CHAPTER XII.
BAR HARBOR AND BOSTON.
Well, we have really celebrated our twentieth anniversary! Twenty consecutive phaeton trips! Nearly eight thousand miles driving through the New England States, New York and Canada! Our phaeton looks a little past its prime, and yet does not seem to feel its age. If, in these days of mysterious communication, it could have a tete-a-tete with the “one-hoss shay,” and compare notes, what a garrulous old couple they would be! Some people thought we ought to have a guardian on our first journey, and had we anticipated a twentieth, we ourselves should have felt as if by that time we should need a corps. If all our wanderings had been revealed to us as we drove along the Connecticut, on that first trip, they would have seemed more improbable than Camille Flammarion’s excursions among the solar systems; but we live now in an age which has ceased to wonder beyond—what next? and time and space are both out of fashion in the realms we are exploring, when not limited to the range of a phaeton; so a twenty years’ look ahead now seems but a passing moment of time.
“Well, well,” do I hear you say, “tell us where you went.” Do not be impatient; if you travel with us, you must be content to go as we go, and we never know where we are going until we have been. It would spoil the whole story if we should tell you now, for it would seem as if we knew all about it when we started off thatlovely afternoon the last of June, with maps of Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, but without the faintest idea which we should use.
If we were to have a journey, we must go somewhere for the first night; and we decided on Groton, as we have been asked so many times if we have ever stayed at the cosy inn kept by two sisters. We found it as pleasant as had been described to us, and it seemed a good opening for our twentieth to find such a pretty new place for our first night. But where next?
Does it seem strange to you, to go off for a three weeks’ trip without the slightest idea whether you are bound for mountain or sea shore? Well, our experience is that the best journeys make themselves, as the best books write themselves, for they accomplish what we should never think to plan.
Once more we spread our maps, as we have done so many times, just to find a place for the next night. We pinned Maine on to New Hampshire and Massachusetts, and how big it looked! Surely if we once got into Maine we could roam at will, with no fear of being lost over the borders. It looked very tempting too, for it was a new map, and the colors were bright, while the other maps were faded and worn. As we traced one possible route after another, it really seemed as if Maine was our destination, unless we should encounter the “green-heads,” which would send us flying, for Jerry would be frantic. We folded the maps after deciding on Andover for the second night. On our way we left cards at a friend’s house in Westford, bought a box of strawberries at Lowell, and had our first camp by the wayside.
At Andover we studied the “way to Maine,” as if it was the lesson assigned. Thirty-one miles took us to Hampton, N. H., via Haverhill, where we said “Good morning” to a friend, and later took our luncheon in a pretty grove by a lake.
At Hampton our journey seemed to begin in earnest, for here we began to follow the coast, driving on every beach accessible; Boar’s Head, Rye Beach, Jenness Beach, Straw’s Point, Foss Beach, and passing “The Wentworth,” which last took us a mile or two out of the direct route, and gave us a look at the old portions of Portsmouth, so like Marblehead in its quaintness. All these favorite resorts we took in on our way from Hampton to York, winding up with the new shore road from York Harbor to Hotel Bartlett on York Beach, where we went for the third night.
A good supper, brisk walk on the beach, refreshing sleep, and another lovely morning dawned. The view of the beach and surf is very fine from “Bartlett’s,” but we are birds of passage, and fly on, mentally photographing all the beauties by the way, to be recalled and enjoyed at our leisure. Instantaneous views had to suffice for that day, for the next was Fourth of July, and we wanted to reach Ferry Beach, where Jerry as well as ourselves could spend it peacefully, not being inclined to join in the festivities of the bicyclists at Saco. Jerry made easy work of the nearly forty miles, perhaps owing to the three miles’ brisk trot on Wells Beach. Just as we left the beach, came the dense fog which hung along the coast for days, but we soon drove out of it into the bright sunshine, and realized, more fully than ever before, thatthe sun is always shining beyond the clouds. We dined and made a call in Kennebunk, but had to send our thoughts to our hospitable friend a mile away, and pass by the port rather than overtask Jerry.
Biddeford and Saco were alive with preparations for the Fourth. We got our letters, our first word from home, and gladly turned towards Ferry Beach.
Bay View was spick and span, and Mrs. Manson, the efficient hostess, welcomed us, and gave us her best room. We are almost sure a woman should reign supreme in a hotel as well as in a home. Who would want a man for a housekeeper! There was a homelike look from the bright carpeted office, with a work-basket and sewing-chair, to the easy nook in the upper hall, with the tastefully arranged plants behind the lace draperies.
How we slept, after a two-miles’ walk on the beach! Not a cannon, cracker, bell or tin horn, and the morning was like an old-fashioned Sunday. After dinner the children had a few torpedoes and crackers, so we knew our peace was not owing to prohibition. We never knew a hotel where children seem to have so much liberty, which is never abused, as at Bay View. Is this, too, owing to a woman’s tact? In the evening we watched the fireworks at Old Orchard, two miles away, and wondered whether we should keep to the coast, or follow up the Kennebec to Augusta, and go home through the mountains.
We got all the information we could, and having rested on the Jewish Sabbath, we drove on Sunday nearly thirty miles, dining at Portland, and spending the night at Royal Rivers, a comfortable little hotel at Yarmouth.We got our only wetting on that Sunday afternoon in a spasmodic shower, but we think it cannot be considered a retribution in this enlightened age.
The next day’s drive took us through Brunswick to Bath. Here we were at three o’clock, Jerry too tired to go farther, time on our hands, and the Kennebec so alluring! Our letters had not come, and how could we order them forwarded, when we did not know where we were going? We must wait. We shall always feel indebted to that bright girl in the post office, who told us we could go down to Popham Beach for the night, as the Boston boat stopped there daily, leaving Bath at six o’clock. A night away from our phaeton involves quite a little planning and repacking, and where could we do it? We could leave Jerry at a good stable very near the boat landing, but there was no hotel in the vicinity. We had an hour or two, and decided we would see Bath, and when we came across a rural back street we would repack in the phaeton. Bath is more of a city than we hoped, and despairing of finding an uninhabited back street, after we had driven on and up, in and out, without success, we stopped under a tree in a triangular space, and went to work regardless of the few passers-by. Very soon big bags, little bags, shawl cases and writing-tablet were all ready, some to be taken, others left; and we retraced with some difficulty our crooked ways. We bade Jerry good night at the stable, and then had a most delightful sail of an hour and a half down the Kennebec to Popham Beach.
Really, the Boston papers had not exaggerated the charms of that summer resort, and we were glad we were there, even when we learned the morning boat left atquarter to seven, instead of eight or nine as we were told in Bath. There was no time to be lost, and we hardly did justice to the very delicate fish supper, in our haste to skip down the rocky path to the beach, where we must have walked two or three miles back and forth, not returning until it was quite dark.
We were to breakfast at six instead of eight as usual when we are driving, so retired early. The hotel is on a very high bluff, a “corner lot,” where the Kennebec meets the ocean, and we had a corner room. At three o’clock our eyes opened as if by magic, and rested on the most beautiful sky imaginable, stretching out over the ocean, and reflected in the lovely Kennebec. We marked the spot where the sun was soon to rise, and resolved to see him, but the provoking fellow popped up when our eyes had closed for a bit.
The morning sail was as fine as the evening. How we would like to row as well as that sun-browned girl, who signalled the boat with her handkerchief, and, with her three companions, was pulled aboard as they came alongside, the boat being towed to the next landing. We were tempted to go to Augusta, it was so delightful, but Jerry was waiting for us.
Our next point was Boothbay Harbor. We could have reached there in an hour and a half by boat from Bath, but Jerry could not be transported. This was no disappointment, however, as we are always glad to resume our driving. We were assured of a long, hard twenty-five miles, but if we were to “do” the coast, Boothbay must not be passed by. Letters came that morning, and soon we were off, fortified with oats andwell-filled lunch basket, ready to enjoy the day. What a drive it was over rickety toll-bridges, winding and twisting about, up and down such stony pitches, skirting the ragged edges of a bay! We took our lunch on a rocky bluff overlooking the water, and Jerry was invited into a barn and treated to hay. As we were wending our way towards the coast in the afternoon, feeling as if we had left the world behind us, a carriage came in sight, and as it passed a voice shouted to the driver, “Stop!” We, too, stopped, as a young man leaped from the carriage. We were glad to see anyone so glad to see us, even if we did not recognize at first, in the young man on a business tour through Maine, a boy who used to live almost next door to us. He surprised us again two or three days later, rushing out from a hotel as he saw us driving by.
Boothbay Harbor was delightful from our window in the little hotel, which looked as if it had dropped accidently sidewise into a vacant spot on a side hill, and never faced about. After supper we walked up to the top of the hill for a view, through a pasture, to see what was beyond, and back to the hotel by the rocky shore, watching the boats of every description anchored in the harbor.
Writing was next in order, and the tablet was opened, but where was the pen-holder? Gone, surely, and it must have slipped out when we repacked under the tree in Bath! A pen-holder may seem a small loss, but that one was made out of the old Hingham meeting-house, and has written all the Transcript letters and thousands of others. We grieved for it, but could only console ourselves thinking of the fable we read in German long ago, “Is a thing lost when you know where it is?” We replacedit with a Boothbay pen-holder, a bright red one for five cents, which is now trying to tell you of our journeyings as was the wont of the Hinghamite.
It just poured that night at Boothbay, and there were no signs of cessation in the morning. We decided to stay until after dinner, and not divide our drive that day. Suddenly it cleared, and we went out on the street to make some inquiries at the boat office about Bar Harbor, for we were getting interested in the coast, and felt inclined to go on indefinitely. A small boy came along with a poor horse and shabby carriage, calling, “Have a ride? See round the Harbor for ten cents!” We had time, and nothing else to do, so jumped in and “did” the Harbor.
The afternoon drive to Damariscotta was very pleasant, and we found the old brick hotel full of hospitable comfort, for all it had such a forbidding exterior. We might have been tempted to stop a bit in Damariscotta if we had known what we learned a few days later, about some recent excavations of interest, but we were within twenty-five miles of Penobscot Bay, and impatient for our first glimpse of it.
We camped that day by a country school-house. Two little fellows were much amused when we stopped there, thinking we had come to see the teacher in vacation time. They were greatly interested in Jerry during the unharnessing and tying to a tiny bush. We were interested in the wild strawberries they had picked in the tall grass over the wall, and one of the little fellows finally concluded he rather have the money offered him than the berries, although he had nothing else for his dinner. Hiseyes glowed as he took the money and went to the field again, returning in a little while to ask us if we would not like another quart.
We fared well at Rockland that night, except our room had one too many doors, and our slumbers were disturbed by an impatient rattling of a door key in the spare one. We aroused to the situation just in season to surprise the well-meaning but mistaken man by a hasty closing of the door, with an authoritative request to him to lock it, when his exclamation revealed his discovery of the blunder. When we paid our bill we quietly suggested to the clerk that it is well to have bolts as well as locks on unused doors.
And now comes one of the finest drives we ever had,—twenty-eight miles along Penobscot Bay through Camden and Northport to Belfast. How could anything be more lovely! Crosby Inn, so fine in all its appointments, was in harmony with the day’s drive. We had a pleasant chat on the piazza with fellow travelers, who had been following our route for a day or two. These ladies were traveling with a pair of horses and a man, so of course took it for granted we would drive the thirty-five miles to Bangor next day and spend Sunday there. We did not tell them our plans, because we had none; we were only hoping we should find a quiet country hotel before we got to Bangor,—we like it so much better for a Sunday rest.
On we drove, leaving the beautiful bay, and winding along Penobscot River, through Searsport, Stockton, Frankfort and Winterport, but saw no place that tempted us to stop, except a little summer house in a grove, wherewe rested at noon. We took note of a singular advertisement over a watering-trough; “An Open Secret, that —— sells Furniture, Burial Caskets, and Shrouds at Lowest Prices.”
Hampden was next and last. Unless we found a place there we must go to Bangor. The last part of the drive was very lovely, and we began to wonder what Hampden had in store for us. The main street, with most of the houses facing the river, was very pleasant for a mile before we came to a forlorn-looking old building with a faded sign, “Hampden House,” over the door. We passed by, hoping to find a more attractive place, but no—that was the only hotel in Hampden. We recalled our delightful experiences in hotels with dilapidated exterior, both in Canada and the States, and retraced our way to the Hampden House, though with some misgivings we confess. A very pleasant woman met us at the door, which is always a good omen, and sent her little girl to call her father to take the horse. He came leisurely along from the stable, and when we asked him if we and our horse could be cared for, he answered, “I don’t know any reason why you can’t.” To our question, “will all these things be safe in the phaeton?” he as dryly answered, “This carriage may be stolen tonight—never has been one taken.” His words were few, but his manner was reassuring, and we already felt at home.
The floor looked old, and the stairs were well worn, but when we and our bags were deposited in the upper front room, we looked about and exclaimed, “This is just one of our places for a Sunday rest!”—rag mats, high bed where you are sure to sink low in feathers, and a purelycountry outlook. We had the dining-room all to ourselves, and as our hostess served our supper, she told us how they had come there recently for her husband’s health, and taken this old house, which had so run down that no one would stop there. They were intending to fix it up, but had been delayed by sickness, etc., but she told her husband she could keep it clean. She was called away, for the ice cream patrons began to come; and we went out for a twilight stroll on the river bank, which was very high, and gave us a fine view. We next went westward to see the sun set, and a proposition was made to go into the Saturday-night prayer meeting in a little church we passed, but it was not unanimously received, and we returned to our room and books.
The night was as peaceful as Fourth of July at Ferry Beach, and we opened our eyes on a bright Sunday morning, refreshed. Our memory was awake too, and we were sure Hampden, Maine, was one of the places friends used to visit. We asked our hostess some questions, but she knew little of the people. Later in the morning she came to our room and said there was an old sea captain down stairs who knew everybody who ever lived in Hampden. We went down into the little parlor and had a very pleasant hour with him. He told us various stories of Hannibal Hamlin, who had so recently gone, and all about the families we were interested in,—where they were from, had lived, married and died. He told us of one old lady still living, whose house we passed as we came into town.
We went back to our room, and were next interested in watching the coming together of the men in Sundayattire, to hold a “service” on the steps of the grocery store opposite the hotel. It seemed to be a general conference meeting, and the sentiments were wafted upward on the curling smoke from cigar and pipe.
Dinner came next in order. Our hostess apologized for its simplicity, owing to our coming late Saturday night, but fortunately we do not spend overmuch thought on “the table,” and after the ceremony is over it matters little to us. The unexpected ice cream gave a nice finishing touch to our repast that day.
The afternoon passed all too quickly with our books and letter writing, and the Hampdenites began to assemble for evening service. Men only attended, and one by one they came until there were fifteen in a row on the grocery steps. Presently a humpbacked man appeared, dragging Jerry along, looking meekness itself, to the town pump. Suddenly Jerry gave a spring, which greatly surprised the old man, and called forth sallies from the grocery steps, which led us to think they had not advanced to universal brotherhood. Directly attention was withdrawn from the poor old man by the remark, “He’s from Boston,” referring to Jerry, and immediately rapt attention was given to our friend the sea captain, who looked like a genial presiding elder with his broad hat, white collar and linen duster. Evidently he was entertaining them with some of our driving exploits which had interested him in the morning. Finally one impatient voice broke in with “Well, how did they happen to light on Hampden?”
At this point we walked out of the hotel in face of the whole “congregation,” for it was getting late forus to go in search of the “old lady,” whom we really wished to meet. We sauntered along down the pretty country road for nearly a mile before we came to the house that answered the description given us. A young woman came to the door, and told us Mrs. —— had gone “down the road.” When we told her who we were, and that we came because we knew her friends, she said we must come in and wait while they sent for her. We were shown into the little parlor, and the hour of waiting passed more than pleasantly as one after another of the household came in to chat with us. Presently it was announced that grandma had come, and would be in soon.
We were entirely unprepared for the overwhelming reception she gave us, all because we knew her friends, for she had never heard even our names. The sea captain had spoken of her as an old lady, and to be sure her hair was white as snow, but all thought of years vanished when she entered the room with the grace and vivacity of youth, her white fluffy hair like a crown of glory, and the old-fashioned crescent which fastened the soft black handkerchief about her neck, flashing in rainbow tints,—and came towards us with open arms. How the time and our tongues did fly! She told us how she celebrated her seventy-sixth birthday, but was she not mistaken? Had our eyes been shut, we should have declared her sixteen, and when we finally said we must go, she seized the lantern her son brought to guide us through the chairs and hammocks in the front yard, and refusing any wraps, or even her son’s hat, she put her arms aroundus and insisted upon escorting us up the road. On we went for a full half-mile, and then walked back and forth, girl fashion, for she would not let us go back with her, until we had parted so many times she had at last exclaimed, “Well, we shall get tired kissing each other,” and with another parting and promise to write to her, we watched her as she turned down the dark, lonely country road with her lantern at ten o’clock at night. What a charming time we did have! And if we should tell you whose “Aunt Sarah” that was, every reader of the Transcript would know; but we are not going to say another word about it, except that she had the promised letter. We like to keep just a few things to ourselves.
Have we told you we were on the way to Bar Harbor? Hampden has put everything out of our minds. We could have crossed the river lower down, but thought we might as well see Bangor when we were so near, and then take the main road straight down to the island, a distance of about sixty miles. We took a last look at Hampden, and after a brisk drive of six miles reached Bangor, where we got our mails, filled our lunch basket, drove about the city a little, and then were off full of anticipation, for we had been told repeatedly that the drive from Bangor to Bar Harbor was “magnificent.”
It was a pretty drive over the hills and through the vales to Ellsworth, where we spent the night, and we found a pleasant camping spot at noon. Our Ellsworth proprietor gave us much helpful information about Bar Harbor, and we left, sure that the twenty remaining miles were to surpass anything we had ever seen. It washot, the first really uncomfortable day since we left home, and it grew hotter as we came nearer the island. The tide was out as we crossed the bridge connecting Mt. Desert with the mainland, and our enthusiasm was so far abated by the general unattractiveness, that we wondered if the name Mt. Desert did not originally mean something. We were still hopeful, however, but hope waned when we were fairly on the island, shut out from every breath of air, in the midst of stubbed evergreens. Be assured the signboard pointing to “The Ovens” did not tempt us from our main course that morning.
“What unappreciative people!” I fancy Bar Harbor enthusiasts exclaiming. But just wait a minute. Remember we are not there yet. Now we round a corner and the scene changes. The beautiful harbor is before us, dotted with yachts gayly decked, and boats of every description. Lovely villas and charming grounds have supplanted the primitive huts and stubbed evergreens. Fine turnouts, bright girls in tennis, yachting and driving costumes, and now and then a real dude, not forgetting the “men of money” and stately dowagers,—all are here, yes, and processions of four-seated buckboards with liveried drivers seeking patronage,—everything in fact that goes to make a fashionable summer resort is found at Bar Harbor. The great charm of all is the grand combination of mountain and ocean.
As our time was limited, we gave the afternoon to a round trip in Frenchman’s Bay, our special object being to touch at Sullivan, where friends declared they looked for us and Jerry every day last summer. We did think about it, and looked it up on the map, but decided it wasquite too far for us to drive. Now here we were, but our friends were far away. No wonder they were charmed with their summer at Sullivan.
Really, aside from its own charms the view of Bar Harbor would compensate one. We touched at several points in the bay, changed boats twice, and were delayed an hour just at sunset, which we enjoyed from the upper deck, and thanks to the delay, had a view of Bar Harbor electric-lighted. Our obliging host had a special supper awaiting us, and our day of varied experience ended with a long look at Green Mountain in the starlight from our window.
While we were waiting for Jerry the next morning, the clerk rehearsed enthusiastically the attractions of Bar Harbor, and asked us if we did not think the drive from Ellsworth very fine. He looked aghast when we frankly told him that, with the exception of the last mile or two, it was the least interesting twenty miles of our two weeks’ driving—three hundred and fifty miles. We can readily imagine, however, how delightful it must seem to people who have been pent up in the city, and we do not doubt it would have had more charm for us if it had been a little cooler and the water had been at high tide.
Even the mists, that would not be dispelled, could not dampen our enthusiasm on the famous ocean drive, although we almost despaired of seeing the ocean, and began to think it was like some river drives we have taken, without a river to be seen. When we at last came to the red rocky bluffs, so wonderfully beautiful, and then followed our winding way through a real mountain notch, we were in full sympathy with Bar Harbor enthusiasts.
We must now think of turning homeward. If inclination had been considered, we would give you an account of a glorious return via Moosehead Lake, Dixville Notch and the White Mountains; but our time was limited by other plans, and we had already strayed too far from home to return even as we came. We must test Jerry as a sailor; and it seemed wise to make sure of a pleasant day, and not delay, for a storm was anticipated. The Olivette, a beautiful boat, ran from Bar Harbor direct to Boston, leaving at six in the afternoon, but we could leave at one o’clock on the Lewiston, and have the delightful sail along the coast to Rockland, and then change for the Bangor boat, due in Boston in the morning, at the same time as the Olivette. The Lewiston was said to have better accommodations for horses too, and Jerry is always the majority with us. We packed oats for his supper, and a gay Bar Harbor blanket to insure his comfort, in the phaeton, and the man at the wharf tied up everything securely. We were weighed, because a man said we must be—everybody was weighed before leaving Bar Harbor—then went on board, everything promising a most delightful afternoon.
We were full of anticipation, with map in hand ready to observe every point. Within ten minutes we were in a dense fog, and rolling as if we were in mid-ocean. We could barely discern the rocky bluffs along the ocean drive, which we so longed to see. It was clear in Southwest Harbor, and we had a few views of the island as we touched at several points, for it was bright sunshine on shore; then we sailed into the fog again denser than ever. A row boat came alongside, and we went on to the upperdeck to see passengers taken aboard. The wind blew furiously, and the deck was deserted with the exception of a bridal couple, whom we had seen three times before,—meeting them as we went to Belfast, and again driving off the island as we drove on. They were on the wharf at one of the places we touched at Frenchman’s Bay, and here they were again, having retraced their steps, the bridegroom told us, to take the sail along the coast once more, because his wife enjoyed it so much. The fog, however, was no respecter of persons, and, brides or not brides, we were all doomed to the same fate; an afternoon sail with nothing to be seen but ourselves, and a rolling and tossing that called forth ominous prophecies from pessimistic passengers. We are glad we indulged to the utmost in optimistic hopes, for that was all there was bright about it.
At Rockland we changed boats, and gladly, feeling that somehow the change of boats would change the atmosphere and still the restless waters. When our bags and wraps were deposited in our stateroom, we went down to see Jerry. Any misgivings we had indulged in as to his state of mind were dispelled when we went towards him with the oats. He was all right surely.
We went out on deck, but how the wind did blow! And the rolling, creaking and groaning increased as we went out to sea. More than once it seemed as if the boat fell from our feet, and left us standing amid air. One by one the passengers disappeared, and among the last stragglers, we took refuge in our stateroom. There was no inclination for preliminaries. We threw our hats on the upper berth, and camped down for the night’s entertainment.The pessimists had the satisfaction of being true prophets, but we still believe in optimism.
The night was long, measured off by the fog horn, and our breath stopped once when suddenly the boat stood still and the machinery was silent. It was a real relief when the creaking and groaning began again, and we rolled on, resuming the tooting. We would not believe we slept a wink but for the fact we dreamed that, as we came near home, after our Bar Harbor to Boston sail, Jerry was independent and wayward, and swung round suddenly. One said, “Never mind, let it be a turn to the house the other way,” but before we got there he swung round again, and then the driver was “up,” and said, “He has got to mind, if I can make him.” She drew up the reins with a grip that would have turned the Lewiston, and the result was that after much creaking and groaning of the old phaeton, Jerry was rolled up like a kitten in front of the carriage, and the “driver” was prostrate under the back wheels. The dreamer extended a hand to Jerry, and he touched it as graciously as any lord of the land, then arose and we three stood upright, unharmed; and so we did, after our three hundred miles’ water trip, on the wharf in Boston at eight o’clock.
The boatman attempted to harness Jerry, and the optimistic dreamer, sitting in the phaeton, had full faith in his land wisdom, but the driver came back from the boat office just in time to help him out of a very perplexing dilemma. He had placed the saddle, and was diligently searching for a place to put the crupper aiming towards the ears. The driver with some difficulty suppressed her amusement, as she readjusted the saddle. With a cheery“Good-by, Jerry,” the boatman returned to his sphere, and we were soon off for breakfast.
Jerry was quite at home at the familiar stable in Mason street. After breaking our fast we gave the morning to shopping, and early in the afternoon we began a round of calls in Boston and vicinity, which kept us busy several days. We could not think of ending our delightful journey so abruptly as to be in Bar Harbor one day and in Leominster the next, as we might have done.
We visited thirteen suburban towns, and could write a letter almost as long as this one without exhausting the charms of the Wayside Chapel in Maplewood, and the home of its owner under the same roof, which we enjoyed through a friend, who exclaimed as we called, “Oh, you are just in season to attend our daily fifteen minutes’ service.” It is the embodied long-cherished idea of a helpful woman, and is full of the work of her own hands and brain, from the embroidered carpets and draperies, the allegorically painted walls, and fitting mottoes, to many of the books on her shelves. But all this you can go and see, for it is open to whomsoever wills to go in, without money and without price; a church with a creed of one word—Love.
After this unexpected visit and service, we started off in pursuit of a hotel, and at sunset found ourselves at Woburn. This was not at all our intention; we were not ready to go home yet, and drove back towards Boston the next morning for more calls, then faced about and took a two days’ round-about for home, passing the old Wayside Inn in Sudbury on our way. We took our last dinner at the Lancaster House, called on friends, thendrove around by Spec Pond, surprised the campers, and had a fine row in the “G. W.,” whose hold on our affections is only strengthened by absence. We took Jerry camping for a week, later in the season, and he was a great acquisition to camp life, but we must pass by the delights of that week, even our visit to the Shakers, and hasten home over Rice hill. The view was never so lovely as in that sunset glow. Our journey ended in golden glory, but we still feel it was not complete; and from the queries of some of our friends, it would seem as if they thought we did not have “much of a journey,” but it was one of our very best, and at Bar Harbor we were just the same distance from home in miles and time as we were at Berthier, Canada, two summers ago. It is all owing to that abrupt return by water, and sometime we hope to tell you how we drove to Boston, put Jerry on board boat for Bar Harbor, then finished up our Twentieth Phaeton Trip.