Transcriber's Note

[Page 74]—enthusiatically changed to enthusiastically

[Page 127]—lettter changed to letter

[Page 215]—Pemigewassett changed to Pemigewasset

[Page 263]—hime changed to home

[Page 271]—spic changed to spick

Ready for a Seven Hundred Miles Drive.

See page 265.

14000 MILES
A CARRIAGE AND TWO WOMEN

BY FRANCES S. HOWE

“AWAY, AWAY FROM MEN AND TOWNS

TO THE WILDWOOD AND THE DOWNS.”

—Shelley

PRIVATELY PRINTED 1906

Copyright, 1906, by

Frances S. Howe.

SENTINEL PRINTING CO.

FITCHBURG.

FOREWORD.

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

F.C.A.

F.S.H.

Leominster, Mass.

CONTENTS.

14000 MILES

CHAPTER I.

SUMMER TRAVELS IN A PHAETON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

CHRONICLE OF THE TENTH ANNUAL DRIVE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.

OLD ORCHARD AND BOSTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

MOOSILAUKE AND FRANCONIA NOTCH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

CONNECTICUT, WITH SIDE TRIP TO NEW JERSEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

DIXVILLE NOTCH AND OLD ORCHARD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Away, away from men and towns

To the wild wood and the downs,”

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

“Once more, O mountains, unveil

Your brows and lay your cloudy mantles by.”

and

“O more than others blest is he

Who walks the earth with eyes to see,

Who finds the hieroglyphics clear

Which God has written everywhere,”

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

“Oh, how happy here’s our leisure!

Oh, how innocent our pleasure!

O ye valleys! O ye mountains!

O ye groves and crystal fountains!

How I love at liberty

By turns to come and visit ye!”

Once more, as we drove along the Saco—

“All, all, is beautiful.

What if earth be but the shadow of heaven.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

THE CATSKILLS, LAKE GEORGE AND GREEN MOUNTAINS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

NARRAGANSETT PIER AND MANOMET POINT.

“Think on thy friends when thou haply seest

Some rare, noteworthy object in thy travels;

Wish them partakers of thy happiness.”

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

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

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

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