfectly safe, but our room could be changed
if we wished. We did not like to distrust such hospitality as we had
met continually in Canada, so we kept our room, but, lest the wind
should blow the door open, we tilted a rocking-chair against it, with
a bag balanced on one corner, and so arranged the lunch basket, with
the tin cups attached, that if the door opened a half-inch the whole
arrangement would have fallen with a crash, and everybody else would
have been frightened if we were not.

The last forty miles to Sorel, where we crossed the St. Lawrence to
Berthier, we drove close by the river Richelieu. We had left Montreal
twenty miles to our left, as we were bound to a point fifty miles
farther north. There were villages all along on either side of the
river, the larger ones marked by the cathedrals, whose roofs and spires
are dazzlingly bright with the tin covering, which does not change in
the Canadian atmosphere. In the smaller villages we saw many little
“shrines” along the wayside; sometimes a tiny enclosure in the corner
of a field, with a cross ten or twelve feet high, and a weather-beaten
image nailed to it; and again a smaller and ruder affair. Life in all
the little villages seemed very leisurely; no rush or luxury, save
of the camping-out style. The little houses were very like the rough
cottages we find by lakes and ponds and at the seashore. We were
charmed by the French windows, which open to all the light and air
there is. The living-room was, without exception, spotlessly neat, and
almost invariably furnished with a highly polished range, which would
put to shame many we see in the States; and frequently a bed with a
bright patched quilt in one corner. The little yards and the space
under the piazza, which is usually three or four feet from the ground,
were swept like a parlor. Touches of color and curtains of lace reveal
a love of the beautiful. The men in the field often had wisps of red or
white around their big straw hats, but the women wore theirs without
ornamentation. We saw them loading hay and digging in the field; those
at home were spinning by the door. If we came across a group of men
“loafing,” they would cease their jabbering, raise their hats and stand
in silence while we passed. We missed these little attentions when we
got back to the States.

By the time we reached Sorel we felt quite at home in Canada. We found
there a mixture of nationalities. The host of the Brunswick, where
we stopped for dinner and to wait two or three hours for the boat to
Berthier, was a native of the States, and we were well cared for. We
were well entertained while waiting, for it was market-day, and men and
women were standing by their carts, arms akimbo, as they traded their
vegetables for straw hats and loaves of bread—so large, it took two
to carry them off. We had been meeting them all along, the women and
children usually sitting on the floor of the rude carts, with their
purchases packed about them.

At four o’clock Jerry was driven to the door in visiting trim, well
groomed, and the phaeton washed. We went to the boat, and there for the
first time we thought we had encountered that “mean person,” attracted
by our “Yankee rig,” for a fellow stepped up where we stood by Jerry in
the bow of the boat, as he was a little uneasy, and began to talk about
“trading horses.” The young woman who had him in charge soon called him
away, however, and we heard no more from him.

The sail of nearly an hour among the islands, which at this point
in the St. Lawrence begin to be quite numerous, was very pleasant,
and when we came in sight of Berthier, marked by its twin shining
spires, we thought it the prettiest village we had seen in Canada.
The main street is alongside the river, and as we stood on the deck,
we caught sight of Mr. —— and Ruthie walking down street, and waved
a salute with our handkerchiefs. In a few moments more we landed, and
perching Ruthie on the top of our bags, we drove back to a charming
home, walking in upon our somewhat surprised friends as if it was an
every-day occurrence.

Rowing is the thing to do there, and we had a feast of it, exploring
the “Little Rivers” with so many unexpected turns. Then too, of course,
we rowed out to take the wake of the big boats, all of which recalled
vividly gala times farther up the river, in days before carriage
journeys were dreamed of even.

When we at last faced about and said good-by to our friends, we
realized we were a long way from home. We knew now what was before us;
indeed, could trace the way in mind way back to the State line, and
then the length of Vermont or New Hampshire, as the case might be.
At all events we must take in the Shayback camp on Lake Memphremagog
before we left Canada, and as a direct course promised to take us
over hills too large to illustrate by lamp-wicking, we followed
the Richelieu again, revisited the Saints Hilaire and Cesaire, and
turned east farther south. Our hosts along the way who had directed
us to Berthier, were now confirmed in their belief that “we could go
anywhere.” When we turned east, after leaving St. Cesaire, we felt
we were going among strangers once more, so we prepared ourselves by
stopping in a stumpy land, uninhabited even by beasts, and blacking our
boots by the wayside.

We drove over a mountain that was a mountain before we reached the
level of Lake Memphremagog. We had been told we could save quite a
distance by going to Tuck’s Landing, where we could be taken across
to Georgeville, instead of driving to Newport. We went by faith
altogether, having no idea what sort of a raft we should find; we only
knew if it was not there we were to signal for it.

As we slowly picked our way down the last steep pitch, we saw something
coming towards the landing. It moved so slowly we could only tell
which way it was going by the silver trail which we traced back to
Georgeville. We reached the landing just in season to go back on its
last regular trip for the night, and were greatly interested in this
new, but not rapid transit. Jerry was impressed with the strangeness,
but is very sensible and never forgets himself. We think he would
really have enjoyed the trip had it not been for the continual snapping
of a whip as a sort of mental incentive to the two horses, or outlines
of horses, which revolved very slowly around a pole, thereby turning
a wheel which occasioned the silent trail that indicated we moved. A
man, a boy, and a girl alternated in using the incentive which was
absolutely essential to progress, and we chatted with them by turn,
recalling to mind the points on the lake, and hearing of the drowning
men rescued by this propeller.

The Camperdown, that charming old inn at Georgeville, has been
supplanted by a hotel so large no one wants it, and its doors were
closed. We were directed to a new boarding-house standing very high,
where we were soon quite settled in an upper front room with two
French windows, one opening on a piazza and the other on a charming
little balcony, with the lake before us in all its beauty. This was
to be our home for several days; of course our friends wanted to know
how we got there, and when we told them how we crossed the lake,
they exclaimed, “Oh! you came on the hay-eater!” The “hay-eater!”
Well-named, surely. Late in the evening, as we were watching the
lake bathed in moonlight, we saw again that silver trail, and knew
the hay-eater must have been signalled. Morning, noon and night
those outlines of horses walked their weary round, and the hay-eater
faithfully performed its work of helpfulness.

It is a mile from the village to the Shayback camp, and before walking
over, we went down to the wharf to see the Lady come in—one of the
things to do in Georgeville. We were at once recognized by one of the
campers who had just rowed over, and who invited us to go back with
them in the boat. They had come over for three friends, and as the
gentleman only was there, we were substituted for his two ladies,
and we did not feel out of the family, as we soon learned he was a
relative, dating back to the Mayflower. Mrs. Shayback did not quite
take in the situation when we presented ourselves, but she is equal to
any emergency, and soon recovered from her surprise.

How can we condense into the limits of the Transcript the delights of
Camp-by-the-Cliff, when we could easily fill a volume! Twelve years’
experience on Lake Memphremagog have resulted in ideal camping, with a
semi-circle of tents, a log cabin, boats, books and banjos and a happy
party of twenty; nothing is lacking. We spent the nights in our “home”
and the days in camp, going and coming by land or water, having first
a row, and next a lovely walk over the hill. We enjoyed every moment
as all good campers do, whether wiping dishes, spreading bread for
supper, watching the bathers, trolling for lunge, cruising about with
Mr. Shayback in the rain for driftwood, or drifting in the sunshine for
pleasure, not to forget the afternoon spent in the attic of the log
cabin, writing to far-away friends.

The attic consisted of a few boards across one end of the cabin,
reached by a ladder, and afforded a fine view of the lake through a
tiny square window, and an ideal standpoint for taking in the charms
of the cabin, which is the camp parlor. The fire-place, swing chair,
hammock, lounges, large round table with writing materials and latest
magazines, and touches of color here and there, suggest infinite
comfort and delight.

The Sunday service in the chapel of cedars, to the music of the water
lapping against the rocks, was a pleasure too. There was no thought of
tenets and dogmas, in this living temple—only a soul-uplifting for the
friends of many faiths who had come together on that bright morning.

Monday came, and with it the Maid—the “hay-eater” would not do for a
trip to Newport. A delegation of campers rowed over to see us off, and
by ten o’clock we were seated on the forward deck, despite the crazy
wind, ready to enjoy the two-hours’ sail.

At Newport we set foot on native soil, after our two weeks’ sojourn
in Canada. The post office was our first interest, and there we got
a large package of letters, tied up, just ready to be forwarded to
Georgeville when our countermand order was received. They had been
following us all through Canada, reaching each place just after we left
it. The contents were even more eagerly devoured than the dinner at the
Memphremagog House.

Next in order was “How shall we go home?” By a little deviation to the
left we could go to the lovely Willoughby Lake and down through the
Franconia Notch; or by a turn toward the right we could go down through
Vermont into the Berkshire region, and call on a friend in Great
Barrington. As we had deviated sufficiently, perhaps, for one trip, we
decided on a drive through central Vermont, which was the most direct
route, and the only one we had not taken before. This route would
take us to Montpelier, and through a lovely country generally; such a
contrast to the Canada driving.

The next ten days were full of interest; a good wetting was our first
experience after leaving Newport. The shower came on so suddenly that
we used a waterproof in place of the boot, and did not know until
night that the water stood in the bottom of the phaeton and found its
way into our canvas grip. The large rooms we were fortunate in having
in that old ark of a hotel were turned into drying rooms, and were
suggestive of a laundry. Our misfortune seemed very light when we read
the disasters of the shower just ahead of us. We passed, the next day,
an old lady sitting in the midst of her household goods on one side of
the road, and her wreck of a house, unroofed by the lightning or wind,
on the other.

We begged the privilege of taking our lunch in a barn that day, as
it rained again. We tried to be romantic and bury ourselves in the
hay with a book, but the spiders and grasshoppers drove us to the
carriage. We spent a night at Morristown on the lovely Lamoille River,
and again revived delightful memories of a week spent there before
carriage-journey days; especially the twenty miles’ drive on the top of
a stage in the heaviest thunderstorm of the season, and a day on Mt.
Mansfield.

We had another look at the Winooski River, which we saw first at
Burlington, and the day after our visit to Montpelier we followed
Wait’s River, which ought to have a prettier name, from its infancy, in
the shape of a tiny crack on a hillside, through its gradual growth to
a rarely beautiful stream, and its final plunge into the Connecticut.
We forgot the rain in studying the life of a river.

In one little hotel the dining-room was like a green-house; plants in
every corner, in the windows, on the top of the stove, and in seven
chairs. The air was redolent of tuberoses instead of fried meats, and
we were reminded of the wish expressed by a friend in the Newport
package of letters, that we might live on perfumes.

At another hotel in Vermont we did not at first quite like the clerk,
and we think he was not favorably impressed with us, for he conducted
us past several pleasant unoccupied rooms, through a narrow passage way
to a small back room with one gas jet over the wash-stand. We accepted
the quarters without comment, except asking to have some garments
removed, as we do not follow Dr. Mary Walker’s style of dress. We then
improved our appearance so far as possible and went to supper. When
we came out of the dining-room, we very politely asked the clerk if he
could give us a room with better light, as we had some writing to do.
He looked at us a moment and then said he would see what he could do.
We followed him by all these rooms, which would have been perfectly
satisfactory, until, in another part of the house, he ushered us into
what must be the bridal suite—an elegantly furnished apartment, with
dressing-room and bath, a chandelier, piano, sofa and every luxury.
We expressed not the least surprise, but quietly thanked him, saying,
“This is much more like.”

We stayed over a half-day at one place, to rest Jerry, and as we were
sitting with our books under a tree in the yard, a traveling doctor,
who was staying at the same house, came rather abruptly upon us, asking
many questions. We do not know his name or his “hame,” nor does he know
nearly as much of us as he would if our civil answers had contained
more information. Evidently he was leading up to something, and after
he had tried to find out whether we were married or single, where we
lived, what we should do if we were attacked on the road, or if a wheel
should get “set,” as his did the other day, etc., etc., etc., out it
came: “Well, what do you take with you for medicine?” The “nothing but
mind-cure,” which spoke itself as quick as thought, was a cruel blow,
and too much for his patience. The hasty gesture which waived the whole
subject and a gruff “you ought to have something” was followed by the
opportune dinner bell, and we never saw him more. He fasted until we
were off.

As we journeyed south we found we should be just in time to take
in the last Sunday of the grove meeting at Weirs, and we thought
Lake Champlain, the St. Lawrence River, Lake Memphremagog and Lake
Winnipiseogee would make an interesting water outline for our trip.
This little plan was, however, delightfully frustrated, for as we
drove along Saturday morning on our way to Plymouth, we saw our Great
Barrington friend sitting at the window of her New Hampshire home, and
in less than five minutes Jerry was in the barn and we were captured
for a Sunday conference at Quincy. There was only one thing to regret,
the delay in getting to Plymouth for our mail, and it was suggested one
of us might go down on a train between five and six, and there would be
just time to go to the post office before the return train. There was
a terrific thunder shower early in the afternoon, but it had passed,
and so we decided to go, although we confess it did seem more of an
undertaking than the trip to Canada. Our courage nearly failed when we
stood on the platform of the little station and saw, as we looked up
the valley, that another shower was coming and seemed likely to burst
in fury upon us before we could get on board the train. We should have
given it up, but while waiting we had discovered another Mayflower
relative going farther south, and we faced it together. Repentance
came in earnest when the conductor said there would not be time to
go to the post office. Being in the habit of reckoning time by the
fractions of minutes, we took out our watch and asked for time-table
figures; but do our best we could not extort from him the exact time
the train was due to return. We kept ahead of the shower the six or
seven miles to Plymouth, and before we got to the station he came to
say that by getting off at the crossing, and going up a back street,
there might be time. A young man got off at the same place, and said,
as we hastened up the street, “the shower will get there before you
do!” We distanced the elements, however, but imagine our dismay at
sight of the delivery window closed. It was an urgent case, and we
ventured to tap on the glass. No answer, and we tapped again, trembling
with the double fear of the liberty taken, and of losing the train. A
young man with a pleasant face—how fortunate it was not the deaf old
man we once battled with for our mail, for taps would have been wasted
on him—lifted the window a crack, and with overwhelming thanks we
took the letters. By this time the office was full of people who had
sought shelter from the shower, which had got there in dreadful fury.
Water-proof and umbrella were about as much protection as they would
be in the ocean. Like a maniac, we ran through the streets, and smiled
audibly as we waded rubberless, to the station under the Pemigewasset
House. If we had dropped right out of the clouds upon that platform,
alive with men, we should not have been received with more open-eyed
amazement. Out of breath and drenched, we asked if the train had gone
to Quincy. “No, and I guess it won’t yet awhile, if it rains like
this!” Washouts and probable detentions danced through our mind, as the
lightning flashed and the thunder roared as if the end had come. In
course of time it came out that the “return” train was a freight, which
would start after two other trains had gone. The conductor came along
and said, “It is too bad, but the office will be closed now.” “Oh, I
have been, and have my letters too.”

The freight “time” was announced, and the car was reached by a jump
down three feet from the platform into water as many inches deep, and
a climb on the other side. Every face was strange but one, that of the
“drummer” who breakfasted at our table that morning, and who liked the
little hotel so much that he was going back to spend Sunday, as we
were informed by the waitress. We do not think he mistrusted that the
bedraggled passenger was one of the carriage tourists. We wrung out
the dress skirt, hung up the waterproof to drain, and then were ready
to enjoy the luxury,—the caboose. When we reached Quincy the sun was
setting in bright clouds, as if it had never heard of rain.

The prodigal himself was not more gladly welcomed. Our outer self was
hung up to dry, and in borrowed plumage we spent a very social evening,
with the many friends who had come to us by mail, through tribulation,
to swell the company.

We went to Vermont to begin our journey, and we may as well end it in
New Hampshire. We must tell you first, however, that this journey has
opened the way for many trips that have seemed among the impossible,
but which we now hope to enjoy before Jerry is overtaken by old age or
the phaeton shares the fate of the proverbial chaise.




CHAPTER XI.

OUTINGS IN MASSACHUSETTS.


“Too bad you did not have your trip this year,” and “You did not have
your usual drive, did you?” from one and another, proves that others
besides ourselves thought we did not “go anywhere” just because we did
not drive seven hundred miles, and cross the borders into Canada as we
did last year. But we will remind you as we have reminded ourselves,
that a little is just as good as a great deal so long as it lasts, and
that no one need go to Canada thinking to find finer driving than right
here in Massachusetts. Indeed, the enchantment of Canadian roads is
largely that lent by distance.

Seriously, it is not that we did not go to Canada or to the mountains,
that the impression has gone abroad that we did not go anywhere, but
because of the mountains or obstructions that lay across our path all
July and August, and threatened September. Scripture says mountains can
be removed by faith, and perhaps it was due to our faith in believing
we should go because we always have been, that the way was suddenly
cleared near the middle of September, and we were off without any
farewells for just a little turn in Massachusetts.

Our annual outing had a long preliminary of waiting, and our story
would be quite incomplete unless we gave you a little account of
our doings during the weeks we were—not weeping and wailing—but
wondering, and watching the signs of the times and trying to think how
it would seem if we should have to give it up after eighteen summers
without a break.

There is a balm for every ill, and a row boat is next to a phaeton,
while camping is an indescribable pleasure to those who like it. We
do, and joined the first party of ladies who camped in this vicinity.
The delightful recollections of our tent life by Wachusett Lake have
intensified as time went on, and one year ago they seemed to culminate
when the A. family purchased an acre of land by Spec pond, and built a
camping cottage.

Probably there are very few Transcript readers who know there is such a
lovely spot in the world as Spec, for you cannot see it unless you go
where it is.

The passing traveler on the highway would never suspect that these
little wood roads lead to such a lovely sheet of water, clear and very
deep, a half mile perhaps from shore to shore, and so thickly wooded
all around that all you can see of the outer world is just the tip
of Wachusett from one place in the pond. Almost adjoining, although
entirely hidden, is another pond known as “Little Spec.” Spectacle Pond
is the correct but never-used name of these waters, about four miles
from Leominster, and indeed, four miles from everywhere—Lancaster,
Harvard, Shirley or Lunenburg.

Now you know about the pond you may be interested in the cottage,
which is reached by a private winding road through the woods after
leaving the highway, or by a long flight of easy steps from the little
wharf. A clearing was made large enough for the cottage, which is
simple in construction, but all a true camper could wish in comfort
and convenience. There is one large room, and a smaller room back
for a kitchen, which furnishes ample opportunity for as many to lend
a hand as chance to be in camp, for co-operation is specially adapted
to such life. Six cosy bedrooms open from these two rooms. There is
a broad piazza in front, which serves as an ideal dining-room, from
which you seem to have water on three sides, as Breezy Point (it so
christened itself one hot summer day) is shaped something like half
an egg. The entire front of the cottage can be opened, and what could
look cosier than that roomy room, with a large hanging lamp over a
table surrounded by comfortable chairs, the walls bright with shade
hats and boating caps, handy pin-cushions, and in fact everything one
is likely to want in camp—all so convenient? Under a little table you
would find reading enough for the longest season, and in the drawer a
“register” which testifies to about seven hundred visitors, among them
Elder Whitely from the Shaker community we read about in Howells’s
“Undiscovered Country,” who brought with him a lady from Australia, and
an Englishman who was interested to examine a mosquito, having never
seen one before—happy man! Hammocks may swing by the dozen, right in
front of the cottage; and just down the slope to the left is a little
stable, with an open and a box stall, and a shed for the carriage. If
you follow along the shore towards the steps, you will find the boats
in a sheltered spot.

The hospitality of the A. family is unlimited, and the friend who was
“counted in” so many times the first season that she felt as if she
“belonged” resolved she would have a boat next season that could be
shared with the campers; for you cannot have too many boats. When
the summer days were over, and one would almost shiver to think of
Spec, with the bare trees and the cold water beneath the icy surface,
the boat fever still ran high, and one of the coldest, dreariest days
last winter, we went to Clinton to look at some boats partly built. We
ploughed through the snow in search of the boats, and then of the man
who owned them, and were nearly frozen when we had at last selected
one and given directions for the finishing up. We had an hour to wait
in the station, and we said, “Now, let’s name the boat!” As quick
as thought one exclaimed, “What do you think of ‘G. W.’—not George
Washington, but simply the ‘mystic initials’ suggested by date of
purchase?” As quick came the answer, “I like it.” “Very well, the G. W.
it is.” Lest we take too much credit to ourselves for quick thinking we
will tell you that a little friend said in the morning, “Why, if you
get your boat today, you ought to call it George Washington, for it is
his birthday, a fact which had not occurred to us.”

Now if Jerry could tell a story as well as Black Beauty, he would fill
the Transcript with his observations, but he never speaks; that is,
in our language. He wears no blinkers, however, and nothing escapes
those eyes, and he may think more than if he spent his time talking.
I feel positively sure that could he have told his thoughts when we
began to speak in earnest of our drive in September, he would have
said, “What is the need of those two thinking they must go so far for
a good time, making me travel over such roads, sometimes all clay and
weeds, or pulling up very steep hills, only to go down again, perhaps
tugging through sand, or worse yet, through water-fording they call
it, I call it an imposition—when they have such good times here, and
I have only to travel eight miles a day, even if they go home nights,
as they usually do; for the regular campers like to have a sort of
daily express to bring stores and visitors,—leaving me all the day to
rest and enjoy myself?” He would tell you how many pretty ways to go
and come, although left to himself he would always take the shortest,
if it does go over Rice Hill; of the lovely way by “Alden’s” where
they stop for ice; and a lovelier yet going home through the woods by
“Whiting Gates’,” when a view bursts upon you as you suddenly leave the
woods, which is like a Berkshire picture; and how discouraging it is,
when they take it into their heads to go by way of Lunenburg station,
or perhaps Lancaster. He has decided preferences, and his ears and the
turn of his head betray him.

He would give you glowing accounts of so many happy days at Spec,
beginning with a bright day in April, when we took our paint pots and
drove down early, having ordered the boat delivered that day. We waited
all day and no boat came, but we had such a good time roaming about
the woods and rowing that we overcame easily our disappointment. We
issued another order for delivery, and on the second day of May, when
we once more took a day, Jerry would tell you how astonished he was to
find waiting for us, right at the turn into the woods, two men with a
big wagon, and such a big thing on it. His eyes were open all that day,
for we tipped the boat up in the shed right beside him and eagerly went
to work. What fun it was to put on that bright yellow paint, and then
trim it up with black, only the black flecks would get on to the fresh
yellow, and what a mixture, when we tried to remove them! You would
have thought we were painting the daintiest panel, by the care we used;
and you know it is said a woman never stops as long as there is a drop
of paint left, so the four oars were gleaming.

A week later we went again to put on the second coat, and this time we
had a friend with us from New York. The little smooth rock on which she
inscribed her name and the date in yellow paint still rests in its cosy
spot by a tree, just as she left it.

Next came the launching, and later yet the painting of “G. W.” in
monogram on the stern by the camp artist, and in due time the red
cushions, with the monograms in black made by loving friends.

The “G. W.” has many friends, and one day in the summer, when we were
drifting at the will of the wind and musing, we were startled by the
sound of a gong. A horn is the usual summons to return to camp. We
caught up the oars, and hastened to solve the mystery. “Don’t you
wonder how those Lancaster friends ever thought of a beautiful Japanese
gong for the ‘G. W.’ to call the crew together?” they said.

If we are not careful we shall make the “preliminary” as long as Jerry
would; but then that covers months, while the journey was only a little
over two weeks. Really, we have hardly begun to tell you the good
times we had during these weeks of waiting. Sometimes we went to Spec
with a carriage full of people, and oftentimes with a wagon full of
things; anything and everything from a cream pie to a bale of hay, or a
sawhorse. However we went, or whatever for, it was never so sunny or
so cloudy, so hot or so cold, that we could resist taking a turn with
the “G. W.” even if we had to bail out nearly five hundred dipperfuls
first, as we did more than once; you know it has rained now and then
for a year or two.

It was always a delight, from the time of the budding of the trees
and bushes along the shore to that raw cold day late in November when
we had our last row in fur cloak and mittens while waiting for the
men to come and put the G. W. on shore for the winter. The hillside
of laurel, in its season, is beyond description. You must leave the
boat and take a look for yourself. Although close by the shore, it is
hidden from the water except in glimpses. Later come the fragrant white
azaleas all along the shore, and the beautiful lilies in the coves,
then the gorgeous autumn foliage, and lastly the chestnuts, which tempt
one to pull the boat into the bushes and just look for a few. We said
“lastly.” How could we forget that day when we went sleighing to Spec
to see how it looked in winter, and just wished we had some skates as
we walked about on the ice! How lovely it was that day! How cold it was
the day after when the “camp artist” took her chair out on the ice, and
tried to finish up a sketch begun in the fall!

Nothing is more enjoyable than to make a complete circuit of the pond,
rounding Point Judith, passing Laurel landing, touching at the old club
landing if friends are there, then on by Divoll’s landing, Spiritualist
Point, Sandy Beach, and so on to Breezy Point again. Passing the
Lancaster landing reminds us that we have forgotten to tell you that
a party of Lancaster gentlemen purchased five acres adjoining Breezy
Point, and have built a cottage, which makes us begin to wonder if
Spec will sometime be a fashionable watering place. May the day be far
distant!

We must go on, and yet not one word have we told you of the times when
we stayed two or three days, and how we spent all our evenings on the
water, just dipping lightly the oars, while we watched the sunset
clouds, and then were on the alert for the first glimpse of Venus,
followed by Mars and Jupiter, and all the rest of the heavenly host,
not to mention seeing the moon rise three times in fifteen minutes, one
night, by changing our position on the water, after waiting four hours
for it; or glorious to tell of, rising early and going out for a row
before breakfast. Mrs. Shayback will testify to all we tell you of the
joys of camp life, and how even work is play, for she and her friends
built a log cabin in their Memphremagog camp last summer and were
jubilant over it.

As I live it all over telling you about it, I marvel myself that we
think a phaeton trip is better than camping; but we do, and without a
pang we turned from it all, and started off in the rain Sept. 13th.
We will not trust Jerry to tell you anything of this outing, for his
enthusiasm is not sufficient to do it justice. It had rained constantly
for five days, and we waited two hours for what we thought might be the
“clearing up” shower, but we were only very glad we did not spoil our
day’s drive, for it continued to rain for five days longer.

You may remember, for we have often spoken of it, that we do not
usually plan our journeys beforehand; but this year, as our time was
too limited to permit us to stray away to Canada, or even among the
mountains, and as we had a suggestion of months’ standing to turn Jerry
towards Great Barrington, we decided to revel once more in the delights
of Berkshire.

A friend sent us her direct route from our house, but we proved true
to our wandering inclinations by going to the extreme eastern part
of the state to reach the extreme western portion, simply because we
have never been to Berkshire that way. The journey did not open as
auspiciously as sometimes, owing less to the rain, to which we have
become accustomed, almost attached to, than to the experience of our
first night, which we will spare you, as we wish we could have been
spared. It was all forgotten, however, when we stole quietly into the
back pew of a church near Boston, and were pleasantly taken possession
of by friends after service. In the evening we repeated the experience
in another suburb twelve or fifteen miles away.

We were not quite ready to face Great Barringtonward, so went a little
farther easterly, then took a genuine westward direction. To know how
soon and how often we deviated you should see the little outline maps
we made of this trip. We drove west, then southwest to the border
line, then up again, taking dinner or spending a night at Medfield and
Milford, Uxbridge and Webster, Southbridge and Palmer, having reasons
of our own for each deviation, one of which was to make sure we did not
get so near home that Jerry would insist upon taking us there.

On the way to Palmer we discovered that the whiffletree was broken.
We were trying to secure it with wire, which we always have with us,
when an elderly gentleman drove along and asked if he could help us. He
examined our work and approved it, but did not seem quite satisfied to
leave, and finally said, “Does this team belong ’round here?”

“No, sir; it does not.”

“Oh, I see; perhaps you do not care to tell where you came from.”

“Oh, yes, we do; we are from Leominster.”

A little intimation of business came next and we assured him we were
not book agents or canvassers of any kind, but were simply traveling
for pleasure. His interest warmed, and when in justice to Jerry, we
told him he took us seven hundred miles, to Canada and back, in one
month last year, he was greatly pleased, and said, “Well, well, that is
good, I will warrant you!” and drove on.

Our repairs were completed just in season for the next shower. The
little whiffletree episode came in one of those between-times when the
rain seemed to stop to take breath for a fresh start. This last, which
proved the clearing shower, was a triumph. How it did pour!

We left Palmer in the morning, after some delay, in glorious sunshine
and with a new whiffletree, but minus some of our literature, owing
to the washing of the phaeton. The hostler said he knew some of the
“papers” went off in “that man’s buggy.” We do not know who “that man”
was, but what he thought when he found himself possessed of a writing
tablet, a “New Ideal” and “The Esoteric” depends upon his intellectual
status and attitude of thought. A new world may have been revealed to
him.

Our next destination was Springfield, and after dinner at the
Massasoit, with our first letters from home for dessert, we drove on,
via Chicopee, to Westfield for the night. Here we considered our next
deviation from a direct course. As there was some uncertainty about the
condition of the roads, we were advised to go to Chester, which gave us
a pretty drive along the Westfield River. We got in earlier than usual,
and went out for a walk, and amused ourselves—or rather one did, while
the other sketched—walking over the swinging wire footbridges. They
are precarious looking things, and when half-way across, the rushing
of the river many feet below and the swinging motion give one the
impression of bridge and all going up stream.

We remembered well the drive from Chester to Lee, a few years ago. It
is almost as good as among the mountains just after leaving Chester.
Up, up, we go, and every spring, rill, rivulet and cascade is alive.
We wish everybody could go through Berkshire after a ten days’ storm.
After a few miles we changed our course towards Otis and Monterey, and
all might have been well if we had not made a turn too soon, which took
us over a back road deserted and demoralized; but they say “all is well
that ends well,” and we reached Monterey in season to climb a hill for
a view and take a brisk walk to get warm.

Our only definite plan when we left home was to meet friends at a
service in Great Barrington, Sunday afternoon, Sept. 21. It was now
Saturday night, and we were nine miles away, but that distance was
easily accomplished Sunday morning, and we reached Great Barrington
just in season to get a round dozen of letters at twelve o’clock. We
secured delightful quarters at the Berkshire House, and in due time
went to the service, as planned. We failed to surprise our friends,
as they were not there, but were well repaid otherwise, and went in
search of them later. A pleasant call, a promise to visit the next
day, a quiet hour at the Berkshire, a service in the Hopkins Memorial
Church, especially to hear the wonderful Roosevelt organ, and the day
ended. We had a fine view of the Hopkins-Searle castle-like residence
from our windows; but we lost all interest in it when we found a high
and massive wall was being built the length of the street, which will
deprive Great Barrington people of their finest view along the valley.

Our Monday visit was very delightful. We promised to go early and
stay late; but withal the day was too short for the visit with our
friends and their friends. With the help of those who have tried it
twice, driving for months through England and Scotland, we planned a
foreign tour, and got all the “points,” even to the expense of taking
Jerry across. We shall defer it however, until we get a new phaeton,
for we prefer to go through the prophesied “one-hoss shay” experience
on native soil. Really, crossing the water does not seem nearly so
“Spain-like” as crossing the “line,” and driving one hundred miles
north in Canada would have seemed some years ago; but we will defer
anticipation even.

In the afternoon our friends gave us a charming drive, and revealed
to us the attractions of Great Barrington and vicinity. We thought
of Bryant as we saw Green River, and felt nearer yet to him when we
called on a friend, known there as the historian of Great Barrington,
who showed to us the rooms in which Mr. Bryant first kept house.
A half-hour passed very quickly with our friend, who has a rare
collection of arrow-heads, and a fund of interesting information.

Tuesday we were off again, with a good morning from our friends and
the foreign tourists. There is no lovelier driving than through the
old town of Stockbridge, with its many noted attractions, on through
Lenox, captured by New Yorkers, to Pittsfield; and yet, just because
we had been there before, we decided to try a new route. We thought we
were enthusiastic over State lines and Shakers, and started off in good
faith, dined at West Stockbridge primitively, when Mr. Plumb would have
served us royally at the old Stockbridge inn, and took our directions
for State line. While we were waiting for a freight train to clear the
track, we came to our senses and asked each other why we were going
this way, confessed we were being cheerful under protest, repented,
and were converted literally in less time than it takes us to tell
it. Paul’s conversion was not more sudden. Jerry trotted back towards
Stockbridge as if he was as glad as we were. We could have gone direct
to Lenox, but we were going to Stockbridge, and we have been glad ever
since. Our folly only gave us nine miles extra driving on a very lovely
day, through a lovely country, and enhanced ten fold the enjoyment of
the afternoon drive back to Stockbridge, and then up through Lenox to
Pittsfield where we spent the night, and said many times “Oh, aren’t
you glad we are not over in York State?”

We busied ourselves quite late that night at Pittsfield making maps
of our zigzagging route to send to friends. In order to have them
strictly accurate according to Colton, we made use of a table and bed
blankets—but how foolish to give away our bright ideas, we may want to
get a patent some day!

The next morning we were off in good season for a drive over Windsor
Hill (still so glad we were not in York State). We took our lunch by
the way that day, and gave Jerry his rest at a farm house. Now we were
near Bryant’s birthplace, but had to satisfy ourselves with looking at
the signboard, “Two miles to Bryant’s place,” and a look at the library
presented by him to Cummington, as we drove by. We surely met a hundred
or more vehicles of great variety—the balloons, candy and peanuts
giving evidence that everybody had been to the fair. It was the season
of fairs, and we had encountered them all the way along. We saw the
Palmer people watching the racing in that clearing-up shower, and the
Great Barrington people were wondering how they should come out with
the track under water. At Westfield we had to go to the hotel “over the
river,” all because of the fair.

How they did fly around at that little hotel in East Cummington! It had
been filled to overflowing the night before with fair guests, and quite
a company of young people were still lingering for supper, enjoying
while waiting, a banjo and vocal medley. We sat full three hours in
the little sittingroom with hats on, and books in hand, trying to read,
before the beaux and banjos were out of the way, and our room was made
ready. Peace once restored, not a sound was heard all night.

Our next drive was over Goshen Hill, where we dined and “prospected.”
One cannot drive anywhere in this vicinity without recalling Mr.
Chadwick’s enthusiastic descriptions of the rivers and hills. We fully
agree with him as regards the justness of Mr. Warner’s observation,
“How much water adds to a river!” and if we drove over Goshen Hill as
often as he does when summering in Chesterfield, we too might like to
take a Century along with us, “in order to have plenty of time.”

Night found us once more at Northampton, where we always find pleasant
quarters, and the moon was just as bright as it was the last time we
were there. We spent the evening with a former pastor, who looked at
us a moment as he came to the door and then exclaimed, “Why, children,
how glad I am to see you!” A real catechism exercise followed between
pastor and “children” about everybody in Leominster in those bygone
years.

We dined at Amherst the next day, and had a hard pull over the hills
in the rain to Enfield in the afternoon. We had never been in Enfield
before, and were surprised to find such a pleasant hotel there—more
like a home. Sixteen miles next morning took us to the new hotel
in Barre, which has quite an “air,” with its hard floors, rugs and
attractive furnishings. We had no lovelier drive on the trip than
the fifteen miles from Barre to the old Mountain House at the foot
of Wachusett. The foliage was brighter than any we had seen and the
sunset clouds we enjoyed to the utmost, for we were late that night,
having taken the longest way round.

Many happy times were recalled here, where we used to go so much before
the carriage road to the summit was made on the other side, by the
lake. No road, however, can compete with the charm of that footpath up
the pasture back of the Mountain House, and on through the ferny woods
to the summit. We were almost tempted to try it in memory of old times,
but this was our last day, and we could not resist a quiet morning in
our sunny room, feasting on the extended view, and comparing it with
the Berkshire region. We wished our Berkshire friends were with us to
see how lovely our part of the state is.

We stayed just as long as we possibly could in the afternoon and then
drove the twelve miles to Leominster before dark, going by way of
Wachusett Lake to look at our first camping ground and the old chestnut
tree on which swung our five hammocks. Years have told upon the old
tree, and it looked very scraggy, while a cellar was being dug on the
very knoll where our big tent was pitched, that blew down three times
one day. The rocks on which we slept so peacefully, even after finding
a snake one morning, may be in the cellar wall. How many “auras” will
cluster about that dwelling! Whoever occupies it, may their years be
as full of happiness as were the days when “we twelve” camped there!
Why not stop right here and let our story end in the key it began,
“camping.” If there was a suggestion of minor at first, when we were
almost afraid we could not drive this year, the end was a joyous
major. What a lovely journey, if it was short!

       *       *       *       *       *

Soon after this journey report appeared in the Transcript, a long and
very interesting letter, also photographs, were received from the
finder of the “literature” lost at Palmer. “That man” proved to be
two ladies just returning from a long trip by carriage, and when they
discovered the unknown property, they concluded some man had borrowed
their buggy, and driven to Springfield the night before, and left his
papers under the cushion! From the character of the magazines, they
fancied the “borrower” to be “a clergyman of liberal views, tall,
slender, an ascetic—we were sure he wore eyeglasses—and on that night
was arrayed in a long natty mackintosh.” They sent the “treasure trove”
back to the Weeks stable, and drove on “shaking the mud of Palmer off
our tires, and vowing that we would never trust our beloved Katrina Van
Tassel to a Palmer stable again in Fair time.”




CHAPTER XII.

BAR HARBOR AND BOSTON.


Well, we have really celebrated our twentieth anniversary! Twenty
consecutive phaeton trips! Nearly eight thousand miles driving through
the New England States, New York and Canada! Our phaeton looks a little
past its prime, and yet does not seem to feel its age. If, in these
days of mysterious communication, it could have a tete-a-tete with
the “one-hoss shay,” and compare notes, what a garrulous old couple
they would be! Some people thought we ought to have a guardian on
our first journey, and had we anticipated a twentieth, we ourselves
should have felt as if by that time we should need a corps. If all our
wanderings had been revealed to us as we drove along the Connecticut,
on that first trip, they would have seemed more improbable than Camille
Flammarion’s excursions among the solar systems; but we live now in
an age which has ceased to wonder beyond—what next? and time and
space are both out of fashion in the realms we are exploring, when not
limited to the range of a phaeton; so a twenty years’ look ahead now
seems but a passing moment of time.

“Well, well,” do I hear you say, “tell us where you went.” Do not be
impatient; if you travel with us, you must be content to go as we go,
and we never know where we are going until we have been. It would spoil
the whole story if we should tell you now, for it would seem as if we
knew all about it when we started off that lovely afternoon the last
of June, with maps of Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, but without the
faintest idea which we should use.

If we were to have a journey, we must go somewhere for the first night;
and we decided on Groton, as we have been asked so many times if we
have ever stayed at the cosy inn kept by two sisters. We found it as
pleasant as had been described to us, and it seemed a good opening for
our twentieth to find such a pretty new place for our first night. But
where next?

Does it seem strange to you, to go off for a three weeks’ trip without
the slightest idea whether you are bound for mountain or sea shore?
Well, our experience is that the best journeys make themselves, as the
best books write themselves, for they accomplish what we should never
think to plan.

Once more we spread our maps, as we have done so many times, just to
find a place for the next night. We pinned Maine on to New Hampshire
and Massachusetts, and how big it looked! Surely if we once got into
Maine we could roam at will, with no fear of being lost over the
borders. It looked very tempting too, for it was a new map, and the
colors were bright, while the other maps were faded and worn. As we
traced one possible route after another, it really seemed as if Maine
was our destination, unless we should encounter the “green-heads,”
which would send us flying, for Jerry would be frantic. We folded the
maps after deciding on Andover for the second night. On our way we left
cards at a friend’s house in Westford, bought a box of strawberries at
Lowell, and had our first camp by the wayside.

At Andover we studied the “way to Maine,” as if it was the lesson
assigned. Thirty-one miles took us to Hampton, N. H., via Haverhill,
where we said “Good morning” to a friend, and later took our luncheon
in a pretty grove by a lake.

At Hampton our journey seemed to begin in earnest, for here we began
to follow the coast, driving on every beach accessible; Boar’s Head,
Rye Beach, Jenness Beach, Straw’s Point, Foss Beach, and passing
“The Wentworth,” which last took us a mile or two out of the direct
route, and gave us a look at the old portions of Portsmouth, so like
Marblehead in its quaintness. All these favorite resorts we took in on
our way from Hampton to York, winding up with the new shore road from
York Harbor to Hotel Bartlett on York Beach, where we went for the
third night.

A good supper, brisk walk on the beach, refreshing sleep, and another
lovely morning dawned. The view of the beach and surf is very fine
from “Bartlett’s,” but we are birds of passage, and fly on, mentally
photographing all the beauties by the way, to be recalled and enjoyed
at our leisure. Instantaneous views had to suffice for that day, for
the next was Fourth of July, and we wanted to reach Ferry Beach,
where Jerry as well as ourselves could spend it peacefully, not being
inclined to join in the festivities of the bicyclists at Saco. Jerry
made easy work of the nearly forty miles, perhaps owing to the three
miles’ brisk trot on Wells Beach. Just as we left the beach, came the
dense fog which hung along the coast for days, but we soon drove out of
it into the bright sunshine, and realized, more fully than ever before,
that the sun is always shining beyond the clouds. We dined and made
a call in Kennebunk, but had to send our thoughts to our hospitable
friend a mile away, and pass by the port rather than overtask Jerry.

Biddeford and Saco were alive with preparations for the Fourth. We got
our letters, our first word from home, and gladly turned towards Ferry
Beach.

Bay View was spick and span, and Mrs. Manson, the efficient hostess,
welcomed us, and gave us her best room. We are almost sure a woman
should reign supreme in a hotel as well as in a home. Who would want
a man for a housekeeper! There was a homelike look from the bright
carpeted office, with a work-basket and sewing-chair, to the easy nook
in the upper hall, with the tastefully arranged plants behind the lace
draperies.

How we slept, after a two-miles’ walk on the beach! Not a cannon,
cracker, bell or tin horn, and the morning was like an old-fashioned
Sunday. After dinner the children had a few torpedoes and crackers, so
we knew our peace was not owing to prohibition. We never knew a hotel
where children seem to have so much liberty, which is never abused,
as at Bay View. Is this, too, owing to a woman’s tact? In the evening
we watched the fireworks at Old Orchard, two miles away, and wondered
whether we should keep to the coast, or follow up the Kennebec to
Augusta, and go home through the mountains.

We got all the information we could, and having rested on the Jewish
Sabbath, we drove on Sunday nearly thirty miles, dining at Portland,
and spending the night at Royal Rivers, a comfortable little hotel
at Yarmouth. We got our only wetting on that Sunday afternoon in a
spasmodic shower, but we think it cannot be considered a retribution in
this enlightened age.

The next day’s drive took us through Brunswick to Bath. Here we were
at three o’clock, Jerry too tired to go farther, time on our hands,
and the Kennebec so alluring! Our letters had not come, and how could
we order them forwarded, when we did not know where we were going?
We must wait. We shall always feel indebted to that bright girl in
the post office, who told us we could go down to Popham Beach for the
night, as the Boston boat stopped there daily, leaving Bath at six
o’clock. A night away from our phaeton involves quite a little planning
and repacking, and where could we do it? We could leave Jerry at a
good stable very near the boat landing, but there was no hotel in the
vicinity. We had an hour or two, and decided we would see Bath, and
when we came across a rural back street we would repack in the phaeton.
Bath is more of a city than we hoped, and despairing of finding an
uninhabited back street, after we had driven on and up, in and out,
without success, we stopped under a tree in a triangular space, and
went to work regardless of the few passers-by. Very soon big bags,
little bags, shawl cases and writing-tablet were all ready, some to be
taken, others left; and we retraced with some difficulty our crooked
ways. We bade Jerry good night at the stable, and then had a most
delightful sail of an hour and a half down the Kennebec to Popham Beach.

Really, the Boston papers had not exaggerated the charms of that summer
resort, and we were glad we were there, even when we learned the
morning boat left at quarter to seven, instead of eight or nine as
we were told in Bath. There was no time to be lost, and we hardly did
justice to the very delicate fish supper, in our haste to skip down the
rocky path to the beach, where we must have walked two or three miles
back and forth, not returning until it was quite dark.

We were to breakfast at six instead of eight as usual when we are
driving, so retired early. The hotel is on a very high bluff, a “corner
lot,” where the Kennebec meets the ocean, and we had a corner room. At
three o’clock our eyes opened as if by magic, and rested on the most
beautiful sky imaginable, stretching out over the ocean, and reflected
in the lovely Kennebec. We marked the spot where the sun was soon to
rise, and resolved to see him, but the provoking fellow popped up when
our eyes had closed for a bit.

The morning sail was as fine as the evening. How we would like to row
as well as that sun-browned girl, who signalled the boat with her
handkerchief, and, with her three companions, was pulled aboard as
they came alongside, the boat being towed to the next landing. We were
tempted to go to Augusta, it was so delightful, but Jerry was waiting
for us.

Our next point was Boothbay Harbor. We could have reached there in an
hour and a half by boat from Bath, but Jerry could not be transported.
This was no disappointment, however, as we are always glad to resume
our driving. We were assured of a long, hard twenty-five miles, but
if we were to “do” the coast, Boothbay must not be passed by. Letters
came that morning, and soon we were off, fortified with oats and
well-filled lunch basket, ready to enjoy the day. What a drive it was
over rickety toll-bridges, winding and twisting about, up and down such
stony pitches, skirting the ragged edges of a bay! We took our lunch on
a rocky bluff overlooking the water, and Jerry was invited into a barn
and treated to hay. As we were wending our way towards the coast in the
afternoon, feeling as if we had left the world behind us, a carriage
came in sight, and as it passed a voice shouted to the driver, “Stop!”
We, too, stopped, as a young man leaped from the carriage. We were glad
to see anyone so glad to see us, even if we did not recognize at first,
in the young man on a business tour through Maine, a boy who used to
live almost next door to us. He surprised us again two or three days
later, rushing out from a hotel as he saw us driving by.

Boothbay Harbor was delightful from our window in the little hotel,
which looked as if it had dropped accidently sidewise into a vacant
spot on a side hill, and never faced about. After supper we walked up
to the top of the hill for a view, through a pasture, to see what was
beyond, and back to the hotel by the rocky shore, watching the boats of
every description anchored in the harbor.

Writing was next in order, and the tablet was opened, but where was the
pen-holder? Gone, surely, and it must have slipped out when we repacked
under the tree in Bath! A pen-holder may seem a small loss, but that
one was made out of the old Hingham meeting-house, and has written all
the Transcript letters and thousands of others. We grieved for it, but
could only console ourselves thinking of the fable we read in German
long ago, “Is a thing lost when you know where it is?” We replaced
it with a Boothbay pen-holder, a bright red one for five cents, which
is now trying to tell you of our journeyings as was the wont of the
Hinghamite.

It just poured that night at Boothbay, and there were no signs of
cessation in the morning. We decided to stay until after dinner, and
not divide our drive that day. Suddenly it cleared, and we went out on
the street to make some inquiries at the boat office about Bar Harbor,
for we were getting interested in the coast, and felt inclined to go
on indefinitely. A small boy came along with a poor horse and shabby
carriage, calling, “Have a ride? See round the Harbor for ten cents!”
We had time, and nothing else to do, so jumped in and “did” the Harbor.

The afternoon drive to Damariscotta was very pleasant, and we found
the old brick hotel full of hospitable comfort, for all it had such
a forbidding exterior. We might have been tempted to stop a bit in
Damariscotta if we had known what we learned a few days later, about
some recent excavations of interest, but we were within twenty-five
miles of Penobscot Bay, and impatient for our first glimpse of it.

We camped that day by a country school-house. Two little fellows were
much amused when we stopped there, thinking we had come to see the
teacher in vacation time. They were greatly interested in Jerry during
the unharnessing and tying to a tiny bush. We were interested in the
wild strawberries they had picked in the tall grass over the wall, and
one of the little fellows finally concluded he rather have the money
offered him than the berries, although he had nothing else for his
dinner. His eyes glowed as he took the money and went to the field
again, returning in a little while to ask us if we would not like
another quart.

We fared well at Rockland that night, except our room had one too many
doors, and our slumbers were disturbed by an impatient rattling of a
door key in the spare one. We aroused to the situation just in season
to surprise the well-meaning but mistaken man by a hasty closing of
the door, with an authoritative request to him to lock it, when his
exclamation revealed his discovery of the blunder. When we paid our
bill we quietly suggested to the clerk that it is well to have bolts as
well as locks on unused doors.

And now comes one of the finest drives we ever had,—twenty-eight miles
along Penobscot Bay through Camden and Northport to Belfast. How could
anything be more lovely! Crosby Inn, so fine in all its appointments,
was in harmony with the day’s drive. We had a pleasant chat on the
piazza with fellow travelers, who had been following our route for a
day or two. These ladies were traveling with a pair of horses and a
man, so of course took it for granted we would drive the thirty-five
miles to Bangor next day and spend Sunday there. We did not tell them
our plans, because we had none; we were only hoping we should find a
quiet country hotel before we got to Bangor,—we like it so much better
for a Sunday rest.

On we drove, leaving the beautiful bay, and winding along Penobscot
River, through Searsport, Stockton, Frankfort and Winterport, but
saw no place that tempted us to stop, except a little summer house
in a grove, where we rested at noon. We took note of a singular
advertisement over a watering-trough; “An Open Secret, that —— sells
Furniture, Burial Caskets, and Shrouds at Lowest Prices.”

Hampden was next and last. Unless we found a place there we must go to
Bangor. The last part of the drive was very lovely, and we began to
wonder what Hampden had in store for us. The main street, with most
of the houses facing the river, was very pleasant for a mile before
we came to a forlorn-looking old building with a faded sign, “Hampden
House,” over the door. We passed by, hoping to find a more attractive
place, but no—that was the only hotel in Hampden. We recalled our
delightful experiences in hotels with dilapidated exterior, both in
Canada and the States, and retraced our way to the Hampden House,
though with some misgivings we confess. A very pleasant woman met us
at the door, which is always a good omen, and sent her little girl to
call her father to take the horse. He came leisurely along from the
stable, and when we asked him if we and our horse could be cared for,
he answered, “I don’t know any reason why you can’t.” To our question,
“will all these things be safe in the phaeton?” he as dryly answered,
“This carriage may be stolen tonight—never has been one taken.” His
words were few, but his manner was reassuring, and we already felt at
home.

The floor looked old, and the stairs were well worn, but when we and
our bags were deposited in the upper front room, we looked about and
exclaimed, “This is just one of our places for a Sunday rest!”—rag
mats, high bed where you are sure to sink low in feathers, and a
purely country outlook. We had the dining-room all to ourselves, and
as our hostess served our supper, she told us how they had come there
recently for her husband’s health, and taken this old house, which
had so run down that no one would stop there. They were intending to
fix it up, but had been delayed by sickness, etc., but she told her
husband she could keep it clean. She was called away, for the ice cream
patrons began to come; and we went out for a twilight stroll on the
river bank, which was very high, and gave us a fine view. We next went
westward to see the sun set, and a proposition was made to go into the
Saturday-night prayer meeting in a little church we passed, but it was
not unanimously received, and we returned to our room and books.

The night was as peaceful as Fourth of July at Ferry Beach, and we
opened our eyes on a bright Sunday morning, refreshed. Our memory was
awake too, and we were sure Hampden, Maine, was one of the places
friends used to visit. We asked our hostess some questions, but she
knew little of the people. Later in the morning she came to our room
and said there was an old sea captain down stairs who knew everybody
who ever lived in Hampden. We went down into the little parlor and had
a very pleasant hour with him. He told us various stories of Hannibal
Hamlin, who had so recently gone, and all about the families we were
interested in,—where they were from, had lived, married and died. He
told us of one old lady still living, whose house we passed as we came
into town.

We went back to our room, and were next interested in watching the
coming together of the men in Sunday attire, to hold a “service” on
the steps of the grocery store opposite the hotel. It seemed to be a
general conference meeting, and the sentiments were wafted upward on
the curling smoke from cigar and pipe.

Dinner came next in order. Our hostess apologized for its simplicity,
owing to our coming late Saturday night, but fortunately we do not
spend overmuch thought on “the table,” and after the ceremony is over
it matters little to us. The unexpected ice cream gave a nice finishing
touch to our repast that day.

The afternoon passed all too quickly with our books and letter writing,
and the Hampdenites began to assemble for evening service. Men only
attended, and one by one they came until there were fifteen in a row on
the grocery steps. Presently a humpbacked man appeared, dragging Jerry
along, looking meekness itself, to the town pump. Suddenly Jerry gave a
spring, which greatly surprised the old man, and called forth sallies
from the grocery steps, which led us to think they had not advanced to
universal brotherhood. Directly attention was withdrawn from the poor
old man by the remark, “He’s from Boston,” referring to Jerry, and
immediately rapt attention was given to our friend the sea captain, who
looked like a genial presiding elder with his broad hat, white collar
and linen duster. Evidently he was entertaining them with some of our
driving exploits which had interested him in the morning. Finally one
impatient voice broke in with “Well, how did they happen to light on
Hampden?”

At this point we walked out of the hotel in face of the whole
“congregation,” for it was getting late for us to go in search of the
“old lady,” whom we really wished to meet. We sauntered along down the
pretty country road for nearly a mile before we came to the house that
answered the description given us. A young woman came to the door, and
told us Mrs. —— had gone “down the road.” When we told her who we
were, and that we came because we knew her friends, she said we must
come in and wait while they sent for her. We were shown into the little
parlor, and the hour of waiting passed more than pleasantly as one
after another of the household came in to chat with us. Presently it
was announced that grandma had come, and would be in soon.

We were entirely unprepared for the overwhelming reception she gave
us, all because we knew her friends, for she had never heard even our
names. The sea captain had spoken of her as an old lady, and to be
sure her hair was white as snow, but all thought of years vanished
when she entered the room with the grace and vivacity of youth, her
white fluffy hair like a crown of glory, and the old-fashioned crescent
which fastened the soft black handkerchief about her neck, flashing in
rainbow tints,— and came towards us with open arms. How the time and
our tongues did fly! She told us how she celebrated her seventy-sixth
birthday, but was she not mistaken? Had our eyes been shut, we should
have declared her sixteen, and when we finally said we must go, she
seized the lantern her son brought to guide us through the chairs and
hammocks in the front yard, and refusing any wraps, or even her son’s
hat, she put her arms around us and insisted upon escorting us up
the road. On we went for a full half-mile, and then walked back and
forth, girl fashion, for she would not let us go back with her, until
we had parted so many times she had at last exclaimed, “Well, we shall
get tired kissing each other,” and with another parting and promise
to write to her, we watched her as she turned down the dark, lonely
country road with her lantern at ten o’clock at night. What a charming
time we did have! And if we should tell you whose “Aunt Sarah” that
was, every reader of the Transcript would know; but we are not going to
say another word about it, except that she had the promised letter. We
like to keep just a few things to ourselves.

Have we told you we were on the way to Bar Harbor? Hampden has put
everything out of our minds. We could have crossed the river lower
down, but thought we might as well see Bangor when we were so near,
and then take the main road straight down to the island, a distance of
about sixty miles. We took a last look at Hampden, and after a brisk
drive of six miles reached Bangor, where we got our mails, filled our
lunch basket, drove about the city a little, and then were off full
of anticipation, for we had been told repeatedly that the drive from
Bangor to Bar Harbor was “magnificent.”

It was a pretty drive over the hills and through the vales to
Ellsworth, where we spent the night, and we found a pleasant camping
spot at noon. Our Ellsworth proprietor gave us much helpful information
about Bar Harbor, and we left, sure that the twenty remaining miles
were to surpass anything we had ever seen. It was hot, the first
really uncomfortable day since we left home, and it grew hotter as
we came nearer the island. The tide was out as we crossed the bridge
connecting Mt. Desert with the mainland, and our enthusiasm was so far
abated by the general unattractiveness, that we wondered if the name
Mt. Desert did not originally mean something. We were still hopeful,
however, but hope waned when we were fairly on the island, shut out
from every breath of air, in the midst of stubbed evergreens. Be
assured the signboard pointing to “The Ovens” did not tempt us from our
main course that morning.

“What unappreciative people!” I fancy Bar Harbor enthusiasts
exclaiming. But just wait a minute. Remember we are not there yet. Now
we round a corner and the scene changes. The beautiful harbor is before
us, dotted with yachts gayly decked, and boats of every description.
Lovely villas and charming grounds have supplanted the primitive huts
and stubbed evergreens. Fine turnouts, bright girls in tennis, yachting
and driving costumes, and now and then a real dude, not forgetting
the “men of money” and stately dowagers,— all are here, yes, and
processions of four-seated buckboards with liveried drivers seeking
patronage,—everything in fact that goes to make a fashionable summer
resort is found at Bar Harbor. The great charm of all is the grand
combination of mountain and ocean.

As our time was limited, we gave the afternoon to a round trip in
Frenchman’s Bay, our special object being to touch at Sullivan, where
friends declared they looked for us and Jerry every day last summer. We
did think about it, and looked it up on the map, but decided it was
quite too far for us to drive. Now here we were, but our friends were
far away. No wonder they were charmed with their summer at Sullivan.

Really, aside from its own charms the view of Bar Harbor would
compensate one. We touched at several points in the bay, changed boats
twice, and were delayed an hour just at sunset, which we enjoyed from
the upper deck, and thanks to the delay, had a view of Bar Harbor
electric-lighted. Our obliging host had a special supper awaiting
us, and our day of varied experience ended with a long look at Green
Mountain in the starlight from our window.

While we were waiting for Jerry the next morning, the clerk rehearsed
enthusiastically the attractions of Bar Harbor, and asked us if we did
not think the drive from Ellsworth very fine. He looked aghast when we
frankly told him that, with the exception of the last mile or two, it
was the least interesting twenty miles of our two weeks’ driving—three
hundred and fifty miles. We can readily imagine, however, how
delightful it must seem to people who have been pent up in the city,
and we do not doubt it would have had more charm for us if it had been
a little cooler and the water had been at high tide.

Even the mists, that would not be dispelled, could not dampen our
enthusiasm on the famous ocean drive, although we almost despaired of
seeing the ocean, and began to think it was like some river drives we
have taken, without a river to be seen. When we at last came to the red
rocky bluffs, so wonderfully beautiful, and then followed our winding
way through a real mountain notch, we were in full sympathy with Bar
Harbor enthusiasts.

We must now think of turning homeward. If inclination had been
considered, we would give you an account of a glorious return via
Moosehead Lake, Dixville Notch and the White Mountains; but our time
was limited by other plans, and we had already strayed too far from
home to return even as we came. We must test Jerry as a sailor; and it
seemed wise to make sure of a pleasant day, and not delay, for a storm
was anticipated. The Olivette, a beautiful boat, ran from Bar Harbor
direct to Boston, leaving at six in the afternoon, but we could leave
at one o’clock on the Lewiston, and have the delightful sail along the
coast to Rockland, and then change for the Bangor boat, due in Boston
in the morning, at the same time as the Olivette. The Lewiston was said
to have better accommodations for horses too, and Jerry is always the
majority with us. We packed oats for his supper, and a gay Bar Harbor
blanket to insure his comfort, in the phaeton, and the man at the wharf
tied up everything securely. We were weighed, because a man said we
must be—everybody was weighed before leaving Bar Harbor—then went on
board, everything promising a most delightful afternoon.

We were full of anticipation, with map in hand ready to observe every
point. Within ten minutes we were in a dense fog, and rolling as if
we were in mid-ocean. We could barely discern the rocky bluffs along
the ocean drive, which we so longed to see. It was clear in Southwest
Harbor, and we had a few views of the island as we touched at several
points, for it was bright sunshine on shore; then we sailed into the
fog again denser than ever. A row boat came alongside, and we went
on to the upper deck to see passengers taken aboard. The wind blew
furiously, and the deck was deserted with the exception of a bridal
couple, whom we had seen three times before,—meeting them as we went
to Belfast, and again driving off the island as we drove on. They
were on the wharf at one of the places we touched at Frenchman’s Bay,
and here they were again, having retraced their steps, the bridegroom
told us, to take the sail along the coast once more, because his wife
enjoyed it so much. The fog, however, was no respecter of persons, and,
brides or not brides, we were all doomed to the same fate; an afternoon
sail with nothing to be seen but ourselves, and a rolling and tossing
that called forth ominous prophecies from pessimistic passengers. We
are glad we indulged to the utmost in optimistic hopes, for that was
all there was bright about it.

At Rockland we changed boats, and gladly, feeling that somehow the
change of boats would change the atmosphere and still the restless
waters. When our bags and wraps were deposited in our stateroom, we
went down to see Jerry. Any misgivings we had indulged in as to his
state of mind were dispelled when we went towards him with the oats. He
was all right surely.

We went out on deck, but how the wind did blow! And the rolling,
creaking and groaning increased as we went out to sea. More than
once it seemed as if the boat fell from our feet, and left us
standing amid air. One by one the passengers disappeared, and among
the last stragglers, we took refuge in our stateroom. There was no
inclination for preliminaries. We threw our hats on the upper berth,
and camped down for the night’s entertainment. The pessimists had the
satisfaction of being true prophets, but we still believe in optimism.

The night was long, measured off by the fog horn, and our breath
stopped once when suddenly the boat stood still and the machinery was
silent. It was a real relief when the creaking and groaning began
again, and we rolled on, resuming the tooting. We would not believe we
slept a wink but for the fact we dreamed that, as we came near home,
after our Bar Harbor to Boston sail, Jerry was independent and wayward,
and swung round suddenly. One said, “Never mind, let it be a turn to
the house the other way,” but before we got there he swung round again,
and then the driver was “up,” and said, “He has got to mind, if I can
make him.” She drew up the reins with a grip that would have turned
the Lewiston, and the result was that after much creaking and groaning
of the old phaeton, Jerry was rolled up like a kitten in front of the
carriage, and the “driver” was prostrate under the back wheels. The
dreamer extended a hand to Jerry, and he touched it as graciously as
any lord of the land, then arose and we three stood upright, unharmed;
and so we did, after our three hundred miles’ water trip, on the wharf
in Boston at eight o’clock.

The boatman attempted to harness Jerry, and the optimistic dreamer,
sitting in the phaeton, had full faith in his land wisdom, but the
driver came back from the boat office just in time to help him out of a
very perplexing dilemma. He had placed the saddle, and was diligently
searching for a place to put the crupper aiming towards the ears. The
driver with some difficulty suppressed her amusement, as she readjusted
the saddle. With a cheery “Good-by, Jerry,” the boatman returned to
his sphere, and we were soon off for breakfast.

Jerry was quite at home at the familiar stable in Mason street. After
breaking our fast we gave the morning to shopping, and early in the
afternoon we began a round of calls in Boston and vicinity, which kept
us busy several days. We could not think of ending our delightful
journey so abruptly as to be in Bar Harbor one day and in Leominster
the next, as we might have done.

We visited thirteen suburban towns, and could write a letter almost as
long as this one without exhausting the charms of the Wayside Chapel
in Maplewood, and the home of its owner under the same roof, which we
enjoyed through a friend, who exclaimed as we called, “Oh, you are
just in season to attend our daily fifteen minutes’ service.” It is
the embodied long-cherished idea of a helpful woman, and is full of
the work of her own hands and brain, from the embroidered carpets and
draperies, the allegorically painted walls, and fitting mottoes, to
many of the books on her shelves. But all this you can go and see, for
it is open to whomsoever wills to go in, without money and without
price; a church with a creed of one word—Love.

After this unexpected visit and service, we started off in pursuit of
a hotel, and at sunset found ourselves at Woburn. This was not at all
our intention; we were not ready to go home yet, and drove back towards
Boston the next morning for more calls, then faced about and took a
two days’ round-about for home, passing the old Wayside Inn in Sudbury
on our way. We took our last dinner at the Lancaster House, called on
friends, then drove around by Spec Pond, surprised the campers, and
had a fine row in the “G. W.,” whose hold on our affections is only
strengthened by absence. We took Jerry camping for a week, later in the
season, and he was a great acquisition to camp life, but we must pass
by the delights of that week, even our visit to the Shakers, and hasten
home over Rice hill. The view was never so lovely as in that sunset
glow. Our journey ended in golden glory, but we still feel it was not
complete; and from the queries of some of our friends, it would seem as
if they thought we did not have “much of a journey,” but it was one of
our very best, and at Bar Harbor we were just the same distance from
home in miles and time as we were at Berthier, Canada, two summers ago.
It is all owing to that abrupt return by water, and sometime we hope
to tell you how we drove to Boston, put Jerry on board boat for Bar
Harbor, then finished up our Twentieth Phaeton Trip.




CHAPTER XIII.

DIXVILLE NOTCH AND THE NORTH SHORE.


“In a buggy”! How strange that sounds! Not half so nice as “in a
phaeton.” Even after such a delightful journey as we have had in a
buggy (there never was a more ugly name for anything so nice), we
grieve to tell you the dear old phaeton has gone; not to pieces, like
the one-hoss shay, but to be initiated into a new life, with new
associations and environments, which is often like the elixir of life
to people, and may give our phaeton another quarter of a century.

It went away a month before our journey, and every time we went to
drive in the new buggy we found ourselves making comparisons. The seat
is higher; it is not upholstered on the side, and it seems as if we
should fall out; the floor is narrower. How strange it seems without
shields—fenders, they say now! Then we would come to our senses and
say, How foolish! Really, this is luxurious—leaning back, which
we could not do comfortably in the phaeton, without a shawl for a
pillow—how much room there will be without the bags in front! We shall
enjoy it partly tipped back. How much lighter for Jerry! It is nice;
of course we shall like it. The old phaeton would look shabby enough
beside it, with the dilapidated top and faded brown cushions, but the
ease of a phaeton “hung round it still.” What good times we did have in
it!

And then we would wonder who would have it, and fancy some poor man
taking it, who lived a little out of town, and had somebody’s pet
horse to keep until he died a natural death. Would the “auras” of those
twenty journeys take shape as he jogged about? They would be there,
and if his eyes should be holden in his normal waking condition, we
felt sure, should he fall asleep on his way home some sultry summer
night, his dreams would be like a running panorama without geographical
order, if the pictures of our journeys appeared chronologically.
Along the Connecticut River, with a view from Mt. Holyoke, would be
followed by Lake Winnipiseogee and the Isles of Shoals, Newport,
Martha’s Vineyard, Boston suburbs, Berkshire Hills, Hudson River, Green
Mountains, Lake George, Saratoga, White Mountains, and Boston, Vermont,
Canada, Franconia Notch, Old Orchard Beach, New Jersey, Dixville Notch,
Catskill Mountains, Narragansett Pier and Bar Harbor! Would the poor
man be able to locate himself at once, when aroused by the familiar
sound of the horse’s hoof on the barn floor? Ought we to tell him about
it? We decided to entrust him to the manager of the panorama.

We had at last to stop thinking of the dear old phaeton and adjust
ourselves to the nice new buggy, for it required an entire change in
packing arrangements. Things would not place themselves in the buggy,
as they did in the phaeton from long habit. Bags must be found to fit
the “box,” and the wrench, oil and twine had to be put into what one
might call an emergency bag—a Corning is so different from a phaeton.
We made some half-curtains to use in rainy weather, which take up much
less room than the “sides,” and do not shut out the view. By the time
we were ready for our journey we almost wondered how we ever got along
without a place for bags, things seemed so compact and out of the way.

Why anyone should have mistrusted we were going farther than Spec Pond
or Fitchburg when we drove up to the post office on the afternoon of
June thirtieth we cannot imagine; but a reporter did, and seized the
opportunity to interview us. We did not wish to leave town with the
ill-will of anyone, and responded civilly to his many queries, but
the entire information gained made a very brief item. Now, if we had
told him we were going to Pepperell we should have falsified ourselves
at the outset. We did think of spending the first night there, but a
bridge up and a big thunder-cloud turned our course towards Townsend,
and we reached the hotel just in time to escape a heavy shower. It
cleared away, and after supper we drove on to Brookline, N. H., and
were farther on our way, if our way lay north, than if we had gone to
Pepperell.

It is a pretty drive of twenty-four miles from Brookline to Goffstown
through Amherst, where we stopped for dinner. At Goffstown the landlord
was not in, and even bells called forth no response, so we drove off
to view the town. A second bold effort was more successful and brought
to light the landlord, who had turned carpenter and was building a new
kitchen.

Twenty-eight miles the next day, through Concord, where we always spend
a pleasant hour with friends, took us to Shaker Village, on the top
of a hill, where we spent Sunday. When you have made one visit to the
Canterbury Shakers you will not wonder that we have been there four
times. It is a restful place, away from the world of turmoil, and the
sisters are pleasant hostesses. They are free to investigate in any
direction, and we talked of Theosophy and all the advanced ideas of
today. Sunday morning a sister brought in several books for us to look
over, and we lent her one, which she liked so much we left it with her,
taking some Shaker pamphlets in exchange at her suggestion.

We deemed it a special favor to be invited to attend meeting, as their
services are not open to the public. If we had not such a long journey
to tell you about, we would like to tell you of that meeting, which
interested us very much.

Last year we hurried along the coast to reach Old Orchard before the
Fourth of July, as Jerry sometimes objects to fire crackers. This time
we had fixed upon Weirs as a celebrating point, and after dinner with
the Shakers, we started off for the eighteen miles’ drive. We had not
driven an hour before a fearfully ominous cloud loomed up, which grew
blacker and blacker, and very ugly looking. We sped through the street
of Belmont, and barely got inside the little hotel when the rain fell
in sheets, and the lightning flashed in all directions. We watched the
storm until the rain fell moderately, and the thunder rumbled in the
distance, and then called for Jerry, for night would overtake us surely
if we delayed longer. We drove briskly to Laconia, and then came a hard
pull over roads repaired with sods. The sun was just setting when we
surveyed Lake Winnipiseogee from the top of the hill which leads down
to the Weirs, and the clock struck eight as we entered the dining-room
of the Lakeside House.

Here we were entirely at home, and spent the morning of the Fourth
strolling about to see the improvements and our friends, in their
lovely new cottage by the lake. Everything seemed quiet by three
o’clock, and after a consultation with Landlord Weeks, we decided the
time had come for us to go to Squam Lake, which we had passed by so
many times. Hundreds of people were enjoying that perfect day at Weirs,
but they had forgotten all else for the time, and were crowded on the
shore to see a man walk on the water. Jerry was not annoyed by a single
cracker. The drive was very lovely, and the sunset views from the
piazzas of the Asquam House, high above the lake, were not surpassed in
all our journey.

Our “way” evidently lay through the mountains, and we took a lingering
look at Squam in the morning, and then were off for Plymouth. We forgot
to tell you that we made a cricket for the new buggy, which was a great
luxury, but we were not satisfied with the covering. At Plymouth we got
a pretty piece of carpeting, and after our lunch by the wayside, near
Livermore’s Falls, we took the tacks and hammer from the “emergency
bag,” and upholstered it. The result was a great success.

Now we were ready for the Pemigewasset Valley for the sixth time. It
is a drive one can never weary of, for it is never twice alike. We
found a new place for the night at North Woodstock. The house stood
high above the street and commanded one of the finest views of the
Franconia Mountains we have seen. We could just distinguish the Flume
House, five miles away, where we met friends as we drove through the
Notch the next morning.

We are always interested in the excursionists we meet “doing” the
Notch, with its Flume, Pool and Basin, for the first time. We left the
carriage to have a good look at the Old Man of the Mountain. We hope
nothing will happen to the jagged rocks that make up that wonderful
profile. We climbed Bald Mountain for the first time, taking our lunch
on the way. Jerry had his dinner later at the Profile House farm. We
spent the night at Littleton.

A bright thought came to us here. How pleasant it would be to look in
upon our friends at Lake Memphremagog. Newport did not look far away
on our map, but remembering those swampy, corduroy roads in northern
Vermont, with stump-land for scenery, we decided we would drive the
twenty miles to St. Johnsbury and then go by rail forty-five miles to
Newport. It proved a very wise decision, for heavy rains had washed
the roads, and the corduroy must have been impassable. Moreover, when
we got to Newport we found for once our plans were frustrated, for no
boats had been running for two weeks, as the water was so high they
could not land anywhere on the lake. News travels slowly in northern
Vermont. We had made many inquiries at Littleton and St. Johnsbury, and
were told the boats were running twice a day. We spent the night at the
Memphremagog House, and gazed by moonlight towards Georgeville, twenty
miles into Canada, where we had expected to spend the evening with our
friends, and thought of those “best laid plans.”

A pleasure we did not expect came to us, however, on that little side
trip. Just as we stepped on the car at St. Johnsbury we were startled
by a “Hulloa, Auntie F.!” We turned and saw two veritable tramps, with
beaming faces. Who would have mistrusted they were college boys in
high standing, as they stood there, with caps pushed back, and tents,
knapsacks, spiders, canteens, and who knows what not, strapped on
their backs? We “four tramps” took possession of the rear of the car
and talked over the family news, for they had left home that morning,
and we had been driving a week. They were full of plans for tramping
and camping through Canada, and quite likely some of you may have read
their interesting letters telling of their experiences via Montreal to
New Brunswick. They camped at Newport that night and called on us at
the Memphremagog House the next morning.

We were prompted to go to the post office before leaving Newport and
got a letter which it seemed must have been projected by occult means,
for how otherwise could one have reached there so soon? That is always
a pleasure, and we took the train for St. Johnsbury, quite content, all
things considered, with an outing of ninety miles by rail. Later in the
season an office boy in a hotel in New Hampshire asked if he had not
seen us somewhere in northern Vermont. We told him we had been there.
“Well,” he said, “I thought you looked natural, and that I saw you
there canvassing for Bibles!”

We began our journey a week before by driving to Lunenburg, Mass., and
about three hours after parting with our two tramps at Newport, we
began it over again at St. Johnsbury, turning Jerry towards Lunenburg,
Vt. We thought we would try our chances next in northern New Hampshire.
We had driven perhaps half the twenty miles to Lunenburg, when another
of those ominous clouds appeared, and just at the right time we came to
a large barn on a farm, but no house was within a mile. At one end of
the barn facing the road was an open shed, with places to tie several
horses, and a large sign-board, “Public Shelter Shed.” At one side
was a fine water trough and another sign, “Nice Spring Water—Drink
Hearty.” The customary broken goblet was close at hand. Several
children were there, with quantities of wild strawberries. They sat
on the grass with their lunch, and after taking ours we added some
cultivated strawberries to their pails, and they started on the run for
the little station nearly a mile away. We hope they were safely under
cover before the shower came. As we waited there, while the thunder,
lightning and rain held high carnival, we sent winged thoughts of
gratitude to the thoughtful man to whom we were indebted for shelter.

Having been delayed by the shower, and finding Lunenburg so attractive,
we stopped there for the night instead of crossing the Connecticut
to Lancaster, N. H. Several years ago we explored Dixville Notch, a
little south of Connecticut Lake in northern New Hampshire, and have
ever since talked of going again to get some of that lovely moss for
Christmas cards. We shall never forget the lovely drive along the
Connecticut, after leaving the White Mountains many miles behind us.
Then we drove on the New Hampshire side and looked over into Vermont.
As we were now in Vermont we drove up on that side and looked across
into New Hampshire. A new railroad had taken the old road by the river
in many places, and the new road was cut high above, which gave us some
fine views. At one time we saw showers before us and back of us and
only a stray drop fell where we were.

We drove twenty-eight miles that day, and spent the night at North
Stratford. We slept very well, notwithstanding the cars almost grazed
our room as they rounded the corner.

The next morning we were off, with our eyes on the alert for the first
glimpse of “The Nirvana.” At Littleton we got a copy of “Among the
Clouds,” and were much interested in the description and picture of a
wonderfully fine hotel, fifteen hundred feet above the level of the
sea, at Colebrook, which was to open soon. We concluded we were not
fitted to enter Nirvana, for the terms were to be from $4 to $7 a day,
but we could look up to it as we passed by.

Long before we reached Colebrook we saw its towers and gables resting
against the sky, and from the old hotel in Colebrook, which had been
much improved since we were there, it looked just above our heads.
There is a fine drive completed to the top of the bluff; but while
waiting for dinner we strolled up the short path through the woods,
hardly five minutes’ walk. We found the house really “open,” for
money had given out when it was but a skeleton; but we reveled in
the possibilities of “The Nirvana.” We climbed ladders, and saw it in
embryo, lest we might not be admitted when in its perfected state.
Every room commanded most beautiful views. From one window we looked
along the Mohawk River to Dixville Notch, following the ten miles’
drive we were to have that afternoon.

A good dinner awaited us, when we came down to the hotel, and as we
drove along the Mohawk Valley, after Jerry’s rest, we turned back many
times for another glimpse of the beautiful outline against the sky.

Once in Dixville Notch, all else is forgotten in the stillness and
beauty. The hotel was undergoing repairs, and many attractions were
assuming form under the guiding hand of the landlady. We waited for a
bed to be set up in a room radiant in freshly tinted walls and Japanese
matting, and immediately fell into the spirit of repairs with the two
or three guests, who were continually lending a hand. The house is
supplied with water from a brook which comes tumbling down the mountain
just back of the house. You cannot imagine anything more fascinating
than the rustic camps that have been built by regular patrons of this
secluded spot, at a little distance apart quite a way up the glen, with
little bridges spanning the rocky stream. Hammocks and camp couches
with real springs, were suggestive of a miniature Nirvana, which is
more easily attained than Nirvana on the Heights.

The moon was in full glory that night, and the morning dawned fair for
the Notch drive. As Jerry was brought to the door, our hostess asked if
we would take a few circulars. The few proved fifty, and thereafter
we enclosed one in every letter. We have still a few left. We heartily
assent to all the good that is said of Dixville. Yes, we found more of
that moss, so lovely for Christmas cards. We walked most of the two
miles through the Notch looking for it.

We took dinner at a large three-story hotel in the wilderness kept
mainly for the “river drivers,” whom we were much interested to hear
about. The Androscoggin is full of logs, and river-driving in the
spring must be quite lively. We somehow missed the interpretation of
the guideboards, and pulled up a hill two and a half miles long on the
wrong road that hot afternoon. We were obliged to retrace our steps and
take the turn just the other side of the hotel where we dined. Then
came the well remembered fourteen miles along the Androscoggin, through
the woods, and a night at “Chandler’s,” one of the half-dozen houses to
be seen on the plain as we emerged from the woods.

Great improvements had been made since we were there seven years ago.
That was the place where we had a room on the first floor, without a
lock on window or door, and a “transient” in the room adjoining. Now
the two rooms were one, with a curtained arch between, and the front
room furnished as a parlor, with a piano. We reveled in our royal
apartments in this wild, river-driving country, and did not mind much
the smudge on the piazza to keep the black flies away. We delayed
starting away as long as we could in the morning.

Mrs. Chandler gave us lunch for ourselves and Jerry, and we looked for
a wayside camp; but not even the shady side of a rock could we find,
and it was very hot. It was getting late for Jerry, and in despair
of doing better, we asked permission to drive into a barn. We were
just unharnessing, when the owner drove in with his milk wagon, and
insisted on helping us, and was so urgent, that after taking our lunch
in the carriage, we went into the sitting-room, where we could be “more
comfortable.” He came in and rocked the baby, while his wife prepared
dinner, and when left to ourselves, we went out on the piazza, which
was like a conservatory. After their dinner, the man and his wife
brought out chairs, and we had quite a little visit. We had something
to talk about, for a boy who began his career very humbly near us, was
a high school teacher in that vicinity, and much esteemed as a citizen.
We were interested to hear of him.

Jerry fared as well as we did, and was fresh for the drive to Gorham,
where we received and answered our mail, watching a ball game at the
same time from our window.

The next morning was a bright one for our drive through Pinkham Notch.
We passed the Glen House too early for dinner, but had been told there
was a little place beyond where we could get something for ourselves
and Jerry, and visit Crystal Cascade. While waiting we came to a barn,
which looked inviting for Jerry, but our chance seemed small, when
we glanced into the open door of a tiny board cottage, where sat a
thin, pale woman with a wee baby, and a book. A little girl of daft
appearance, in a slow drawling tone, assured us that was the only
place, and spoke to her mother, who had not seemed to notice us. She
said her husband had gone to pilot a party to the Ravine, and she
had nothing but cookies in the house, but we could put Jerry in the
barn and find the oats, and she would make us hot biscuit. We did
not wish to trouble her so much, and asked if she could give us milk
with the cookies? It proved a delicious lunch. Such cookies and such
milk! We were charmed with the “campish” air of the room. The baby
had been put to sleep in a hammock, swung across one corner. Behind a
door we espied a bookcase well-filled, and spoke of it. The thin, pale
woman brightened up, full of interest, and said the books belonged
to the little girl who had just said to us, in that same drawling
tone, “I—like—to—play—ball—better—than—any—thing—else.” We
were amazed to learn of her passion for books, which had prompted
the mountain visitors to give them to her. A favorite book was “John
Halifax.” Our attention was attracted to another case containing a full
set of Chambers’s Encyclopædia. She said some thought the “Brittany”
was the best, but she liked that. In a closet were two more shelves of
books—all good books, too. Milk, cookies, a hammock and books! Another
Nirvana, to be sure.

We skipped up the path to Crystal Cascade, and there alone, a half-mile
from the cottage, sat a woman on a rock overlooking the cascade, with
her knitting and a book. Nirvana again? Her party had gone on to the
Ravine.

Two miles farther down the Notch we left the carriage and ran along the
walk, and up and down the flights of steps to take a look at Glen Ellis
Falls. All these side attractions of Pinkham Notch we missed when we
drove through on our September mountain trip, in deep mud and heavy
mist.

Jackson was at its best this time. We watched the twilight sky from the
piazza of a friend’s studio on the grounds of Gray’s Inn, and spent
a delightful hour in the morning with the beauties of nature brought
indoors by her skilful hand. It was an ideal studio, with its little
garden in front, and vine-covered porch.

We passed most of the day in Jackson, driving to North Conway in
the latter part of the afternoon. To shorten the drive of the next
day, we drove two miles beyond the town and stopped at Moat Mountain
House, a favorite place for lovers of fine scenery. Mt. Washington was
particularly fine from our window.

Thirty miles, via Tamworth and Madison, stopping at Silver Lake House
for dinner, brought us to Moultonboro. The hotel was closed, and we
will pass lightly over the accommodations (?) and experiences of that
night, assuring you we were ready for an early departure, to meet
the nine o’clock boat at Centre Harbor for a sail through the lovely
Winnipiseogee, to Alton Bay. This was Jerry’s treat, as well as ours.
He is a good sailor. The courteous captain looked out for his comfort
and for our pleasure, calling our attention to all points of interest.
We dined at Alton Bay and then Jerry was fresh for a brisk drive of
eighteen miles to Rochester, where we found pleasant quarters for
Sunday, fifty-three miles away from Moultonboro.

The mountains were now well behind us, and we turned our thoughts
towards Old Ocean, only thirty miles away. We spent a night at Dover,
calling on friends, and camped one noon in Greenland, an ideal farming
town. We tied Jerry to a fence by the roadside, and we took the liberty
to enjoy the shade of a tree the other side of the fence. As we were
taking our lunch, we heard a slight noise, and turned just in time to
see Jerry in mid air, leaping the bars. He believed in equal rights,
and having obtained them at the expense of so much effort, we let him
stay with us. A guilty conscience needs no accuser, and when we saw an
elderly woman guarded by two young people, coming down the road, we
were sure they were after trespassers, and went out to meet them. They
probably fancied Jerry running riot in their mowing, but we had kept
him with us under the tree, where the grass had not flourished. When we
told them how he came there, they were much interested, and we had a
very pleasant chat on his and our own exploits.

We got as near the ocean as possible, by spending the night at Boar’s
Head, enjoying the evening with a friend we found there; we divided our
attention between the ocean and the stars.

“Of course they will go to Boston,” had been quoted in a letter from
home. Well, why not? What could be more charming than a drive along the
North Shore from Boar’s Head to Boston? We could see our friends in
Newburyport and spend a night in Gloucester, and take again that superb
drive through Magnolia, Manchester-by-the-Sea and Beverly Farms, to
Salem. And so we did, and from Salem we drove to Swampscott, spending
a night most delightfully at the Lincoln House. The heat had been
intense, but here it was so cool we put on our jackets and walked the
piazza briskly to get warm.

What led us to brave the heat on Crescent Beach the next day we
cannot imagine, but to our regret we found ourselves there, watching
the whirling horses, and the rollicking bathers, while Jerry had his
mid-day rest. A hot drive in the afternoon, with a call in Maplewood on
our way to Boston, finished up the day begun so cool at Swampscott.

It was too warm to linger in a city, and we turned towards home, making
several calls on the way. We did not follow the old turnpike, but
digressed; and found a new place for the last night of our journey. We
found old friends in the new place, however; one, a prominent preacher,
was in a hammock under an apple tree, with a ponderous book—his
definition of Nirvana quite likely.

The small old-fashioned hotel had been modernized and made attractive
by colored service and “course” dinners. We were interested to learn
that the town has no Queen Anne houses, no telegraph, no telephone,
no fire department, no doctor, no minister, and no money-order office
within four miles. We will not break faith with the friends who
confided all this to us by giving the name of the remarkable place,
only sixteen miles from Boston, for they like it just as it is.

We took our last dinner at the Lancaster House, and recognized in
the proprietor the quaint old man who kept the hotel in Goffstown,
N. H., when we were there several years ago, and who did so much for
our comfort. More pleasant meetings with friends, and then we drove
to Leominster via Spec Pond, and had a row in the “G. W.” A sunset
drive over Rice Hill, which has a charm of its own, that even Mount
Washington cannot rival, was a fitting close to our truly delightful
journey.

Another six hundred and fifty miles to be added to the several
thousands we have driven up and down New England, with now and then a
turn in New York State and Canada!




CHAPTER XIV.

THE KENNEBEC JOURNEY.


“I should think you would give up your carriage journey this year, and
go to the World’s Fair.”

We cannot tell you how many times this was said to us, but often enough
to become trite. Give up a carriage journey when we had not missed one
for more than twenty summers! What an idea! Our friends could go to the
World’s Fair, and tell us many things, and we could read volumes about
it, but who could take a carriage journey for us?

All that is neither here nor there, however, for we believe things will
be as they are to be, and for all we knew the journey, and Fair too,
were in store for us. So we waited until our summer program should be
revealed to us. For a time it seemed as if “Home, Sweet Home” would
claim us, but the way cleared after a while, and a two weeks’ journey
with Jerry began to assume form. Two weeks are better than none, but
where could we go in two weeks? Through the mountains, to be sure,
but when we go to the mountains, we like to go via Dixville Notch or
Boston, and take a month for it. Berkshire came next to mind, but we
like to take those unsurpassed drives at the beginning or end of a long
journey. We were perplexed, and wondered what we were to do.

In such times of doubt, we usually drive to Boston and there await
revelation. Since this last experience we shall always be ready to
trust Boston’s oracular power, for it there came to us to take passage
for Bath, Maine, on the boat which left Boston at six o’clock Wednesday
evening, July twelfth.

This beginning seems as abrupt as the ending of our trip two years
ago, when we drove over two weeks to reach Bar Harbor, and sailed back
to Boston in a night. For the sake of beginning a carriage journey on
terra firma, we will go back a bit, and tell you we had already enjoyed
two days’ journeying. We left Leominster Monday morning, July tenth,
driving to Lancaster the back way, to say good morning to the campers
at Spectacle Pond.

Jerry had two hours rest, and the time passed quickly with us, for we
met friends at dinner at the Lancaster House, and spent a half hour
studying a collection of fine etchings in the music room, where Mr.
Closson was to lecture in the evening.

We went out of our way to spend the night at Wayland Inn, and made
calls on friends along the way to Boston the next day.

The special medium of revelation as to our next move was the Sunday
Globe given us by the campers, in which our eyes chanced to rest on
an advertisement of an excursion to Nova Scotia. This seemed hardly
feasible, though we actually gave it consideration, as it was stated
the roads there were good for driving. This was only a “leader” to what
was foreordained for us. It must be it was foreordained, for our best
friend so declared it in writing us, and surely from the moment we
decided to take the boat for Bath, everything went like clock-work.

We thought best to go to the wharf, on arriving in Boston, to make
some inquiries, and secure a stateroom. We drove on Beacon Street as
far as we could, as we came in from Watertown via Allston, then made
a bold plunge into the tangles of carts, carriages, and cars across
Tremont street down Bromfield, through Washington to State, then in and
out, on and on, Jerry fully realizing the importance of his movements,
and using his abundant good sense in sparing his nose from the grazing
of the wheels that crossed his path, until we finally saw the welcome
sign, far down Atlantic avenue. Once safely in the office of the
Kennebec Steamship Company, going to Bath seemed the simplest thing
in the world. We were assured Jerry would have the best of care, and
a stateroom was secured for the next night. Some one else will have
to tell you how we got back to our destination for the night. We are
inadequate beyond saying we went back another way. Quite likely Jerry
knows every turn, but he is silent on the subject.

A good night had restored our shaken equilibrium, and we went down
town on a shopping expedition, also to get any mail that might have
been forwarded to Miles & Thompson’s in West street. We thought we
had too much time, and idled it away “looking” at things, until at
last we had to hasten back to dinner, without having done our chief
errand—replaced our broken hand mirror. That idling was a mistake;
idling always is. Although we hurried dinner, and hurried the letters
we ought to have written before dinner, the mail wagon drove away from
the Back Bay post office, just as we drove to the door.

We profited by this lesson, and took a straight course, that is as
straight as one can take in Boston, for the boat. The way we knew was
the straightest for us, and we repeated the intricate drive of Tuesday
afternoon, through Beacon, Tremont, Bromfield and State streets to
Atlantic avenue. We were on deck an hour and a half ahead of time, but
it began to rain, and we were glad Jerry and the buggy were under cover.

The abruptness of our story having been remedied, we will now proceed
to Bath as speedily as possible, but it takes all night, so there is
plenty of time to tell you of something of that part of our journey.
We found a dry corner on deck, and watched the passengers as they came
on board. A Sister of Charity was sitting not far from us, and an
every-day looking man went to her, and said “You’re a ‘Sister,’ ain’t
you?” and offered his hand as he took a stool by her. He was quite
deaf, and the attention was evidently embarrassing. As soon as she
could without seeming rude, the Sister rose quietly and went inside. In
a few moments she came out again, and took a seat by us, and we chatted
together until driven to the cabin by the rain, which finally found our
corner.

The sound of music attracted us to the other end of the boat, where a
blind man was entertaining the passengers with song and story combined.
After our experience, we marveled when he said that though blind he
could not lose his way in Boston. As his fingers flew over the piano
keys, we wondered if it was necessary to be blind, in order to navigate
Boston, and hit every note on the piano with never a miss.

Before going to our room, we went to see that Jerry was all right. The
man who took him on board piloted us to his stall, and on the way
back showed us the furnaces and the machinery. He interested us with
his appreciation of the mighty silent power. He said he often went in
alone, and watched it, and felt awed by the wonderful working of each
part, the perfect action of even the minutest being essential to the
whole.

We were obliged to take an inside stateroom, but found it very
comfortable, and there was an opening heavenward just large enough for
us to see one star, which told us the rain was over. We arose soon
after three to be sure of the sunrise, and were out on deck as we
stopped at Popham Beach, at the mouth of the Kennebec River. The apples
we bought on Atlantic avenue were a timely refreshment, and the sail up
the river, with the sunrise, was ample compensation for our effort. At
five o’clock we landed at Bath, and Jerry’s friend harnessed him for
us, saying courteously, as he handed us the reins, “Whenever you come
this way again call for the second mate.”

The drive through the main street of Bath at that early hour was a
decided contrast to our drive to the boat in Boston. It seemed as
if the morning was half spent, and we could hardly realize that our
waiting in the parlor of the hotel was for a six o’clock breakfast. At
our table we recognized the faces of the bride and bridegroom, whose
path we crossed four times on our Bar Harbor trip two years ago.

After doing justice to that early feast, we went out once more for a
hand mirror, as we were tired of looking cracked. Next door to the
hotel we found one that just suited us, and several other little
things as well, among them a penholder, which we purchased in memory of
the one we lost in Bath two years ago.

At eight o’clock all was ready for the thirty-four miles drive up the
Kennebec to Augusta. The day was lovely and cool, and we need not say
the scenery was fine. We dined at Richmond, and spent the night at the
Augusta House.

Thirty-two miles the next day, still following the river, taking dinner
at Waterville, brought us to Norridgewock, which was full of interest
to us, from descriptions so often given us by friends, of the old-time
beauty. It is one of the few places where we would like to stay, had
we time to delay. The Kennebec runs close by the main street, and the
large covered bridge is opposite the hotel. We walked to the middle of
the bridge to watch the sunset clouds, and feast our eyes on the view
up the river. As the light faded we strolled down the main street,
which is overarched by old willows. We measured the largest, walking
around it with a handkerchief, just twenty-four lengths, twenty-three
feet and four inches, a grand old trunk.

The wife of the proprietor brought some pictures of the town to our
room in the evening, and promised us a drive in the morning.

We rested well in our pretty blue room, and were ready for the drive,
after leaving Jerry with the blacksmith. We were taken to the river’s
edge for one view, and to Sunset Rock for another. All the places we
wished to see, and others we did not know of were pointed out to us,
and we were sure if people only knew about it, the Quinnebassett House
would be full of those who like a quiet, comfortable resting place.

We spend only one night in a place, and are usually ready to go on, but
we left Norridgewock reluctantly, and were only consoled for turning
away from the lovely Kennebec, by promising ourselves to drive to
Norridgewock again some time, and follow still farther up the river.
Maine cannot be exhausted in many trips, and we have some fine ones
growing in our mind. Every journey makes a better one possible.

We must now face about for this time, and we aimed next for the
Androscoggin, driving first to Farmington, then turning south, crossing
the Androscoggin on one of those scow ferries run along a wire, that
old Charlie disliked so much. He was not a good sailor, like Jerry, who
can hardly wait for the scow to touch the shore, before he leaps on.

We should have told you, before crossing the ferry, about our quiet
Sunday at a farm house. The man was reading his paper as we drove up,
and it seemed almost too bad to disturb their Sunday rest, but his
wife said we could stay if we would take them “as they were.” We were
soon settled in a cosy parlor with bedroom adjoining, away from all
sights and sounds of the busy world. We felt as if we were miles from
everywhere, and you can imagine our surprise when the man said that he
came down from Boston on the boat with us, and recognized us when we
drove to the door.

Monday morning we left our kind host and hostess, with directions for
Strickland’s ferry. We have already taken you across, but we did not
mention our ferryman. We do not remember now just what he said, but
we set him down for a philosopher. All that ride and philosophy for
ten cents! We thought it worth twenty-five at least, but he said some
grumbled at ten.

Now we renewed our acquaintance with the Androscoggin, which we
followed so many miles on one journey farther north. We wondered where
all the logs were, and found out all about it from a boy who brought
us milk, and entertained us while we had our first and only wayside
camp at noon day. Our Sunday hostess had put up luncheon for us, as we
were not to pass through any village on our way to Lewiston. Our boy
friend took us down to a little beach on the river, and showed us where
the river drivers had been for a week, but they were then at work half
a mile below. We had often seen a river full of logs, and heard much
about the river drivers, when in Maine and northern New Hampshire, but
this was our first opportunity to see them at work. They were just
coming from their tents after dinner, as we drove along. One of them
tied Jerry for us, and conducted us to a nice place on the rocks. We
watched them nearly an hour, and concluded it took brains to untangle
the snarls of logs. It was quite exciting to see them jump from log to
log with their spiked boots, and when the last of a snarl was started,
leap into a boat and paddle off for another tangle. The river was low,
and it was slow work getting them over the rocks.

The drive to Lewiston was over a sandy road. We met two boys puffing
along on their wheels, who asked us if it was sandy all the way up.
We were sorry we could not cheer their hearts, by telling them the
road was level and hard before them. We spent the night at Auburn,
across the river from Lewiston, as the Elm House looked attractive.
At the suggestion of the proprietor we took a horse car ride in the
evening around the figure 8, one loop being in Lewiston and the other
in Auburn. The horses must have been electrified, for we never rode so
fast except by electricity, and we returned to our room quite refreshed.

Poland Springs was our next point of interest, and we were well repaid
for our drive to the top of the hill, where the immense hotel when
filled must be a little world in itself, for all sorts and conditions
of men are attracted there. We met Boston friends who invited us to
the morning concert, in the music room. After dinner we climbed to the
cupola for the view, then ordered Jerry and were off again. Sabbath
Day Pond, which lay along our way, is fittingly named. It has no look
of a weekday pond, but is a crystal, clear, peaceful perfection,
that is indescribable. The Parker House at Gray Corner afforded us
every needful comfort, even to a hammock in the side yard through the
twilight.

Now we began to lay aside—not forget—the things that were behind, and
to strain our eyes for the first glimpse of the ocean. Portland was
only sixteen miles away, and as we had left the sand, it did not seem
long before we drove to the Portland post office and got home letters,
always so welcome, then to the Preble House for dinner.

There was one place on the coast, that we skipped before, and now we
proposed to explore Prouts Neck—nine miles from Portland; but we did
not leave the city until we had seen the good friends who entertained
us so hospitably when we attended a meeting there. A storm cloud was
over us, but we got only the last drops of a shower, that laid the dust
all the way to Prouts Neck.

We were glad this lovely spot had been reserved for us until then, for
we could not have seen it under a finer sky. We walked to the Rocks,
piloted by a young lady, who knew all the paths through the woods, and
we were fascinated with the path near the Rocks, over which the wild
roses and low evergreens closed as soon as we passed through. We sat
on the piazza watching Mt. Washington in the distance until the sunset
sky grew gray, and finished up the pleasant evening in the cosy room of
friends from Boston.

We saw them off in the morning for a day at Old Orchard, and then went
on our way, through Saco and Biddeford to Kennebunkport, which also has
its Rocks and many attractions. Spouting Rock was not spouting, but we
saw where it would spout sixty feet in the air, when spouting time came.

The next morning we saw once again the friends we never pass by, at
Kennebunk, and visited the old elm under which Lafayette is said to
have taken lunch, when on a visit here after the Revolution. Night
found us at another favorite resort, York Harbor, and the charms and
comforts of the Albracca made us forget the heat and dust which a land
breeze had made very oppressive during the day.

While we were at dinner at the Rockingham, Portsmouth, the next day,
a black cloud spent its wild fury in a few terrific gusts of wind. All
was over when we started on our afternoon drive, but when half way to
Hampton, the clouds grew black again, and we had barely time to drop
the back curtain, put on the sides and unfasten the boot, before a
tempest was upon us; a tempest of wind and rain—not a common rain,
but pelting drops with thunder and lightning. We read afterwards that
a buggy was blown over not many miles from us, but ours withstood the
gale, and Jerry did well, although it seemed almost impossible at times
for him to go on against the storm. We drove away from the shower and
all was calm when we got to the Whittier House, Hampton, one of our
homelike stopping places.

We followed along the coast to Newburyport, and then the Merrimac
River enticed us inland. The experience of the afternoon previous
was repeated on our way from Haverhill to Andover. We were scarcely
prepared, before another tempest burst upon us, the rain this time
driving straight in our faces. It was soon over, however, and we
reached Andover unharmed.

We were now only a day’s drive from home, but Boston is only twenty
miles from Andover and as our mail reported all well, we could not
resist going the longest way round to do another errand or two in
Boston, and call on our friends in Reading and Maplewood on the way.

The drive from Malden to Boston is distracting, with little that is
pleasant to offset the turmoil of the streets. We thought we could
leave Jerry at the old stable in Mason street, while we went shopping,
but like everything else in these days, the stable had “moved on.”
When we found a place for him it was late. We did not idle this time,
for it was so near five o’clock that gates were half closed, and a man
stood at every door as if to say, “You can come out, but you cannot go
in.”

The drive next morning was very fine. We went out on Beacon street to
Chestnut Hill Reservoir, then drove on the new Commonwealth avenue as
far as we could on our way to Allston. Whatever Scripture may say about
the “broad way,” we shall surely risk our lives on that one as often as
we have opportunity.

From Allston we retraced our first two days’ driving, making our
journey like a circle with a handle. We called on the same friends
along the way, spent the night at Wayland Inn, dined with the same
friends at the Lancaster House, and called on the campers at Spectacle
Pond. There was a slight variation in the return trip, however, in the
form of a tornado, which passed over South Lancaster. We might have
been “in it” if we had not stopped twenty minutes or more to sketch a
very peculiar tree trunk, between Sudbury and Stow. There were nine
huge oaks in a row, and every one showed signs of having been strangely
perverted in its early growth, as if bent down to make a fence,
perhaps; but later in life showed its innate goodness by growing an
upright and shapely tree out of its horizontal trunk.

We called one journey a cemetery journey because we visited so many
cemeteries, and another a ministerial journey because we met so many
ministers. Trees were a marked feature of this journey. We saw many
beautiful trees beside the big willow in Norridgewock, the Lafayette
Elm in Kennebunk, and now sketching the curious oak had possibly saved
us harm from a beautiful maple, for we had not driven many miles before
we struck the track of the gale, where large trees were torn apart, or
uprooted. We had driven through the thunder shower, or rather it seemed
to sweep quickly past us, the pelting rain lasting only a few moments,
but as our direction turned we found a large maple across the road.
We were obliged to go two miles farther round to reach the Lancaster
House, and we had not driven far before the road was obstructed by
another large tree. This time we could drive round through a field, and
a third time, a large fallen branch had been cut and the way cleared.
We rejoiced that the Great Elm stood unharmed, though mutilated trees
were on each side of it.

Giant willows, historic elms, upright oaks from horizontal trunks,
glorious maples and elms laid low, and scores of noble though not
distinguished trees, that we admired and shall remember as we do
pleasant people we meet, together with the fact that the greater part
of our driving was in the grand old Pine Tree state, warrants us in
calling this most delightful journey our Tree Journey.




CHAPTER XV.

ON HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS. 1894 to 1904.


In response to many requests to share this journey with our friends as
we used, the spirit has moved us to give you first an inkling of our
annual trips for the ten years since our last report.

This is easily done, for we have a book in which is recorded the name
given to each journey, the name of every town we pass through, with
distance from place to place, and the sum total of time, distance and
expense of each journey. This goes with us, and is a valuable book of
reference. The revolver still goes with us, too, the one thing we take
but never use. Our electric hand-lamp, on the contrary, is very useful.
The Kennebec journey was followed by our first visit to Nantucket,
leaving our horse at New Bedford, and once again prolonging the return
trip to Leominster by driving to Boston. This journey had a memorable
postscript: We drove to Boston for a day or two in the autumn and were
detained eleven days by that terrific November snow storm, and even
then the last thirty miles of the return trip it was good sleighing!

A September mountain trip, “The Figure 8” we named it, comes next
in order, followed by a Jefferson and Jackson trip, and then a
Massachusetts journey, which is always delightful.

The three ranges of the Green Mountains, with their “gulf” roads,
was a journey unsurpassed, and from Cape Ann to Mt. Tom was another
interesting journey in our own state, followed by a Cape Cod trip,
which completed the coast for us from New Haven to Bar Harbor.

By this time we were ready for another journey to Lake George,
Saratoga, and the Berkshires, and the next trip through the mountains
was exceptionally fine, as we returned via Sebago Lake, Portland and
the coast, being just in time for the September surf.

The following journey “capped the climax,” seemingly, when we crossed
the Green Mountains, ferried Lake Champlain to Ticonderoga, and drove
to Eagle, Paradox and Schroon Lakes in the Adirondack region, returning
to Lake George, thence to the Berkshire towns and as far south as
Hartford, Connecticut, a superb drive of five hundred miles.

Most of our journeys have covered more than four hundred miles, and we
are frequently asked if we have done all this with one horse. No, there
was handsome black Charlie, Old Nick, who liked to lie down in harness
now and then, bay Charlie, who had the longest record—ten years—and
was best loved and least trusted, faithful, serious Jerry, whose long
strides took us so easily through the country, saucy and exasperatingly
lazy Bess, who could do so well, and altogether worthy Nan, whose two
journeys have not revealed a fault.

“Do you plan your journeys?” is another question often asked. Never,
except the Cape Cod trip, and we observed the innovation by having a
letter party. Imagine the pleasure of receiving thirty or more letters
at the tip end of Cape Cod, and of mailing an answer to the last one
at Plymouth on the way home! We have many times driven from home to
the post office packed for a three or four weeks’ journey, without
the faintest idea where we should go, and even sat there in the buggy
fifteen or twenty minutes trying to decide which way we would leave
town.

Our journeys make themselves and we thought this summer’s journey
was not going to be worthy of mention, but would simply preserve the
record unbroken. We could spare but two weeks, and we were never more
at a loss what to do with it. Maine came to mind most frequently, and
we finally faced in that direction, spending the first night at the
Groton Inn. Of course, facing Maineward the Isles of Shoals lay in our
way as a side attraction, and as it was many years since we had been
there, we left our horse at Portsmouth, and took the boat to Appledore,
where we found the friends we hoped to meet. After dinner and a walk
to Celia Thaxter’s resting place, we returned on the afternoon boat to
Portsmouth. Our horse was waiting for us at the wharf, and we drove on
to Eliot, Me., where Green-Acre attracted us.

A visit to Green-Acre alone would be enough for a summer’s outing, even
if one were limited to the exoteric interests of life—this beautiful
acre of green on the banks of the Piscataqua River, the finely located
Inn, with its hospitality, and the glorious sunsets—what more could
one desire? But if you have chanced to be, or wish to be, initiated
into the esoteric mysteries, what a feast!

Unfortunately Miss Farmer, the organizer and secretary of Green-Acre,
was away for a few days, but we had a brief sunset meeting sitting on
the river bank, a very fine reading in the parlor in the evening, from
Longfellow and Lowell, an early morning gathering on the piazza of the
Eirenion—House of Peace—when Browning and Emerson were beautifully
read and interpreted, and a later session under Lysekloster Pines, a
half mile away through the fields, where the meetings of the Monsalvat
School are held. This was a novel experience, sitting on the dry brown
needles, under the low, broad-spreading branches of a mammoth pine,
listening to the wisdom of an Indian teacher.

We were loth to leave the tempting program, “The Oneness of Mankind,”
by Mirza Abul Fazl, and Mirza Ali Kuli Khan, next morning in the Pines,
and later “Man, the Master of His Own Destiny,” by Swami Rami; in truth
a whole summer’s feast of reason and music, but our journey was waiting.

We had scarcely left the Inn after dinner, before muttering thunder
gave us warning, and a shower came up so quickly we barely had time to
drive under a shed back of the village church before the floods came
down. The shower was violent, but did not last very long, and when the
rain was over, we drove on. We were utterly in doubt where we were
being led until at the first glimpse of a distant mountain peak our
entire journey was revealed to us—a trip through Sebago Lake, then
on to Jefferson Highlands, and home through Crawford Notch and Lake
Winnipiseogee! We had not a doubt or misgiving after the revelation. We
had at last struck our trail!

According to the revelation, Sebago Lake was the first point of note,
but the incidents along the way, the pretty woodsy roads, the ponds and
brooks, the camping near a farmhouse at noon, and the small country
hotels, with their hospitable hosts, make up by far the larger part
of a carriage journey. When we answered our host, who asked where we
had driven from that day, he said, “Green-Acre? That’s the place where
Buddhists confirm people in their error,” adding “there’s only one kind
of good people—good Christian men and women.”

We were packing up wraps and waterproofs after a shower, when a
white-haired farmer came from the field and asked if we were in
trouble. We told him we were “clearing up” so as to look better. “Oh,
pride, is it?” he said, and asked where we came from. He seemed so
much interested that we also told him where we were going—it was just
after the “revelation.” He was very appreciative and wished us a hearty
Godspeed. The incident was suggestive of the universal brotherhood to
be, in the millennium. At a point on the Saco we saw logs leaping a dam
like a lot of jubilant divers—singly, and by twos and threes.

We had an early drive of eight miles to meet the boat at Sebago Lake,
and on the way there was a slight break in the harness. We drove back
a short distance, hoping to find the rosette lost from the head band,
and finally tied it up with a string. This delayed us more than we
realized and when we drove to a hotel near the wharf and were waiting
for the proprietor, we asked a guest of the house what time the boat
was to leave. He answered quickly, “Now! run! I will take care of your
horse!” We ran, and not until we were fairly on board did it occur to
us that we had not told him who we were, where we came from, or when
we should return. It did not matter, however, as the names on whip and
writing tablet would give all that was needful in case of necessity or
curiosity.

The day was perfect, there was a pleasant company on board the
Longfellow, Sebago Lake was all one could wish for a morning’s sail,
and the Songo River, with its twenty-seven turns in six miles, although
only two and a half miles “as the bird flies,” fascinating beyond all
anticipation. Passing through the locks was a novelty and the Bay of
Naples as lovely as its name suggests. Then came the sail through Long
Lake to Harrison, the terminus, where the boat stayed long enough for
us to stroll up the street and go to the post office, and then we had
all this over again, enjoying the afternoon sail even more than that of
the morning.

This was a round trip of seventy miles, and it was too late when we
returned to drive farther, as we had planned, but we were off early
next morning, the buggy scrupulously clean, and with a new head band
and rosette. We hoped Nan’s pride was not hurt by wearing a plain A on
one side of her head, and an old English S on the other!

We drove up the east side of Sebago Lake, passed the Bay of Naples, and
on through the various towns on Long Lake, and at night found ourselves
at the Songo House, North Bridgton, just a mile and a half across the
end of the lake from Harrison, where we posted cards the day before at
noon.

The following day we turned our thoughts from lakes, bays and rivers,
and faced the mountains, which are never more enjoyable than when
approaching them. We retraced our route of two years ago, but there is
a great difference between driving towards the mountains and away from
them. As we drove on through the Waterfords, Albany, West Bethel and
Gilead, the views were finer every hour, and at Shelburne we had a most
beautiful sunset, and watched the after-glow a long time from a high
bluff.

The rain clouds of the night vanished after a few sprinkles, leaving
only delicate misty caps on the highest peaks, and the day was
perfect for the famous drive from Gorham to Jefferson, so close to
the mountains of the Presidential range, along through Randolph. The
afternoon drive over Cherry Mountain to Fabyan’s was never more lovely.
We feasted on wild strawberries as we walked up and down the long hills
through the woods.

That this was the tenth time we had driven through the White Mountains
did not in the least diminish their charm for us. On the contrary, they
have become like old friends. To walk up and down the steep pitches
through Crawford Notch, leading the horse, listening at every turnout
for mountain wagons, and this year for automobiles, would be a delight
every year. Our youthful impression of a notch as a level pass between
two mountains was so strong, the steep pitches are a lovely surprise
every time.

The old Willey House was one of our favorite resting places. We are
glad the driveway and barn were spared when the house was burned, and
we still stop there to give our horse her noon rest.

After the “pitches,” the rest at old Willey, and a snap shot at the
ruins, come the miles and miles of driving through the dense woods,
with high mountains on either side, the way made cheery by the sunlight
glimmering through the treetops, and the music of the babbling brooks.

At Bartlett we received a large forwarded mail, the first for ten days,
which we read as we drove on to North Conway, and we were grateful for
the good news which came from every direction.

After leaving North Conway and getting our first glimpse of Chocorua’s
rugged peak, there was no more regretful looking backward. Chocorua in
its lofty loneliness is all-absorbing. We had an ideal mid-day camp on
the shores of the beautiful Chocorua lake at the base of the mountain.

After two hours of concentrated admiration of the rocky peak, what
wonder we were hypnotized, and that on leaving the lake with one mind
we confidently took the turn that would have led us to the summit in
time! Having driven a distance which we knew should have brought us to
the next village, we began to suspect something was wrong. There was
nothing to do but to go on, for there was not a turn to right or left,
and not a house in sight. We were surely on a main road to somewhere,
so we kept on, until we met a farmer driving, who brought us to our
senses. We were miles out of our way, but by following his directions
in the course of the afternoon we arrived safely at our destination
for the night.

Immediately we took our books and writing-tablet, and climbed to a
summer house on a knoll just above the hotel, commanding a magnificent
view of Chocorua, also Passaconaway, White Face, Sandwich Dome, and
several others of the range. After supper we returned to the knoll
for the sunset, and later were interested in what was thought to be
a bonfire at the Appalachian camp on the summit of Passaconaway,
lingering until the outlines were lost in the darkness.

We were up before six o’clock and went to the hammock in the summer
house before breakfast, and if it had not been such a beautiful day
for the sail through Lake Winnipiseogee, we would have been strongly
tempted to stay over at this homelike place, the Swift River House,
Tamworth Village, New Hampshire, opened only last year, and already
attracting lovers of fishing and hunting.

A drive of seventeen miles with Chocorua in the background, and
raspberries in abundance by the wayside, brought us to Centre Harbor,
where we took the boat for Alton Bay. A trip through Lake Winnipiseogee
sitting in the buggy in the bow of the Mt. Washington, is an
indescribable pleasure, and even our horse seemed to enjoy it, after
she became accustomed to the new experience. On the way we had our
parting glimpses of Mt. Washington and Chocorua.

With this glorious sail the “revelation” was fulfilled, and the one
hundred miles—or nearly that—between us and home was like the quiet
evening after an eventful day.

For more than two hundred and fifty miles we had been away from the
trolleys, and the busy world, among the mountains and lakes, and
recreation lovers everywhere, from the tent on the river bank to the
large mountain houses. Now came the familiar ways through the country
towns and villages, the gathering and pressing wild flowers for
Christmas cards, catching a pretty picture with the camera, and a drive
along the Merrimac in the cool of the morning, the atmosphere clear as
crystal after another dry shower, when clouds threatened but gave no
rain.

Then there were the lovely camping places at noon, the hospitable
farmers, and the pleasant chats in the kitchen while our spoons were
being washed—the souvenir spoons that were presented to us with a poem
after our twenty-fifth journey. One bright young woman discovered the
silver we left when we returned the milk pitcher and glasses, and came
after us, forcing it into our hands, telling us not to dare leave it,
but come again and she would give us a gallon. At another place where
we asked permission to stop in a little grove, the farmer came out and
set up a table for us, and gave us use of a hammock. We prolonged our
stay to the utmost limit—nearly three hours—reading in the buggy and
hammock under the fragrant pines, our horse tied close by, nodding and
“swishing” the flies. We have an amusing reminder of that camp, for we
had posed Nan for the camera, and just as it snapped she dashed her
nose into one of the paper bags on the table.

A notable experience in the latter part of every journey is a visit to
the blacksmith, and it came, as often before, unexpectedly on the way.
The chatting that goes with the shoeing would be good material for Mary
Wilkins.

At last came a rainy day, without which no journey is quite complete.
We had a leisure morning with our books, and after an early dinner
enjoyed an easy, comfortable drive in the rain, which ended our journey
of more than four hundred miles in two weeks and two days.




CHAPTER XVI.

LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG.


We did not think to give you a report of this journey, but the day
before we left home little books called Wheeling Notes were given
us, with pages for day, route, time, distance and expense, and pages
opposite for remarks.

These little books we packed in our writing tablet, and Friday
afternoon, June 30th, we began our journey. Besides the note-books
we had an odometer and a carriage clock, in addition to our usual
equipment. Naturally we were much absorbed in our new possessions, and
the remarks, in diary form have become so interesting to us that we
gladly share them.

July 2—Rainy. Dropped in a back seat in a village church; only
nineteen present. The little minister is a Bulgarian, and inquired for
two classmates in Leominster. We practiced all day on pronouncing his
name, and could say it quite glibly by time for evening service. He is
very loyal to his adopted country, and urged all to make as much noise
as possible all day on the Fourth. Not a boy or girl was there to hear
such welcome advice, and we wondered if the parents would tell them.

July 3—Drove all day. Mr. Radoslavoff’s advice must have sped on
wings, for the noise began early, and kept up all night. Three huge
bonfires in front of the hotel at midnight made our room look as if on
fire.

July 4—Somewhere between the southern and northern boundary of New
Hampshire there is a park, the fame of which reached us several years
ago, and we have had in mind to visit it some time. This year seemed to
be the time, as, by our map, it was right on our way north. On making
inquiries, we found it would give us five or six miles extra driving
to go through the park, and the day being hot it took considerable
wise arguing to make the vote unanimous. Importunity, however, will
sometimes bring about at least acquiescent unanimity.

Suffice to say, we went through the park and now we are truly
unanimous, and will give you the benefit of our experience. There
is probably no town in New England that has not attractions enough,
within reach of a walk or short drive, to last all summer for those
who go to one place for recreation and change. But if you are driving
the length of New Hampshire, Vermont or any other state, do not be
beguiled by accounts of pretty by-roads, cascades, water-falls,
whirlpools or parks, even one of 30,000 acres, with 26 miles of wire
fence, 180 buffaloes, 200 elks, 1000 wild hogs, moose, and deer beyond
counting. You may do as we did, drive miles by the park before and
after driving five miles inside, and see only twelve buffaloes, one
fox, a tiny squirrel and a bird—yes, and drive over a mountain beside,
the park trip having turned us from the main highway. For a few miles
the grass-grown road was very fascinating, but when we found we were
actually crossing a mountain spur and the road was mainly rocks, with
deep mud holes filled in with bushes, we began to realize the folly
of leaving our good main road for a park. To be sure, we might not see
buffaloes, but we do see partridge, woodchucks, wild rabbits, snakes,
golden robins and crows, and once, three deer were right in our path!
And really we think we would prefer meeting a drove of cattle on the
main road, to having a big moose follow us through the park, as has
occurred, and might have again, if it had not been at mid-day, when
they go into the woods.

Finally, our advice is, in extended driving, keep to the main highway,
with miles of woodsy driving every day, as fascinating as any Lovers’
Lane, with ponds and lakes innumerable, and occasional cascades so near
that the roaring keeps one awake all night. Then we have a day’s drive,
perhaps, of unsurpassed beauty, which no wire fence can enclose, as
along the Connecticut River valley on the Vermont side with an unbroken
view of New Hampshire hills, Moosilauke in full view, and the tip of
Lafayette in the distance, the silvery, leisurely Connecticut dividing
the two states and the green and yellow fields in the foreground
completing the picture. No State Reservation or Park System can compete
with it.

July 5—We were in a small country hotel, kept by an elderly couple,
without much “help,” and our hostess served us at supper. When she came
in with a cup of tea in each hand, we expressed our regret that we did
not tell her neither of us drink tea. She looked surprised and said she
supposed she was the only old lady who did not take tea.

    “O wad some power the giftie gie us
    To see oursels as others see us!”

July 6—Received our first mail at Wells River, Vt., and as all was
well at home, we began to plan our journey. For a week we had simply
faced north day after day. If we kept right on we would come to Newport
and Lake Memphremagog, which to us means the Barrows camp, but we need
a month for that trip. A bright idea solved the problem. We drove north
until we reached St. Johnsbury, left our horse there and took a morning
train for Newport, where we connect with the Lady of the Lake for
Georgeville, P. Q.

At the boat landing at Newport we met Mr. and Mrs. Barrows just
starting for Europe. They insisted that we must go on to Cedar Lodge
for the night, and make a wedding call on their daughter, recently
married in camp, and forthwith put us in the charge of camp friends,
who were there to see them off. The sail to Georgeville was very
delightful. We were then driven two miles to the camp in the forest of
cedars, and presented to the hostess, a niece of Mrs. Barrows, who gave
us a friendly welcome.

The attractions of Cedar Lodge are bewildering. The one small log cabin
we reveled in a few years ago is supplanted by a cabin which must be
sixty or seventy feet in length, with a broad piazza still wearing the
wedding decorations of cedar. Near the center is a wide entrance to a
hallway, with a fireplace, bookcase, and hand loom, the fruits of which
are on the floors, tables, couches, and in the doorways. At the right
is the camp parlor, called the Flag room, draped with colors of all
nations. It is spacious, with a fireplace, center reading table, book
shelves, pictures, writing desk, typewriter, comfortable chairs, and
a seat with cushions, the entire length of the glass front facing the
piazza and lake.

On the left is the Blue China or dining room. Here is a very large
round table, the center of which revolves for convenience in serving,
a fireplace with cranes and kettles, and a hospitable inscription on a
large wooden panel above. The telephone, too, has found its way to camp
since we were there.

Not least in interest, by any means, is the culinary department.
Instead of a cooking tent, where Mrs. Barrows used to read Greek
or Spanish while preparing the cereal for breakfast, and a brook
running through the camp for a refrigerator, there is a piazza
partially enclosed back of the Blue China room, with tables, shelves,
kerosene stoves, and three large tanks filled with cold spring water,
continually running, one of which served as refrigerator, tin pails
being suspended in it. The waste water is conveyed in a rustic trough
some distance from the cabin and drips twenty feet or more into a mossy
dell, where forget-me-nots grow in abundance.

Just outside the end door of the Flag room are flights of stairs to
the Lookout on the roof. This stairway separates the main cabin from a
row of smaller cabins, designated Faith, Hope, and Charity, in rustic
letters. (We were assigned to Hope, and hope we can go again some time.)

These cabins are connected by piazzas with several others, one being
Mrs. Barrows’ Wee-bit-housie. A winding path through the woods leads to
Mr. Barrows’ Hermitage, or study, close by the lake, and another path
up the slope back of the cabins leads to a group of tents called The
Elfin Circle.

We went to the bath wharf, followed the brook walk through the cedars,
strolled to the hill-top cabin to see the friends who escorted us from
Newport, and then we all met at supper, on the broad piazza, seventeen
of us. The last of the wedding guests had left that morning. After
supper we descended the steps to the boat landing, and our hostess
and the best man rowed us to Birchbay for the wedding call. Though
unexpected we were most cordially received, served with ice cream, and
shown the many improvements in the camp we first visited years ago.
We walked to the tennis court and garden, where the college professor
and manager of Greek plays were working when no response came from the
repeated telephone calls to tell them we were coming. We rowed back by
moonlight.

We cannot half tell you of the charms of Cedar Lodge, but when we were
driven from Georgeville a bundle of papers was tucked under the seat,
which proved to be Boston Transcripts, containing an account of the
wedding. A copy was given us and it is such an exquisite pen picture we
pass it along to you:

  _From the Transcript, July 6, 1905._


A CAMP WEDDING.

On the last Wednesday of June Miss Mabel Hay Barrows, the daughter of
Hon. Samuel J. Barrows and Mrs. Isabel C. Barrows, two very well-known
figures in the intellectual life of Boston and New York, was married
to Mr. Henry Raymond Mussey, a young professor at Bryn Mawr. And the
ceremony, which took place at Cedar Lodge, her mother’s summer camp,
was one of the most original and picturesque which it is possible to
imagine. Miss Barrows herself is a girl with a refreshingly individual
outlook upon life, and with a great variety of interests, as well as
a strong dramatic instinct, and every one who knew her well looked
forward to this wedding as promising to be an occasion at once unique
and beautiful. And they were not disappointed, those eighty odd guests,
who traveled so far, from east, west, north and south, to the little
camp snuggled away among the sympathetic trees bordering the Indian
Lake, beyond the Canadian border.

Cedar Lodge, the Barrows’ camp, crowns a beautiful wooded slope above
the lake, a steep climb by a winding path bringing one to the log
cabin, with its broad piazza facing the sunset and overlooking the
lake, through misty tree tops which still wear the tender freshness
of hymeneal June. At either end of this ample balcony the guests were
seated at four o’clock of that perfect Wednesday, leaving space in the
center for the bridal party, of which there was as yet no visible sign.

Promptly at four one heard, far below, echoing poetically from the
lake, the first notes of a bugle sounding a wedding march. It was the
signal that the bridal party was approaching, and the guests began
to tingle with excitement. Nearer and nearer, came the bugle, and at
last through the green birch and alder and hemlock came the gleam of
white—a living ribbon winding among the trees. As the procession
approached, zigzagging up the steep path, it was very effective,
suggesting an old Greek chorus, or a festival group from some poetic
page, as why should it not, the bride being herself an ancient Greek
in spirit, with her translations of the classics and her profession as
stage manager of Hellenic dramas? The bridal party, a score and eight
in number, was all in white, with touches of red, camp colors. First
came the bugler, blowing manfully. After him two white flower girls,
scattering daisies along the path. Then followed the two head ushers,
white from top to toe, with daisy chains wreathing their shoulders in
Samoan fashion. Next, with flowing black academic robes, a striking
contrast of color, climbed the two ministers—one the bride’s father,
the other a local clergyman, whose word, since this was a “foreign
country,” was necessary to legalize the bond. Two more ushers preceded
the groom and his best man in white attire; and bridesmaids, two and
two, with a maid of honor, escorted the bride, who walked with her
mother.

As for the bride herself, surely no other ever wore garb so quaint
and pretty. Her dress was of beautiful white silk, simply shirred and
hemstitched, the web woven by hand in Greece and brought thence by Miss
Barrows herself during a trip in search of material and antiquarian
data for her Greek plays. The gown was short, giving a glimpse of white
shoes and open-work stockings—part of her mother’s bridal wear on her
own wedding day, of which this was an anniversary. The bridal veil was
a scarf of filmy white liberty, with an exquisite hand-painted border
of pale pink roses. It was worn Greek fashion, bound about the head
with a fillet, garland of red partridge berries and the twisted vine.
In one hand she carried a bouquet of forget-me-nots and maidenhair; in
the other an alpenstock of cedar, peeled white, as did the rest of the
party. As they wound slowly up through the beautiful wild grove, with
the lake gleaming through the green behind them and the bugle blowing
softly, it was hard to realize that this was Canada in the year 1905,
and not Greece in some poetic ante-Christian age, or Fairyland itself
in an Endymion dream.

So with sweet solemnity they wound up to the crest of the hill, passed
through the cabin, and came out into the sunlit space on the balcony,
the flower girls strewing daisies as a carpet for the bridal pair, who
advanced and stood before the minister, the other white-robed figures
forming a picturesque semi-circle about them.

The ceremony was brief and simple; the exchange of vows and rings; a
prayer by each of the clergymen and a benediction; the hymn “O Perfect
Love” sung by the bridal party. Then Mr. and Mrs. Mussey stood ready to
receive their friends in quite the orthodox way. But surely no other
bride and groom ever stood with such glorious background of tree and
lake, ineffable blue sky and distant purple mountains, while the air
was sweet with the odor of Canadian flowers, which seem to be richer
in perfume than ours, and melodious with the song of countless birds,
which seemed especially sympathetic, as birds in Fairyland and in
ancient Greece were fabled to be.

After a gay half hour of congratulations, general chatter and
refreshments, came word that the wedding party was to move once more,
this time to escort the bride and groom down to the lake, where waited
the bridal canoe.

Again the white procession passed the green slope, but this time
merrily, in careless order, escorted by the guests, who were eager to
see the wedded couple start upon their brief journey. For the honeymoon
was to be spent at Birchbay, another camp hidden like a nest among the
trees a mile farther down the lake. The bridal canoe, painted white and
lined with crimson, wreathed with green and flying the British flag
astern, waited at the slip. Amid cheers and good wishes the lovers
embarked and paddled away down the lake, disappearing at last around
a green point to the south. A second canoe, containing the bride’s
father and mother, and a bride and groom-elect, soon to be elsewhere
wed, escorted the couple to their new home, where they are to be left
in happy seclusion for so long as they may elect. And so ended the most
romantic wedding which Lake Memphremagog ever witnessed; a wedding
which will never be forgotten by any present—save, perhaps, the
youngest guest, aged two months.

On the following morning the little company of friends gathered in
that far-off corner of America—a most interesting company of all
nationalities and religions, professions and interests—began to
scatter again to the four quarters of the globe—to California,
Chicago, Boston, Europe, Florida and New York, and in a few days only
the camps and their permanent summer colony will tarry to enjoy the
beauties of that wonderful spot. But whether visible or invisible to
the other less blissful wights, the bride and groom still remain in
their bower, among though not of them. And Romance and June linger
along the lake, like a spell.

  A. F. B.


July 8.—The Cedar Lodge bird concert aroused us betimes, and after
breakfast in the Blue China room, we were driven to Georgeville. The
morning sail was even finer than that of the afternoon before. The car
ride of forty-five miles from Newport brought us to St. Johnsbury in
season for a drive of ten miles to Waterford, for our last night in
Vermont.

July 10.—Camped two hours on the top of Sugar Hill, with a glorious
view of the mountain ranges and surrounding country, then drove down to
Franconia for the night, near the Notch.

July 11.—Everything perfect! Cooler after the successive days of heat,
the fine roads through the woods freshened as from recent showers. Echo
Lake, the Profile House and cottages, Profile Lake and the Old Man,
whose stony face is grand as ever, the Pemigewassett, clear as crystal,
tumbling over the whitened rocks, the Basin, Pool and Flume—all these
attractions of the Franconia Notch drive were never more beautiful.
We left our horse at the Flume House stables and walked the mile to
the end of the Flume, along the board walks, through the narrow gorge
where the boulder once hung, and climbed higher yet the rocks above the
cascade. The afternoon drive of seventeen miles through North Woodstock
and Thornton brought us to Campton for the night.

July 12.—Drove from Campton to the Weirs. We well remember the zigzag
roads from Plymouth up and down the steepest hills, and today they
seemed steeper and longer than ever, for thunder showers were all about
us. We stopped an hour at a farmhouse, thinking they were surely coming
near, and from this high point watched the scattering of the showers,
by the lake and high hills. We then drove into one, concealed by a
hill, and got our first and only wetting on the journey. Two beautiful
rainbows compensated.

We were cordially welcomed at the Lakeside House at Weirs, where we
have been so many times and always feel at home. Here we found our
second mail, and sent greeting to many friends associated with Lake
Winnipiseogee.

July 14.—Spent the night at Sunapee Lake, where we were refreshed by
cool breezes. A year ago this date we were at Sebago Lake, Me.

July 15.—A brisk shower just after breakfast made our morning drive
one of the pleasantest, the first five miles through lovely woods, with
glimpses of the lake. We spent an hour at a blacksmith shop before
going to the hotel at Antrim for the night, and had to ask to have
the buggy left in the sun it was so cool! While there we read of the
disastrous thunder showers everywhere, except on our route, which had
broken the spell of excessive heat.

July 16.—A perfect Sunday morning and a glorious drive—lonely, we
were told, and perhaps so on a cold, dark day, but no way could be
lonely on such a day. The roads were narrow, sometimes grass-grown,
with the trees over-reaching, and a profusion of white blossoms
bordered the roadside.

Exclamations of surprise greeted us as we drove to the cottage by the
lake, where we spent the rainy Sunday two weeks ago. We took snap shots
of our friends and left messages for those soon to join them for the
summer. We do not tell you where this restful spot is, for somehow
we feel more in sympathy with our friends who like the seclusion,
than with the man who would like to “boom” the place, and asked us to
mention he had land to sell.

July 17.—Another bright day! What wonderful weather! And how lovely
the drive over Dublin hills overlooking the lake, with beautiful summer
homes all along the way and varying views of Monadnock!

July 18.—Took a parting snap shot of Monadnock, for the sun shone on
this last day of our journey, as it has done on every other—except
that first rainy Sunday, when stopping over for the rain brought us at
just the right time at every point on the trip.

According to record of distances in Wheeling Notes, we have journeyed
five hundred and forty miles, over four hundred by carriage, and the
time record is two weeks and five days. If odometers and carriage
clocks had been in vogue from the beginning of our journeying, the sum
total recorded would be about 14000 MILES, and nearly two years in
time. A journey now would seem incomplete without a note-book tucked
behind the cushion, for remarks along the way.




POSTSCRIPT.

BUGGY JOTTINGS OF A SEVEN HUNDRED MILES DRIVE.

CIRCUIT OF THE NEW ENGLAND STATES.


Postscripts in general are not considered good form, but this one is
exceptional, and may be pardoned by virtue of its length. This book did
not exist to “material sense,” until after this journey, but it existed
in mind, and even more tangibly in the manuscript, which we took along
with us for the final reading before placing it in the printer’s hands.
We had guarded the precious pages for some weeks, many times having
tied it up with the diary, ready to be snatched at an earthquake’s
notice.

Book-reading had been a lifetime pleasure, but book-making was entirely
new to us, and we were greatly interested in the work of detail—the
preparation of manuscript, form of type, Gothic or old French style,
paper, modern and antique, leaves cut or uncut, “reproduction of
Ruskin,” everything in fact from cover to copyright.

The notes of more than 14000 miles in addition to the seven hundred
miles driving made this journey one of unusual interest.

As usual we had no plan beyond going north for a month’s drive, a
longer time than we have taken for several years. At the last moment,
as it invariably happens when we have had some particular direction
in mind, we decided to go south, spend Sunday with friends in Rhode
Island, and take a turn in Connecticut before facing north.

We left home on the afternoon of June 22, Friday being a day of good
omen to us, surprised friends in Chapinville with a carriage call,
spent the night at Westboro, telephoned our coming from Woonsocket,
and were with our friends in Pawtucket before six o’clock Saturday
night. Our horse rested Sunday, but our cousins gave us a long and very
enjoyable drive, showing the places of interest about the city suburbs,
giving us a glimpse of Narragansett Bay, a fine view of Providence, and
a general idea of their drives, so different from our home drives with
the many hills.

We were advised to go to Providence, four miles south of Pawtucket, to
get the best roads westward, for our turn in Connecticut. Had we been
really wise we would have followed this advice, but being wise in our
own conceit only, we followed our map, and took a course directly west,
aiming for the Connecticut River. We started early Monday morning. As
we drove on, we were directed one way and another to strike better
roads, until after a day’s drive we brought up at a hotel in North
Scituate, just ten miles from Providence! Then we realized our folly in
not going to Providence in the morning, wondered why we were so opposed
to going there, and after discussing the problem as we sat in the
buggy in the stable yard, for it was too late to go to the next hotel,
we concluded our journey would not be complete unless it included
Providence. A happy thought then struck us. We recalled the landlord,
who had left us when we seemed so undecided, secured rooms for the
night, deposited our baggage, and took the next car, which passed the
hotel, and in an hour left us at Shepherd’s rear door in Providence. We
went about the wonderful store, got the glass we wanted so much, and
took the return car, being extremely fortunate in standing all the way
in the vestibule with only twelve, the inside being much more crowded,
owing to a circus. We faced the open window, and thoroughly enjoyed the
ride in the bracing breeze, which restored our much disturbed mental
equilibrium and made us declare that things come out right, if you let
them alone.

We fully appreciated the late supper served by our obliging hostess,
passed a very comfortable night, and again with the same dogged
persistency faced westward. We crossed the state line, which was as
definitely marked by the instant change in the general character of the
roads, as by the pink line which divides Rhode Island from Connecticut
on our map. We were thinking of going straight west until we reached
the Connecticut River, then driving northwest to Norfolk, the second
Lenox we discovered three years ago, and from there to Great Barrington
and up through Stockbridge, Lenox, and all those lovely Berkshire towns.

After several miles of cross-roads we began to consider and wondered
if we were not foolish to go so far west just to go through the
Berkshires, which we knew by heart already. We decided to compromise,
and turn north earlier, going to Springfield and up the Westfield River
to the northern Berkshire region. A few miles more of criss-cross roads
and we experienced full conversion, and said, “Why go further westward,
when by turning north now we will see some towns we do not know?”

We were delighted with this new plan, especially when we came to
Pomfret street, which seemed to us a second Norfolk, and when after
being sent from one place to another for the night, we found ourselves
at Mrs. Mathewson’s “Lakeside” in South Woodstock, with Mrs. Mott as
present hostess. We now fully believed what we have often suspected,
that we do not always do our own planning. You will not find this place
on the advertised lists, but those who have been there for twenty
summers, and those who are drawn there as we were, keep the house more
than full.

For the first time we had the pleasure of meeting with one who had
passed the century mark. He said he should like to apply as our driver!
They were interested in our wanderings, and Mrs. Mathewson exclaimed,
“Why don’t you make a book?” How could we help confessing that was just
what we were going to do on our return? “Oh, I want to subscribe,” she
said. We were much gratified, and told her she would be number three,
and represent Connecticut. Before we left home a Michigan cousin, who
was east for the Christian Science church dedication in Boston, had
begged to head the list, and a mutual cousin in Pawtucket asked to
represent Rhode Island.

We sat on the piazza with the other Lakeside guests until a late hour,
and all the ophies and isms, sciences, Christian and otherwise, were
touched upon.

The turn in Connecticut ended most satisfactorily, and the next
morning’s drive took us over another State line, but just when we
entered our native state we do not know, for we missed the boundary
stone. We were aiming for Keene, New Hampshire, eager for our first
mail, and as we passed within a half day’s drive of our starting
point, in crossing Massachusetts, we felt as if the loop of one hundred
and sixty miles was a sort of prologue to our journey. We had a wayside
camp with a stone wall for a table, and we washed our spoons at the
farm house where we got milk.

At the hotel where we spent our first night last year, we were
remembered and most cordially received. After breakfast the next
morning our hostess showed us their rare collection of antiques.
Showers threatened and we took dinner and wrote letters at the
Monadnock House, in Troy, New Hampshire, having crossed another State
line, then hurried on to Keene, where we found a large mail, full of
good news.

Among the letters was one from a nephew, adding four subscriptions to
our book for the privilege of being number four, and so you see our
list was started and growing as our plans are made, not altogether by
ourselves.

While reading our letters we noticed our horse rested one foot, and
as we drove away from the post office, she was a little lame. We had
eleven miles of hilly driving before us, and as the lameness increased
in the first half mile, we returned to a blacksmith, remembering
Charlie and the sand under his shoe, which came near spoiling one
journey. Again sand was the trouble, which was remedied by the
blacksmith, and once more we started for Munsonville and Granite Lake,
for a glimpse of friends from New York, Canada and Texas.

The welcome at Mrs. Guillow’s cottage in the village was cordial, as
was promised last year, when we were there at both the beginning and
end of our journey. Again we brought a rainy day, and wrote all the
morning, as there was not time between showers to drive to our friend’s
new studio and cottage, but after dinner we decided to walk the mile
and a half round the lake, through the woods, and risk the rain. We
surprised our friends as much as we can surprise any one who knows of
our wanderings.

After we had enjoyed the lake views from the broad piazza, a fire
was built on the hearth for good cheer, in the huge room which was
reception-room, dining-room and library, all in one, with couches here
and there, bookcases galore, and altogether such a room as we never
before saw, but a fulfilment of Thoreau’s description of an ideal
living-room in one of his poems. A broad stairway led from this room
to the floor above, where every room was airy and delightful, and the
floor above this has no end of possibilities. The studio is a small,
attractive building by itself.

We started to walk back the other way, making a circuit of the lake,
but had not gone far, when a driver with an empty carriage asked us to
ride. In the evening two young friends, who were away at a ball game in
the afternoon, rowed across to see us.

Never lovelier morning dawned than that first Sunday in July. We
should have enjoyed hearing another good Fourth of July sermon by Mr.
Radoslavoff as we did last year, but we had already stayed over a day,
and must improve this rare morning for the “awful hills” everybody
told us were on our way north. So with more promises of hospitality
from Mrs. Guillow, an invitation to leave our horse with her neighbor
opposite any time, and pleasant words from friends of the students who
are attracted to this growing Summer School of Music, we retraced three
miles of the lovely Keene road, then up we went, and up some more, then
down and up again. We walked the steepest pitches, and the day ended at
Bellows Falls as beautiful as it began. We were now in Vermont. Fifth
state in ten days!

From Bellows Falls to Rutland by rail is not to be spurned, but by the
hilly highways, it is a joy forever. We always anticipate that superb
bit of driving through Cavendish Gorge before we reach Ludlow, where
once more we enjoyed the comforts of the old Ludlow House, spick and
span this time. Then came another perfect day for crossing Mt. Holly
of the Green Mountain range, and we chose the rough short cut over the
mountain, ignoring the smooth roundabout way for automobiles. Miles of
wayside, and whole fields, were radiant with yellow buttercups, white
daisies, orange tassel-flower, red and white clover, and ferns. The
views are beyond description. We stopped on the summit to give our
horse water, and never can resist pumping even if the tub is full. A
woman seeing us came from the house bringing a glass, and we made a new
wayside acquaintance; and still another when we camped by a brook at
the foot, and got milk for our lunch.

We reached Rutland at four o’clock, just as demonstrations for the
Fourth were beginning, and once in our room at The Berwick, with three
large windows front, we could have fancied we were at Newport, New
Hampshire, where we were last year the night before the Fourth. The
program of entertainment was fully equal; nothing was missing but the
bonfire of barrels. We watched the street panorama until ten o’clock,
then examined the fire rope, but concluded a fire was necessary to make
one know how to use it, packed our things ready for quick action, and
slept serenely.

We waited until the early morning firing was over before we ordered
our horse, and then found by some mistake she had had an extra feed of
oats, which was quite unnecessary, for the crackers, common and cannon,
furnished sufficient stimulus. Clouds were heavy, the wind strong, air
cool, and we thought the list of prophecies for that week might be at
hand all at once. Singularly, none of them came to pass on the dates
given!

When at Bellows Falls, something prompted us to write our Fair Haven
friends we were on the way, which we rarely do. Had we not, we would
have been disappointed, for we found the house closed. A note pinned on
the door, however, we were sure was for us. They were at the Country
Club, Bomoseen Lake, for a few days, and asked us to join them there.
We first called on the cousin from New York State, whose address was
given, and whom we had not seen in many years. She gave us direction
for the four miles’ beautiful drive to the lake, and as we followed its
lovely shores to the Country Club, we recalled how many times we had
read on the trolley posts from Rutland, “Go to Bomoseen.” We say to all
who have the chance, “Go to Bomoseen.”

All the Fair Haven cousins were there, the “Michigan Subscriber” too,
and for another surprise, our cousin, the story-writer, who had just
finished a book. After a row on the lake, we returned to the Country
Club piazza over the bluff, to enjoy the exquisite views of the hills
on the opposite shore—mountains, we called them—until we were called
to the tempting supper served by the caretaker and presiding genius of
the culinary department. He was unceasing in his attention, even to the
lemonade served at a late hour, after the fireworks were over, and the
literary works compared, as we watched the lake by moonlight from the
piazza, or sat by the open fire. Vermont was now represented on our
list.

The sun rose gloriously across the lake, just opposite our window.
Another perfect day! No wonder all regretted it was their last at the
Country Club. While some were packing, and others down by the lake, or
out with the camera, two of us walked through the woods to the top of
the hill, but at noon we all met at the pleasant home in Fair Haven for
dinner.

Benson was our next destination, and our visit there had been arranged
by telephone. The nine miles’ drive over the hills in the afternoon of
that glorious day was a joy and we gathered wild-flowers on the way
for our ever young cousin who always welcomes us at the homestead.
The “first subscriber” and the “authoress” followed by stage, and a
tableful of cousins met at supper in the heart of the hills, as on the
border of Lake Bomoseen the night before. After supper we all went to
“Cousin Charlie’s” store, and he made us happy with taffy-on-a-stick.
Our special artist “took” us, taffy in evidence, being careful to have
our ever-young chaperone in the foreground. By this same leading spirit
we are always beguiled to the cream of conversation, and the morning
visit amid the flowers on her corner piazza is so well described by
the “story-writer,” who asked for three minutes just as we were ready
to resume our journey after dinner, that we will share it.

Lines on Departure:

    The Fannies have come and the Fannies are going
    Of mirth, metaphysics, we’ve had a fair showing.
    We’ve all aired our fancies, our pet point of view,
    If we only could run things the world would be new.
    We all know we’re right, and the others mistaken,
    But we’ve charity each for the other relation.
    So we join hearts and hands in the fraternal song:—
    The right, the eternal, will triumph o’er wrong.
    Whatever is true, friends, will live, yes, forever,
    So now we will stop—and discuss the weather.

We had written in the guest book, “Every day is the best day of the
year,” adding “This is surely true of July 6, 1906.” The parting lines
were read to us as we sat in the carriage, and we had driven out of
sight of the corner piazza when we heard a good-by call from the cousin
who came in late the night before from his round of professional
visits, feeling quite ill. He looked so much better we wondered if
the “Michigan subscriber” had been sending wireless messages to her
“materia medica” cousin.

The visiting part of our journey was now over, and we started anew,
with no more reason for going to one place than another. We had spent
so much time on the preliminary “loop” in Rhode Island and Connecticut
that we could not go as far north in the Adirondacks as we want to
some time, but a drive home through the White Mountains is always
interesting. How to get there was the problem, when the Green Mountains
were between. You can drive up and down New Hampshire and Vermont at
will, but when you want to go across, the difficulties exceed those
of the roads east and west in Rhode Island and Connecticut. We knew
the lovely way from Benson to Bread Loaf Inn in Ripton, then over the
mountains, and along the gulf roads to Montpelier, but we inclined to
try a new route. You drive through the White Mountains but over the
Green Mountains.

With a new route in mind, from Benson we drove over more and higher
hills to Brandon Inn for the night. The Inn is very attractive, but
remembering the warm welcome from our many friends, the inscription
over the dining-room fire-place hardly appealed to us:

   “Whoe’er has traveled this dull world’s round,
      Where’er his stages may have been,
    May sigh to think he yet has found
      His warmest welcome at an inn.”

The next day we crossed the mountain, hoping to take a fairly direct
course to the Connecticut River, but on first inquiry, were told
we must follow down White River forty miles before we could strike
anything but “going over mountains” to get north.

It matters not whether you drive north, south, east or west, among the
Green Mountains. It is all beautiful. Even the “level” roads are hilly,
with a continuous panorama of exquisite views. Crossing the mountains
we are in and out of the buggy, walking the steepest pitches to the
music of the lively brooks and myriad cascades, letting our horse have
a nibble of grass at every “rest,” which makes her ambitious for the
next one. We do not care how many automobiles we meet, but on these
roads they are conspicuous by their absence days at a time.

As we revel in these mountain drives and walks, we think of our friends
who say we must be “tired to death,” who would not be “hired” to go,
and again of the one who likes to have a horse and “amble along,” not
forgetting the one who wrote she had just come in from an automobile
ride, and that “to shoot through miles of beautiful country, eyes
squinted together, and holding on tightly was a punishment,” and still
another automobilist who said it did seem rather nice to go with a
horse, and stop to “pick things.”

The forty miles down White River in order to get north was truly
following a river, and a charming drive as well as restful change,
after the mountain climbing. As we journeyed we found genuine
hospitality at the hotels in Stockbridge and West Hartford, small
country towns in Vermont, and everywhere the phonograph, the R. F. D.
and telephone, bringing the most remote farm house in touch with the
outer world.

We left White River with real regret, but after cutting a corner by
driving over a high hill, we started north along the Connecticut, and
at first should hardly have known the difference. In the course of
twenty-five miles we realized we had faced about, as the hills gave
place to mountains. We found very pleasant accommodation at the hotel
in Fairlee, which was being renovated for summer guests. We remember
the bevy of young people we saw there last year, as we passed.

The river fog was heavy in the early morning, but cleared later, and
all day long we reviewed the views we have reveled in so many times;
the river with us, and the New Hampshire mountains in the distance.
For two or three miles we were on the lookout for a parting “camp” in
Vermont. We almost stopped several times, and once began to unharness,
then concluded to go a little further. When we reached the highest
point on the hill, a large tree by the roadside, and a magnificent view
of the river, hills, and mountains, assured us this was the spot we
were being led to. Nan usually takes her oats from the ground, after
she has made a “table” by eating the grass, but here they were served
from a bank. We had taken our lunch, added a few lines to the journey
report, which we write as we go, harnessed, and were ready to drive
on, when a man came to the fence, from the field where he had been at
work, and resting on his hoe said, “Well, ladies, you are enjoying
yourselves, but you might just as well have put your horse in the barn,
and given her some hay.” We thanked him, saying she seemed to enjoy
the camping as much as we do, and was always eager for the grass. He
then told us we had chosen historic ground. Our camp was on the road
spotted by Gen. Bailey and Gen. Johnson to Quebec for the militia. He
gave several interesting anecdotes. At one time in Quebec he was shown
a small cannon, which they were very proud of, taken from “your folks”
at Bunker Hill. His wife replied, “Yes, you have the gun, and we have
the hill.”

We shall have to take back some things we have said about river roads,
for that day’s drive completed more than one hundred miles of superb
river driving, in turn close by White River, the Connecticut, Wells
River, and the Ammonoosuc, which roared like Niagara, as it rushed
wildly over the rocks under our window at the hotel in Lisbon, New
Hampshire.

It rained heavily during the night, but the sun was out bright in
the morning. We surprised friends with a very early call, and then
went on, taking our river along with us. At Littleton we found a
generous mail, and all was well, so still on we went, camping at noon
by our Ammonoosuc but parting with it at Wing Road, for it was bound
Bethlehem-ward, and we were going to Whitefield, where we found a new
proprietor at the hotel, who at one time lived in Leominster.

Jefferson was our next objective point, and there are two ways to go.
We wanted that lovely way marked out for us once by a Mt. Washington
summit friend, who knew all the ways. We took a way that we wish to
forget. We called it the ridgepole road between the White Mountains and
the mountains farther north. There were mountains on all sides, but
some of them were dimly discerned through the haze, which threatened to
hide them all. We went up until we were so high we had to go down in
order to go up more hills. The road was full of mudholes, and swamps or
burnt forests on either side, instead of the fine road and exquisite
views we remembered that other way. We had not been so annoyed with
ourselves since we did not go to Providence to start westward. That
came out all right, however, and we went to Providence after all. We
had to trust to providence to pacify us this time, for we could not go
back as we did then.

For immediate diversion we considered our homeward route. The
“ridgepole” must be our northern limit for this journey. From Lake
Memphremagog last year we drove home through Franconia Notch, and from
the Sebago Lake trip two years ago through Crawford Notch. It was
Pinkham’s turn. Yes, and that would give us that unsurpassed drive from
Jefferson to Gorham. How easy it was to decide, with the thought of
that drive so close to the mountains which are never twice alike, and
North Conway would be a good mail point.

Before we got to Jefferson Highlands, we suddenly recognized a pleasant
place where we camped several years ago, in a large open yard, facing
the mountains. Once more we asked permission, which was cordially
granted, with assurance we were remembered. In the hour and a half
we were there, we kept watch of the clouds as we were writing in the
buggy. They had threatened all the morning, and now we could distinctly
follow the showers, as they passed along, hiding one mountain after
another. They passed so rapidly, however, that by the time we were on
our way again, the first ominous clouds had given way to blue sky, and
before long the showers were out of sight, and the most distant peak
of the Presidential range was sun-glinted. The bluish haze, which so
marred the distant views, entranced the beauty of the outlines and
varying shades, when so close to this wonderful range. Later in the
afternoon the sun came out bright, and the “ridgepole” and clouds were
forgotten, as once more we reveled in the beauty and grandeur of Mts.
Washington, Adams, Jefferson and Madison, with the Randolph hills in
the foreground. We know of no drive to compare with this drive from
Jefferson to Gorham.

As we came into Gorham, we saw the first trolley since we left Fair
Haven, Vermont, and had a glimpse of the Androscoggin River. The old
Alpine House where we have always been was closed, but The Willis House
proved a pleasant substitute.

Twenty miles from Gorham to Jackson, through Pinkham Notch, and we had
forgotten the drive was so beautiful! Everything was freshened by the
showers we watched the day before, and the mountains seemed nearer
than ever. A river ran along with us over its rocky bed, the road was
in fine condition, and we could only look, lacking words to express
our enthusiasm. The little house in the Notch by the A. M. C. path to
Mt. Washington summit, where the woman gave us milk and cookies, and
the strange little girl had a “library,” was gone, not a vestige of
anything left. We took our lunch there, however, as evidently many
others had done. We had barely unharnessed, when a large touring car
shot by, and we were glad the road was clear, for in many places
it is too narrow to pass. We followed on later, and gathered wild
strawberries, as we walked down the steep hills towards Jackson.

The showers evidently did not make the turn we made at Jackson for Glen
Station, for here it was very dusty. We have stayed so many times in
North Conway, that we proposed trying some one of those pleasant places
we have often spoken of on the way. We drove by several, but when we
came to Pequawket Inn, Intervale, we stopped with one accord. Somehow
we know the right place when we come to it. This was another of those
we note, and remember to make come in our “way” again. When we left in
the morning our friendly hostess assured us that the lovely room facing
Mt. Washington should always be “reserved” for us.

She gave us directions for Fryeburg, for having been by turn in
Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont and
New Hampshire again, we wanted to complete the circuit of the New
England States by driving into Maine. We left New Hampshire at Conway,
and thought we took our mid-day rest in Maine, and remembering the
hospitality of some years ago, were not surprised when a miss came from
the house near by, and asked if we would not like a cup of tea. When
we went later for a glass of water, we learned we were still in New
Hampshire, and concluded hospitality was universal, and not affected by
State lines.

We had not time to explore the “wilds” of Maine, but it was
sufficiently wild and uninhabited where we did go. Many of the houses
were deserted, and hotels were scarce. One night we had to ask to
stay at a small country house. We knew they did not really want us,
but when we told them how far we had driven, they quickly consented.
Thinking we would appreciate it supper was served on china one hundred
and twenty-five years old, after which a whole saw-mill was set in
operation for our entertainment. Buried in the hills as we were, we
could have “called-up” our friends in Boston, New York or elsewhere.

We were getting away from the mountains, but there were so many high
hills, and one a mile long, that we did not miss them very much. We
were in Maine; that was enough. The wooded roads were very pretty, too.
We would walk up a steep hill, then get in the buggy, write a sentence
or two, and out again for a walk down a pitch. In number, steepness and
length of hills, Franconia, Crawford and Pinkham Notches do not compare
with these drives. The roads being grass-grown for miles indicates that
all tourists do not take our route. As we came into Springvale, we saw
automobiles for the first time since we left North Conway.

As we drove on towards the coast, we were delighted to find it would
come just right to spend a night at Green-Acre-on-the-Piscataqua, where
we found so much of interest to us two years ago, and were greatly
disappointed when we arrived at the inn, to find there was no possible
way of caring for our horse, as the stable near the inn was closed. We
did not want to go on to Portsmouth, and the manager of the inn assured
us of good care for ourselves and horse, if we would go back to Mrs.
Adlington’s cottage, which he pointed out to us on a hill up from the
river. Before the evening ended we could have fancied ourselves on the
piazzas of the inn, for the subjects that came up and were discussed
by summer guests from New York, Philadelphia, Boston and Saco would
have furnished a program for the entire season at the Eirenion. We were
shown an ideal study in the cottage connected, where a book is to be
written. Indeed, we seemed to be in an atmosphere of book-making, and
again we were questioned until we confessed, and the “representative
list” was materially increased.

Regrets for the inn were quite forgotten, and we felt we were leaving
the Green Acre “Annex” when we said good morning to all the guests and
went first to find Miss Ford in her summer study to secure a copy of
her book, “Interwoven,” sure to interest us, after the enthusiastic
comments.

We got our mail as we passed through Portsmouth, made a call at The
Farragut, Rye Beach, and were invited to spend the night, but we had
planned to go to Salisbury Beach, and thought best to go on. We took
the boulevard, and were full of anticipation for the drive along the
shore to Salisbury, via Boar’s Head and Hampton. Here we drove on the
beach for a time, then returned to the boulevard, the beach flies
becoming more and more troublesome, until our horse was nearly frantic.
Our fine road changed to a hard sandy pull, and we were glad to get on
the Hampton River Bridge. All went smoothly until we were nearly across
the longest wooden bridge in the world, a mile, when obstructions
loomed up, the trolley track being the only passable part. Workmen came
forward, and said, rather than send us so many miles round, they would
try to take us across. They unharnessed Nan, and led her along planks
in the track, and put down extra planks for the buggy. We followed
on over the loose boards. This difficulty surmounted, another soon
presented itself. The boulevard ended, and the remaining two miles’
beach road to Salisbury was nothing but a rough track in the sand. We
were advised to go round, though double the distance.

When we made the turn from the beach, we faced thunder clouds, which
we had not seen before. We do not like to be on the road in such a
shower as threatened, and there was no hotel within four or five miles.
There were only small houses dotted along, but when the thunder began,
we resolved to seek shelter in the first house that had a stable for
Nan. We asked at the first two-story house, if there was any place
near where transients were taken. No one offered to take us, but
directed us to a house a little farther up the road, but there the
old lady said, “Oh no, I couldn’t!” As an apology for asking her, we
told her we understood she did sometimes take people. The thunder was
increasing, the clouds now getting blacker, and we urged her a little,
but she told us to go to the “store” a little way up, and they would
take us. Reluctantly we went and asked another old lady who looked
aghast. “I never take anybody, but you go to the house opposite the
church; she takes folks.” By this time the lightning was flashing in
all directions, and we felt drops of rain. Imagine our dismay to find
the house was the one we had just left. (Ought we to have stayed at
the Farragut?) We explained and begged her to keep us, promising to be
as little trouble as possible. She said she was old and sick, and had
nothing “cooked-up,” but she would not turn us out in such a storm, she
would give us a room, and we could get something to eat at the store.

We tumbled our baggage into the kitchen, hurried Nan to the barn, and
escaped the deluge. We were hardly inside when a terrific bolt came,
and we left the kitchen with the open door, and stole into the front
room, where windows were closed and shades down. The grand-daughter
came in from the “other part,” with several children, and we all sat
there, until a cry came, “Something has happened down the road!” We all
rushed to the open door and word came back that a tree was struck in a
yard near the house where we made our first inquiry for shelter, and a
man at an open window was prostrated and had not “come to.” One of the
children had run away down the street and was brought back screaming
with fright, and asking if the thunder struck him! The shower was very
severe, but passed over rapidly, and when the golden sunset glow came
on, we began to think of making a supper from the crackers, nuts,
raisins and pineapple in our lunch box, thinking how much better that
was than standing in the “breadline” at San Francisco. But while we
were still watching the sunset, we were called to supper, and the lunch
box was forgotten. Our good lady finally told us she boarded the school
masters for thirty-five years, and “took” people, but now she was alone
she did not like to take men, having been frightened, and she always
sends them to a man a little way up the road, but does not tell them he
is the “select-man.” When they ask there, they are offered the lock-up.
“If you had been two men I should have sent you there!” We talked until
nearly dark, before taking our things upstairs.

Breakfast was served in the morning, and our hostess seemed ten years
younger, declaring we had been no trouble. When we gave her what we
usually pay at a small hotel, she accepted it reluctantly. We promised
to send her the report of our journey, and she asked if we should come
the same way next year.

It was all right that we did not stay at the Farragut, for that hard
drive would have shortened our visit in Newburyport, and dinner with a
friend at the Wolfe Tavern.

We found a large mail at Newburyport, and then looked up a way home.
Really, the only fitting terminal route to such a fine journey was to
follow the coast to Boston, and then home via Concord. At Hamilton we
found the family tomb of Gail Hamilton, and took a snap-shot of her
home.

The miles of driving along the coast, and the boulevards of the Park
Reservation through Beverly, Salem, Marblehead, Swampscott, Lynn,
Revere Beach and Winthrop, were a striking contrast to the miles of
hills. We found friends along the way, and stayed one night close by
the shore, then drove into Boston, where Nan fell into line on Atlantic
avenue as unconcerned as when in the solitude of the mountains. We
made a call or two as we passed through the city to Cambridge, and
on through Arlington and Lexington to Concord, where we spent the
last night at the Old Wright Tavern, built in 1747. It is full of
souvenirs and reminders of the Revolutionary times. Framed illuminated
inscriptions hung on the walls of the dining-room.

We began our last day very pleasantly, after leaving our cards at a
friend’s house, by calling on the Chaplain of the Concord Reformatory,
and finding in his home friends from Chicago, who asked about the
revolver, which reminded us we had not taken it from the bottom of the
bag in which it was packed before we left home.

At noon it began to rain, and we had the first cosy rainy drive,
enjoying it as we always do. We did not regret, however, missing the
deluge which came just as Nan was hurrying in to her stall. She knew
all the afternoon where she was going, and was impatient with every
delay. We did not blame her, for she had taken a great many steps in
the seven hundred miles and more, and been equal to every demand,
traveling every day but two in the whole month. The miles of this
journey swell the number to nearly 15000, but we will not change the
title of our book, for 14000 is a multiple of the mystic number 7, and
also of the 700 miles of this Postscript.




  14000
  MILES

  A CARRIAGE AND TWO WOMEN

  BY
  FRANCES S. HOWE


This book is privately printed and the edition is limited. It contains
reports of an unbroken series of annual drives through New England, New
York State and Canada. Copies will be sent on receipt of price, $1.50,
and 15 cents additional for express or postage.

Address, Leominster, Mass.

  MISS F. S. HOWE,
  60 Mt. Pleasant Ave., or

  MISS F. C. ALLEN,
  5 Park Street.


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