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 underthe 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 thatCharlie 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 notbreak 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 wethought—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 twohours, 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 notneed 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 fromHartford. 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 milesin 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 watchingus 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 fromConnecticut 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. “Quiteaesthetic,” 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 theroad 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 hadalways 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.