14000
MILES
A CARRIAGE
AND
TWO WOMEN
FRANCES S. HOWE
JOHNA.SEAVERNS
TUFTS UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES
438
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Tufts Univem/f,/ "^'^ Medicine af
200 WestDoro Road
Wh Grafton, MA 01536
14000
MlLEb
A CARRlAOJu wu
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14000
MILES
A CARRIAGE AND TWO WOMEN
Bi
FRANCES S. HOWE
AWAY, AWAY, FROM MEN AND TOWNS
TO THE WILDWOOD AND THE DOWNS."
— Sbelley.
PRIVATELY PRINTED
1906
7
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.
Leominster, Mass.
F. C. A.
F. S. H.
CONTENTS.
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
Summer Travels in a Phaeton,
Chronicle of the Tenth Annual Drive,
Old Orchard and Boston,
MOOSILAUKE AND FrANCONIA NoTCH,
Connecticut, with side trip to New
Jersey,
DixviLLE Notch and Old Orchard,
Catskills, Lake George and Green
Mountains,
Narragansett Pier and Manomet Point
White Mountains and Vermont,
(A Six Hundred Miles Drive.)
By Phaeton to Canada, ...
(Notes of a Seven Hundred Miles Trip.)
Outings in Massachusetts,
Bar Harbor and Boston, .
DixviLLE Notch and the North Shore
The Kennebec Journey,
On Highways and Byways,
(1894 TO 1904.)
Lake Memphremagog.
1
16
32
48
73
91
109
127
137
153
173
190
211
228
241
252
POSTSCRIPT. Buggy Jottings of Seven Hundred
Miles Driving, 265
Circuit of the New England States.
14000 MILES
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 para-
graph 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 thor-
oughly 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 misgiv-
ings 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
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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 under-
neath 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 nov-
elty of our first crossing the Connecticut by ferry, the
historic points of interest in old Deerfield, the terrific
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thunderstorm just after we left Greenfield, the Broad
Brook drive as we neared Brattleboro, the profuse quan-
tity 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 Jafifrey.
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 im-
possible, 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, yield-
ing to no obstacles. Before we left the summit it was
mostly clear, and we thought little of our moist condi-
tion 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 gath-
ered, 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
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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, writ-
ing 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 hun-
dred 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 Can-
terbury, 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 Winnipi-
seogee 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 anx-
ious, 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
4
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the Isles of Shoals. The places of resort and interest as
we followed the coast to Gloucester, Rye, Hampton, Sal-
isbury, 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 Spofiford, and
others of note. An excursion on the Merrimac in a barge,
and the drive by the river road to Bradford and Haver-
hill, 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 re-
ceived 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, re-
turned 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 North-
boro, 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.
5
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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 ]\Iar-
tha'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 Water-
town. 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
6
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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 "com-
panion" 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 Berk-
shire 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
7
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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 sea-
son 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
8
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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 con-
sidered 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 Moun-
tains 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
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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 rowboat, 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
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mirror-like waters, enraptured with the loveliness sur-
rounding 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 con-
cealed everything but our horse. We waited two hours
at a farmhouse near the summit for fair weather, but in
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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 ovir 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 beau-
tiful Notch, night overtook us at Franconia. On our
way to Bethlehem, the following morning, we left our
horse for an hour and walked up Alt. Agassiz, which well
repaid the efifort. 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
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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
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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 oiT 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 unsus-
pected charms of Pigeon Cove, and spending a night at
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"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 accom-
plished 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.
15
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 sum-
mer?" 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 multi-
plied; 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
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Berkshire Hills, up to Lake Winnipiseogee four times,
all through the White Mountains, over the Green Moun-
tains 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 remem-
bered 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 Fitch-
burg, 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 JafTrey,
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
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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 morn-
ing, it occurred to us that we had made a great omission
in "doing" Dublin, not having called on the post-
master ; 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 hesita-
tion, 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. Suflfice 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
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and Hillsborough, wondering where we should find our-
selves 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.
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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 yester-
day'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 grate-
ful, 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 break-
fasted 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
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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 con-
cluded 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 wan-
derings 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
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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 after-
noon'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 ques-
tioned 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
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home that we had any idea in the morning where we
should sleep at night. The twelve-miles' drive to Brad-
ford 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 won-
dered 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
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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 men-
tioned.
As we drove leisurely along the main street, taking our
first look at Lake Memphremagog, a friend from Boston
stepped oflf 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 George-
ville, 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,
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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, lead-
ing 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 occasion-
ally. 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
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Nymph, our friend's steam yacht, or driven at breakneck
speed by one of the party who considered those perpen-
dicular 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
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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 rum-
bling 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
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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 our-
selves, 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 neces-
sary 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 antici-
pate 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 seem-
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ingly a new journey. Charlie had fared as well as we in
Canada, and our twenty miles' drive was easily accom-
plished. 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 plan-
ning 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 ofif the supple-
ments on to our old map, and still more so, when after a
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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 Fran-
conia, 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 Winnipi-
seogee, 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 water-
proof 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.
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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 Con-
cord. 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.
31
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 them-
selves, as a certain novelist says her stories write them-
selves, 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
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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 Mem-
phremagog, 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 adjoin-
ing 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
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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 after-
noon 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 accord-
ingly 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 machin-
ery, 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
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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 follow-
ing 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 Apple-
dore, 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
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cleared, we could not resist the temptation to have a
diive 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 enthu-
siasm 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 Kenne-
bunk. 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
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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 him-
self, 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 enthusi-
astically exclaimed, "Oh! you must visit Hollis, a
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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, how-
ever, 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 after-
noon 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
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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 foam-
ing 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
w^as 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
39
14 0 0 0 M I L E vS
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 Win-
nipiseogee. The morning drive was hot and very un-
interesting, 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 our-
selves 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 unhar-
nessed 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
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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 Wolfe-
boro 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,
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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
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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
rowboat 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
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14000 ^IILES
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 devour-
ing 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 bag-
gage 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 after-
noon, 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,
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14000 AIILES
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 monu-
ments of Revolutionary interest, the very atmosphere
seems full of recollections and reminiscences. The noble
words of Emerson, the hermit life of Thoreau, the
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14000 MILES
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 common-
placeness. 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
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14000 MILES
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 geog-
raphy, 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.
47
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 our-
selves 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 some-
where, 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 ward-
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14000 MILES
robe 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 ofif. We drove
to Fitchburg because we like to start north, and from
there we went to Ashburnham. Before we left Fitch-
burg 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 water-
proofs 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
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14000 MILES
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 Jaflfrey, 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 comfort-
ably, 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
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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. Char-
lie 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 con-
cluded 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 black-
smith instead of a compress at Jaffrey!
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14000 MILES
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 Monad-
nock ; 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 after-
noon nap to kill time. After breakfast Wednesday morn-
ing, 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
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14000 MILES
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 pro-
tected 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 remem-
brance 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. Kear-
sarge 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
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14000 MILES
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
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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.
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14000 IMILES
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 postmas-
ter 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 lum-
bering 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
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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 detain-
ing 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 per-
sons 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. Every-
body 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,
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and a chatty little driver ready to answer all our ques-
tions. 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 sud-
denly changed to wind that threatened to take our hats
oflF, 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
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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 transpor-
tation 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 fright-
ful 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,
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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 rum-
bling 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;
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14000 MILES
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 Moosi-
lauke 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 sub-
mitted, 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 bed-
ding 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.
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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 com-
bination 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 ; every-
thing 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
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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, pros-
trate 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 won-
der 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
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matters little, for it was not the boulder which was so
wonderful, but how it came to be suspended so mysteri-
ously. 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 resist-
less 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 bafifled 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, how-
ever, 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 pru-
dence protested, and we left that till next time. We
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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 sev-
eral 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
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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
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part of the obliging postmaster. We thought of the
scripture text about "importunity," and went to the car-
riage 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 pack-
ages 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 par-
ticularly 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
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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 famil-
iar 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 illus-
trated 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 Washing-
ton !" 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
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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 Fisher-
ville, 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 remem-
bered 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 but-
tons, 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
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night in Dunbarton. A few houses, a church, a little com-
mon, 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 land-
lord was editor. We went through his printing establish-
ment 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 Snow-
flake 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 Dun-
barton ; 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 direc-
tions for Shirley Hill and the "Devil's Pulpit," in Bed-
ford, 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 Manches-
ter; 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 local-
ity 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
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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 won-
derful 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 preci-
sion 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 unhar-
nessed 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 Gree-
ley 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
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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 Leomin-
ster, 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.
72
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 sum-
mers 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 Connecti-
cut.
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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 enthusiatically of Tol-
land, as she recalled a visit there many years ago. This
was enough for us ; we had a connecting link with some-
body, 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 inde-
pendence 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
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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 w€
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 ex-
claimed, "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 "Camper-
down" 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
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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
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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 ofif, 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 after-
noon 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
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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 inter-
vals, and in the most systematic order, section after sec-
tion 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 attach-
ing itself to the phaeton. We stopped at Meriden two
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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
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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
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Hartford. As the young man handed out the last, he
said, "Please have your mail directed to street and num-
ber 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 Rum-
ney," 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
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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 hap-
pier 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 philosophic-
ally 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
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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 any-
thing 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 con-
tents 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 car-
riage." 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,
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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 maga-
zines.
''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
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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 New-
found 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 desira-
ble 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, sur-
rounded by tall sunflowers, to see the infantry and
cavalry as they emerged from the cars. "Quite
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aesthetic," one of the boys in bkie remarked. AVe 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 appar-
ently 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 diver-
sion 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
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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
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"ville" in small italics touching the railroad. Niantic was
an "italic" resort. This lesson learned, we had no diffi-
culty. 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 hereto-
fore 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
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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 remem-
brance of that night is not so pleasant as we could wish,
and we are going again some time to get a better impres-
sion.
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 leisure-
ly 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 pro-
longing 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
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"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.
90
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 disas-
ters 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 sleep-
ing 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
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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 travel-
ers, 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 men-
tioned, however, for like the Denver tourists, we can tes-
tify 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
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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 Town-
send 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., journey-
ing next day to Hooksett, via Amherst, Bedford and Man-
chester. Nothing eventful occurred except the inaugura-
tion 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 be-
fore 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,
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our subjects must be selected with reference to our abil-
ity, 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 under-
took 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
and
"Once more, O mountains, unveil
Your brows and lay your cloudy mantles by."
"0 more than others blest is he
Who walks the earth with eyes to see,
Who finds the hieroglyphics clear
Which God has written everywhere,"
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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
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"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 Til-
ton 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 oflf 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.
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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.
W^e 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 our-
selves 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 feel-
ings. Perfect happiness restored, where should we go to
enjoy it over Sunday? Fate suggested Rumney, and we
quickly assented, remembering its delightful quiet, and
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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 de-
feated and determined to stay so. The drive along the
valley was as lovely as ever, and a look of pleasant recog-
nition 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 ex-
plore 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
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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 prep-
arations, 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." AVe 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,
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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 ofifice had some-
thing for us, and we could not wait, so started leisurely,
promising to help poor Charlie all we could. He under-
stood 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 high-
est 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 miss-
ing. "I think that will do for once," he said. Two
weeks later we sent him a card and the missing docu-
ment 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, en-
joying 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 Fran-
conia Notch. We reached the Dix House, the only habi-
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tation 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 per-
pendicular, 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 instal-
ments, 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
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the Notch, and we walked nearly all the way. Every-
thing is moss-grown and marked with decay. The Notch
has its Old Man, its Flume and Cascades, and our ex-
clamations 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 passen-
gers, 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 Magal-
loway. 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
inolasses, 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
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through the forest, over a road badly washed, with the
river rushing madly along, as if bent on its own destruc-
tion, 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 habi-
tations 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 quar-
ters in such a benighted country.
We drove thirty miles that day, following the Andros-
coggin all the way. Berlin Falls and the Alpine Cas-
cades, 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,"
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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 Androscog-
gin, 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
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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 fol-
lowed 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 Kenne-
bunkport was left one side, and we were well on our way
to Kennebunk. Despite our muddy and generally de-
moralized 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 Ports-
mouth, 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 x\nn 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.
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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 deli-
cious 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 Anni-
squam 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 light-
ning that morning. The waves dashed angrily on the
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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 en-
trances assuring you that both paths and avenues lead to
some princely "cottage."
A night at Beverly was followed by a crooked wander-
ing 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 Bea-
con 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 encyclo-
pedic diary, exclaimed, "Why, we have driven over five
thousand miles !" He complimented its endurance, but
we thought of the "one boss 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,"
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and there we squared our accounts, named our journey
and pressed a bright bit of blackberry vine for the
sketchboolc. 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,"
what
fifteenth "annual.
and think what a nice beginning that will be for our
lOS
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
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made no plans, but our thoughts had traveled Maine-
ward, until at the last moment the Catskills were sug-
gested. 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 Maus-
chopauge 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 pro-
gram 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
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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
ofif 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 lux-
uries 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, mark-
ing the traces of the disaster on our way to Williams-
burg. Up, up we went, until we found ourselves on the
threshold of Mr. Chadwick's summer home, in Chester-
field. 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
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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 for-
gotten. 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 Stock-
bridge, 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
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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 resi-
dence 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 Winnipi-
seogee, 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
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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, home-
like 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 our-
selves 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
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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, how-
ever, 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 avow-
als that we would never be enticed from a straightfor-
ward 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
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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 oflf.
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
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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
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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 cas-
cade 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 mid-
dle of the sitting-room and everything socially clustered
around it. Out of two little rooms up stairs we managed
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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 morn-
ing 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
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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 protec-
tion. 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 celebra-
tion, 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.
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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 sat-
isfaction, 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 for-
gotten 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 attrac-
tions 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
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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 Gen-
eral 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 Cham-
plain, 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
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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,
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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
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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 Bel-
lows 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, Fitz-
william, Winchendon, Ashburnham and Fitchburg. We
dined at Winchendon and visited the friends in Fitchburg
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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."
126
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 lettter to the
Transcript, believing that vacations in everything are
good ; but, even before the journey existed, except in
mind, a report of it w^as 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,
w^e remembered the lines above, quoted by Andrew Car-
negie, 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.
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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 recon-
ciled, 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 after-
noon, 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 com-
fortable 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
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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."
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There were six stones in close proximity bearing these
familiar lines —
"Stop, traveler, as j'ou 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, Somer-
ville 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
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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 em-
broidery 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, din-
ing 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 jour-
ney 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
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all day in the rain on Monday and enjoying it, making
hasty doorstep calls, spending the night at Lake Massa-
poag 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 exclama-
tion 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 lighthouse, 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 Wick-
ford 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,
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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 her-
self.
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 com-
mittee 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
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It is interesting occasionally to hear the family particu-
lars and be introduced to the pet dogs and cats, and walk
round the kitchen and backyard, where the sunflowers
and hollyhocks grow from oldtime 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 Dux-
bury. We did not ask Jerry to travel the extra miles ofif
the main route to take in Brant Rock and Daniel Web-
ster's old home, as this was our second drive in this
vicinity, and rather than drive two miles to a hotel possi-
bly 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 un-
harness, 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 Jeru-
salem Road, after enjoying the beauties of this road from
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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 Satur-
day, and we thought we would have a quiet Sunday
somewhere and go into the city Monday. After pro-
tracted 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 hos-
pitable friends.
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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 cleri-
cal 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 Moun-
tains, for next year.
"Summer Gleanings" is now complete, and the last
pages are fairly aglow with the autumn souvenirs of our
sixteenth annual drive.
136
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, every-
thing looks dry and worthless, the little brooks are mop-
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ing 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. Per-
haps 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
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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 morn-
ing, after dreaming of driving through snowdrifts ten
feet deep, and wondering if we should enjoy the moun-
tains 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. Ask-
ing 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 Alassachusetts House. Darkness, rain and importu-
nity 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
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are over the doors just as when it stood on the Centen-
nial grounds, and many things seem quite natural,
although we did not chance to be among the dis-
tinguished 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.
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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.
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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, hav-
ing a pretty waiting-room like a summer parlor, with its
straw matting and wicker furniture. We took our time
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so leisurely that we found we could not get to the Craw-
ford 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 moun-
tains. 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 Moun-
tain Notch. We were now fresh for another long session
with Robert and Catherine. It was raining again, and
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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,
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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 com-
fortable 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 moun-
tains, 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 Jeffer-
son. 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 sun-
set, 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 wonder-
fully beautiful. The clouds relented a little as we slowly
climbed the hills, and just as we reached the highest
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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 Wash-
ington 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 3vlr.
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.
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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 love-
liest 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 unex-
pectedly we met there one of the party who braved Fran-
conia Notch in winter a few years ago, and who told the
tale of their joys and sorrows in the Transcript. We
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mailed our cards to the friends whose house was closed,
and then on to Warren, near Moosilauke. We expe-
rienced 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 Connecti-
cut 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 fol-
lowed.
A "bridge up" sent us a little way round, but we
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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 luxu-
rious 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
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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 percep-
tible.
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 guide-
boards 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
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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 wait-
ing 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
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trip, he was fully equal to the thirty miles from Peters-
ham 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?
152
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 oflf 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 "out-
ing." The first one hundred miles was along a lovely,
woodsy road, taking us through Winchendon, Fitz-
william, 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
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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
reassure,d, 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 exer-
cises 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 whis-
pering, 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
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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 some-
thing.
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 your-
selves; 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. Ar-
mand, 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
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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
blufif 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
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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
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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 ges-
ticulations. 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
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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 mis-
givings were dispelled the moment we entered this tiny
bar-room and glanced through the house, for unparal-
leled 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 cur-
tains and gay table-cover. There was a lounge in one
corner and a rocking-chair before the large window,
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thrown open like a door, from which we looked out upon
a tiny garden in "rounds" and "diamonds," full of blos-
soms, 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 arrange-
ment 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 Hamp-
shire, 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 con-
tinually 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,
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that if the door opened a half-inch the whole arrange-
ment 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 cover-
ing, which does not change in the Canadian atmospl^ere.
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
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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
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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 hand-
kerchiefs. In a few moments more we landed, and perch-
ing Ruthie on the top of our bags, we drove back to a
charming home, walking in upon our somewhat sur-
prised 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 unex-
pected 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.
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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 George-
ville. 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 George-
ville, 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
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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 George-
ville. 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 emer-
gency, 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 Mem-
phremagog have resulted in ideal camping, with a semi-
circle of tents, a log cabin, boats, books and banjos and
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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 dog-
mas, 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
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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 follow-
ing 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 dis-
asters of the shower just ahead of us. We passed, the
next day, an old lady sitting in the midst of her house-
hold 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
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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 twen-
ty 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 Con-
necticut. 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 New-
port 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
washstand. 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
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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 lux-
ury. 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 ques-
tions. 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
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time to take in the last Sunday of the grove meeting at
Weirs, and we thought Lake Champlain, the St. Law-
rence River, Lake Memphremagog and Lake Winnipi-
seogee would make an interesting water outline for our
trip. This little plan was, however, delightfully frus-
trated, 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 under-
taking 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 conduc-
tor 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
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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 plat-
form, 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
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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 "drum-
mer" 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 pas-
senger 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 over-
taken by old age or the phaeton shares the fate of the
proverbial chaise.
172
CHAPTER XL
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
w^e 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
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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 sus-
pect 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 adjoin-
ing, 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 Leom-
inster, and indeed, four miles from everywhere — Lancas-
ter, 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 clear-
ing was made large enough for the cottage, which is sim-
ple in construction, but all a true camper could wish in
comfort and convenience. There is one large room, and
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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 &gg. 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 hun-
dred visitors, among them Elder Whitely from the
Shaker community we read about in Howells's "Undis-
covered 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 sea-
son 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
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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 Sep-
tember, 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, per-
haps tugging through sand, or worse yet, through water
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— 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'," whe.n 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 sta-
tion, 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 hap-
py days at Spec, beginning with a bright day in April,
when we took our paint pots and drove down early, hav-
ing 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
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flecks would get on to the fresh yellow, and what a mix-
ture, 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 w^ould ; 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 often-
times with a wagon full of things; anything and every-
thing from a cream pie to a bale of hay, or a sawhorse.
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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
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five acres adjoining Breezy Point, and have built a cot-
tage, which makes us begin to wonder if Spec will some-
time 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 posi-
tion 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 con-
tinued 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
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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 Harrington, 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
Berkshirq 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 even-
ing we repeated the experience in another suburb twelve
or fifteen miles away.
We were not quite ready to face Great Barrington-
ward, so went a little farther easterly, then took a genu-
ine 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 whiffle-
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tree was broken. We were trying to secure it with wire,
which we always have with us, when an elderly gentle-
man drove along and asked if he could help us. He exam-
ined our work and approved it, but did not seem quite sat-
isfied 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 whififletree, but minus
some of our literature, owing to the washing of the
phaeton. The hostler said he knew some of the "papers"
went ofif 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
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"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 moun-
tains 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 after-
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noon, Sept. 21. It was now Saturday night, and we were
nine miles away, but that distance was easily accom-
plished Sunday morning, and we reached Great Barring-
ton 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 Hop-
kins 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 win-
dows ; 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 hun-
dred 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,
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and revealed to us the attractions of Great Harrington
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, con-
fessed 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
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where we spent the night, and said many times "Oh,
are n'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 Col-
ton, 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 encoun-
tered 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
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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 Ches-
terfield, 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 mo-
ment 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
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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 foot-path up the pas-
ture 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 occu-
pies 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,
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the end was a joyous major. What a lovely journey, if
it was short !
Soon after this journey report appeared in the Trans-
cript, 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 return-
ing from a long trip by carriage, and when they discov-
ered 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, slen-
der, 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 ofif our tires,
and vowing that we would never trust our beloved
Katrina Van Tassel to a Palmer stable again in Fair
time."
189
CHAPTER XIL
BAR HARBOR AND BOSTON.
Well, we have really celebrated our twentieth anniver-
sary! 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 oflf that
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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 desti-
nation, 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.
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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 Hamp-
ton 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
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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 uppe.r hall, with the taste-
fully 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 won-
dered 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 Yar-
193
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mouth. We got our only wetting on that Sunday after-
noon 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 allur-
ing! 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 plan-
ning 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 tminhabited 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
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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 along-
side, 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 ofif, fortified with oats and
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well-filled lunch basket, ready to enjoy the day. AA^hat a
drive it was over rickety toll-bridges, winding and twist-
ing 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 acci-
dently 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, watch-
ing 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 our-
selves thinking of the fable we read in German long ago,
"Is a thing lost when you know where it is?" We re-
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placed 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 com-
fort, 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 twen-
ty-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 unhar-
nessing 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 con-
cluded he rather have the money ofifered him than the
berries, although he had nothing else for his dinner. His
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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 dis-
covery 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 Cam-
den 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
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we rested at noon. We took note of a singular advertise-
ment 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 delight-
ful 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 con-
fess. 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, 'T 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
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country outlook. We had the dining-room all to our-
selves, 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. AYe 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, IMaine, 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
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attire, to hold a "service" on the steps of the grocery
store opposite the hotel. It seemed to be a general con-
ference 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 unexpecte,d ice cream gave a nice finish-
ing touch to our repast that day.
The afternoon passed all too quickly with our books
and letter writing, and the Hampdenites began to assem-
ble 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 atten-
tion was withdrawn from the poor old man by the
remark, "He's from Boston," referring to Jerry, and im-
mediately 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 hap-
pen 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
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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 cap-
tain 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
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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 ex-
claimed, "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 Tran-
script 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
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hot, the first really uncomfortable day smce 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 won-
dered 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 com-
bination 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
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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.
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We must now think of turning homeward. If inclina-
tion 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 morn-
ing, 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 South-
west 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
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deck to see passengers taken aboard. The wind blew
furiously, and the deck was deserted with the excep-
tion 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 our-
selves, 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 enter-
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tainment. 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 groan-
ing 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 opti-
mistic 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
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"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 delight-
ful 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' ser-
vice." It is the embodied long-cherished idea of a help-
ful 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
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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 Twen-
tieth Phaeton Trip.
210
CHAPTER XIII.
DIXYILLE 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 our-
selves 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 luxu-
rious— 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
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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 wak-
ing 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. Hol-
yoke, would be followed by Lake Winnipiseogee and the
Isles of Shoals, Newport, Martha's Vineyard, Boston
suburbs, Berkshire Hills, Hudson River, Green Moun-
tains, 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 Corn-
ing 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
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the time we were ready for our journey we almost won-
dered 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 oppor-
tunity 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 Brook-
line 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 car-
penter 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 Canter-
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bury 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
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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 forgot-
ten 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 ofif 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 Pemigewassett 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
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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 Memphre-
magog. 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 any-
where on the lake. News travels slowly in northern Ver-
mont. 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
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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 inter-
esting 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 leav-
ing 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 pleas-
ure, and we took the train for St. Johnsbury, quite con-
tent, 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 !"
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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 quanti-
ties of wild strawberries. They sat on the grass with
their lunch, and after taking ours we added some culti-
vated 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
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forget the lovely drive along the Connecticut, after leav-
ing 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, notwith-
standing the cars almost grazed our room as they
rounded the corner.
The next morning we were ofif, 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
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but a skeleton ; but we reveled in the possibilities of "The
Nirvana." We climbed ladders, and sav^ 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 still-
ness 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 lend-
ing 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 span-
ning the rocky stream. Hammocks and camp couches
with real springs, were suggestive of a miniature Nir-
vana, 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 cir-
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culars. 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 start-
ing 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
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shady side of a rock could we find, and it was very hot.
It was getting late for Jerry, and in despair of doing bet-
ter, 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 din-
ner, 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 appear-
ance, 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
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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 inter-
est, 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
attracte,d to another case containing a full set of Cham-
bers's Encyclopaedia. She said some thought the "Brit-
tany" 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
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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. Wash-
ington was particularly fine from our window.
Thirty miles, via Tamworth and Madison, stopping at
Silver Lake House for dinner, brought us to Moulton-
boro. 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
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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
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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 depart-
ment, 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 Gofifstown, N. H., when we were there sev-
eral 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.
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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!
227
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,
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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 Spec-
tacle 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 Way-
land Inn, and made calls on friends along the way to Bos-
ton 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
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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 Wash-
ington 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. Al-
though 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,
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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 with-
out 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
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to his stall, and on the way back showed us the furnaces
and the machinery. He interested us with his apprecia-
tion 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 Kenne-
bec 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 har-
nessed 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
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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 sun-
set 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 black-
smith. 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
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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 Norridge-
wock 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 dis-
liked 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 adjoin-
ing, 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
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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 philos-
ophy 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 Andro-
scoggin, which we followed so many miles on one jour-
ney 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 excit-
ing 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
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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 pro-
prietor 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 ofif 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 —
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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 ofif 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, Ports-
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mouth, 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 expe-
rience 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 Bos-
ton 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 Maiden 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 every-
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thing 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 Lan-
caster 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 beauti-
ful trees beside the big willow in Norridgewock, the
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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 hori-
zontal 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.
240
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 pro-
longing 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 Jefiferson and Jack-
son trip, and then a Massachusetts journey, which is
always delightful.
The three ranges of the Green Mountains, with their
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14000 MILES
"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
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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 men-
tion, 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, spend-
ing the first night at the Groton Inn. Of course, facing
Maine-ward 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 secre-
tary of Green-Acre, was away for a few days, but we had
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a brief sunset meeting sitting on the river bank, a very-
fine reading in the parlor in the evening, from Long-
fellow and Lowell, an early morning gathering on the
piazza of the Eirenion — House of Peace — when Brown-
ing 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 Mon-
salvat School are held. This was a novel experience, sit-
ting 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 mut-
tering 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 mis-
giving after the revelation. We had at last struck our
trail !
According to the revelation, Sebago Lake was the first
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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 inci-
dent was suggestive of the universal brotherhood to be, in
the millennium. At a point on the Saco we saw logs leap-
ing 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
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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 oflf 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.
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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 Water-
fords, 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 high-
est 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 youth-
ful 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
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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 lone-
liness 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 some-
where, 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
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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 sev-
eral 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 ham-
mock 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 back-
ground, 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 expe-
rience. 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. 249
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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 every-
where, 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 press-
ing 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 jour-
ney is a visit to the blacksmith, and it came, as often
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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, com-
fortable drive in the rain, which ended our journey of
more than four hundred miles in two weeks and two
days.
OC1
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 car-
riage clock, in addition to our usual equipment. Nat-
urally we were much absorbed in our new possessions,
and the remarks, in diary form have become so interest-
ing 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 Leomin-
ster. 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.
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July 4 — Somewhere between the southern and north-
ern 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 fascinat-
ing, 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
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folly of leaving our good main road for a park. To
be sure, we might not see buffaloes, but we do see part-
ridge, 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 ! "
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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 New-
port 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 of¥. 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 wed-
ding 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,
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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 de-
partment. 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 sep-
arates 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
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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 tele-
phone 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 wed-
ding. 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
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married to Mr. Henry Raymond Mussey, a young pro-
fessor 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 pos-
sible 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 for-
ward to this wedding as promising to be an occasion at
once unique and beautiful. And they were not disap-
pointed, those eighty odd guests, who traveled so far,
from east, west, north and south, to the little camp snug-
gled 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 Wed-
nesday, 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 poet-
ically 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
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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 con-
trast 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 antiqua-
rian data for her Greek plays. The gown was short,
giving a glimpse of white shoes and open-work stock-
ings— part of her mother's bridal wear on her own wed-
ding day, of which this was an anniversary. The bridal
veil was a scarf of filmy white liberty, with an exquisite
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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 maiden-
hair; 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 chat-
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ter 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 else-
where 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, Bos-
ton, 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
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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. Johns-
bury 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 sur-
rounding country, then drove down to Franconia for the
night, near the Notch.
July 11. — Everything perfect! Cooler after the suc-
cessive days of heat, the fine roads through the woods
freshened as from recent showers. Echo Lake, the Pro-
file 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 Wood-
stock and Thornton brought us to Campton for the night.
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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 hime. Here we found our second mail, and sent
greeting to many friends associated with Lake Winni-
piseogee.
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 ex-
cessive 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
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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 some-
how 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 journey-
ing, 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 be-
hind the cushion, for remarks along the way.
264
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 vir-
tue 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 man-
uscript, 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 sev-
eral 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
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being a day of good omen to us, surprised friends in
Chapinville with a carriage call, spent the night at West-
boro, telephoned our coming from Woonsocket, and were
with our friends in Pawtucket before six o'clock Satur-
day 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 con-
ceit 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 morn-
ing, 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
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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 men-
tal 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 Westfleld
River to the northern Berkshire region. A few miles
more of criss-cross roads and we experienced full conver-
sion, 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
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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 adver-
tised 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 aim-
ing for Keene, New Hampshire, eager for our first mail,
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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 num-
ber 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 ofifice, 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.
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Again we brought a rainy day, and wrote all the morn-
ing, 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, book-
cases 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 stair-
way 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, attract-
ive building by itself.
We started to walk back the other way, making a cir-
cuit 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 after-
noon, 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" every-
body 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,
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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 Bel-
lows 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,
spic 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, ignor-
ing 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 descrip-
tion. 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 demon-
strations 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 Hamp-
shire, where we were last year the night before the
Fourth. The program of entertainment was fully equal ;
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nothing was missing but the bonfire of barrels. We
watched the street panorama until ten o'clock, then ex-
amined 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 disap-
pointed, 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
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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 care-
taker 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. Ver-
mont 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 pleas-
ant 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
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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 cor-
ner 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
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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 Ver-
mont at will, but when you want to go across, the diffi-
culties 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 wel-
come from our many friends, the inscription ovei 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 pano-
rama 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, let-
ting our horse have a nibble of grass at every "rest,"
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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 for-
getting 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 automo-
bilist 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 sum-
mer 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
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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
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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 Am-
monoosuc but parting with it at Wing Road, for it was
bound Bethlehem-ward, and we were going to White-
fiield, 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 Provi-
dence to start westward. That came out all right, how-
ever, 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.
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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, how-
ever, 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, en-
tranced 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
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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
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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 afifected 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 coun-
try 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
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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 disap-
pointed 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 Ports-
mouth, 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 cot-
tage 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.
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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 Hamp-
ton. 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 sur-
mounted, another soon presented itself. The boulevard
ended, and the remaining two miles' beach road to Salis-
bury 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
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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 thun-
der 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. Re-
luctantly 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
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children, and we all sat there, until a cry came, "Some-
thing 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 Fran-
cisco. 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 mas-
ters 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,
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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 boule-
vards of the Park Reservation through Beverly, Salem,
Marblehead, Swampscott, Lynn, Revere Beach and Win-
throp, 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
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regret, however, missing the deluge which came just as
Nan was hurrying in to her stall. She knew all the after-
noon 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.
287
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