CHAPTER XIV.
THE KENNEBEC JOURNEY.
“I should think you would give up your carriage journey this year, and go to the World’s Fair.”
We cannot tell you how many times this was said to us, but often enough to become trite. Give up a carriage journey when we had not missed one for more than twenty summers! What an idea! Our friends could go to the World’s Fair, and tell us many things, and we could read volumes about it, but who could take a carriage journey for us?
All that is neither here nor there, however, for we believe things will be as they are to be, and for all we knew the journey, and Fair too, were in store for us. So we waited until our summer program should be revealed to us. For a time it seemed as if “Home, Sweet Home” would claim us, but the way cleared after a while, and a two weeks’ journey with Jerry began to assume form. Two weeks are better than none, but where could we go in two weeks? Through the mountains, to be sure, but when we go to the mountains, we like to go via Dixville Notch or Boston, and take a month for it. Berkshire came next to mind, but we like to take those unsurpassed drives at the beginning or end of a long journey. We were perplexed, and wondered what we were to do.
In such times of doubt, we usually drive to Boston and there await revelation. Since this last experience we shall always be ready to trust Boston’s oracular power,for it there came to us to take passage for Bath, Maine, on the boat which left Boston at six o’clock Wednesday evening, July twelfth.
This beginning seems as abrupt as the ending of our trip two years ago, when we drove over two weeks to reach Bar Harbor, and sailed back to Boston in a night. For the sake of beginning a carriage journey on terra firma, we will go back a bit, and tell you we had already enjoyed two days’ journeying. We left Leominster Monday morning, July tenth, driving to Lancaster the back way, to say good morning to the campers at Spectacle Pond.
Jerry had two hours rest, and the time passed quickly with us, for we met friends at dinner at the Lancaster House, and spent a half hour studying a collection of fine etchings in the music room, where Mr. Closson was to lecture in the evening.
We went out of our way to spend the night at Wayland Inn, and made calls on friends along the way to Boston the next day.
The special medium of revelation as to our next move was the Sunday Globe given us by the campers, in which our eyes chanced to rest on an advertisement of an excursion to Nova Scotia. This seemed hardly feasible, though we actually gave it consideration, as it was stated the roads there were good for driving. This was only a “leader” to what was foreordained for us. It must be it was foreordained, for our best friend so declared it in writing us, and surely from the moment we decided to take the boat for Bath, everything went like clock-work.
We thought best to go to the wharf, on arriving inBoston, to make some inquiries, and secure a stateroom. We drove on Beacon Street as far as we could, as we came in from Watertown via Allston, then made a bold plunge into the tangles of carts, carriages, and cars across Tremont street down Bromfield, through Washington to State, then in and out, on and on, Jerry fully realizing the importance of his movements, and using his abundant good sense in sparing his nose from the grazing of the wheels that crossed his path, until we finally saw the welcome sign, far down Atlantic avenue. Once safely in the office of the Kennebec Steamship Company, going to Bath seemed the simplest thing in the world. We were assured Jerry would have the best of care, and a stateroom was secured for the next night. Some one else will have to tell you how we got back to our destination for the night. We are inadequate beyond saying we went back another way. Quite likely Jerry knows every turn, but he is silent on the subject.
A good night had restored our shaken equilibrium, and we went down town on a shopping expedition, also to get any mail that might have been forwarded to Miles & Thompson’s in West street. We thought we had too much time, and idled it away “looking” at things, until at last we had to hasten back to dinner, without having done our chief errand—replaced our broken hand mirror. That idling was a mistake; idling always is. Although we hurried dinner, and hurried the letters we ought to have written before dinner, the mail wagon drove away from the Back Bay post office, just as we drove to the door.
We profited by this lesson, and took a straight course,that is as straight as one can take in Boston, for the boat. The way we knew was the straightest for us, and we repeated the intricate drive of Tuesday afternoon, through Beacon, Tremont, Bromfield and State streets to Atlantic avenue. We were on deck an hour and a half ahead of time, but it began to rain, and we were glad Jerry and the buggy were under cover.
The abruptness of our story having been remedied, we will now proceed to Bath as speedily as possible, but it takes all night, so there is plenty of time to tell you of something of that part of our journey. We found a dry corner on deck, and watched the passengers as they came on board. A Sister of Charity was sitting not far from us, and an every-day looking man went to her, and said “You’re a ‘Sister,’ ain’t you?” and offered his hand as he took a stool by her. He was quite deaf, and the attention was evidently embarrassing. As soon as she could without seeming rude, the Sister rose quietly and went inside. In a few moments she came out again, and took a seat by us, and we chatted together until driven to the cabin by the rain, which finally found our corner.
The sound of music attracted us to the other end of the boat, where a blind man was entertaining the passengers with song and story combined. After our experience, we marveled when he said that though blind he could not lose his way in Boston. As his fingers flew over the piano keys, we wondered if it was necessary to be blind, in order to navigate Boston, and hit every note on the piano with never a miss.
Before going to our room, we went to see that Jerry was all right. The man who took him on board piloted usto his stall, and on the way back showed us the furnaces and the machinery. He interested us with his appreciation of the mighty silent power. He said he often went in alone, and watched it, and felt awed by the wonderful working of each part, the perfect action of even the minutest being essential to the whole.
We were obliged to take an inside stateroom, but found it very comfortable, and there was an opening heavenward just large enough for us to see one star, which told us the rain was over. We arose soon after three to be sure of the sunrise, and were out on deck as we stopped at Popham Beach, at the mouth of the Kennebec River. The apples we bought on Atlantic avenue were a timely refreshment, and the sail up the river, with the sunrise, was ample compensation for our effort. At five o’clock we landed at Bath, and Jerry’s friend harnessed him for us, saying courteously, as he handed us the reins, “Whenever you come this way again call for the second mate.”
The drive through the main street of Bath at that early hour was a decided contrast to our drive to the boat in Boston. It seemed as if the morning was half spent, and we could hardly realize that our waiting in the parlor of the hotel was for a six o’clock breakfast. At our table we recognized the faces of the bride and bridegroom, whose path we crossed four times on our Bar Harbor trip two years ago.
After doing justice to that early feast, we went out once more for a hand mirror, as we were tired of looking cracked. Next door to the hotel we found one that justsuited us, and several other little things as well, among them a penholder, which we purchased in memory of the one we lost in Bath two years ago.
At eight o’clock all was ready for the thirty-four miles drive up the Kennebec to Augusta. The day was lovely and cool, and we need not say the scenery was fine. We dined at Richmond, and spent the night at the Augusta House.
Thirty-two miles the next day, still following the river, taking dinner at Waterville, brought us to Norridgewock, which was full of interest to us, from descriptions so often given us by friends, of the old-time beauty. It is one of the few places where we would like to stay, had we time to delay. The Kennebec runs close by the main street, and the large covered bridge is opposite the hotel. We walked to the middle of the bridge to watch the sunset clouds, and feast our eyes on the view up the river. As the light faded we strolled down the main street, which is overarched by old willows. We measured the largest, walking around it with a handkerchief, just twenty-four lengths, twenty-three feet and four inches, a grand old trunk.
The wife of the proprietor brought some pictures of the town to our room in the evening, and promised us a drive in the morning.
We rested well in our pretty blue room, and were ready for the drive, after leaving Jerry with the blacksmith. We were taken to the river’s edge for one view, and to Sunset Rock for another. All the places we wished to see, and others we did not know of were pointed out tous, and we were sure if people only knew about it, the Quinnebassett House would be full of those who like a quiet, comfortable resting place.
We spend only one night in a place, and are usually ready to go on, but we left Norridgewock reluctantly, and were only consoled for turning away from the lovely Kennebec, by promising ourselves to drive to Norridgewock again some time, and follow still farther up the river. Maine cannot be exhausted in many trips, and we have some fine ones growing in our mind. Every journey makes a better one possible.
We must now face about for this time, and we aimed next for the Androscoggin, driving first to Farmington, then turning south, crossing the Androscoggin on one of those scow ferries run along a wire, that old Charlie disliked so much. He was not a good sailor, like Jerry, who can hardly wait for the scow to touch the shore, before he leaps on.
We should have told you, before crossing the ferry, about our quiet Sunday at a farm house. The man was reading his paper as we drove up, and it seemed almost too bad to disturb their Sunday rest, but his wife said we could stay if we would take them “as they were.” We were soon settled in a cosy parlor with bedroom adjoining, away from all sights and sounds of the busy world. We felt as if we were miles from everywhere, and you can imagine our surprise when the man said that he came down from Boston on the boat with us, and recognized us when we drove to the door.
Monday morning we left our kind host and hostess, with directions for Strickland’s ferry. We have alreadytaken you across, but we did not mention our ferryman. We do not remember now just what he said, but we set him down for a philosopher. All that ride and philosophy for ten cents! We thought it worth twenty-five at least, but he said some grumbled at ten.
Now we renewed our acquaintance with the Androscoggin, which we followed so many miles on one journey farther north. We wondered where all the logs were, and found out all about it from a boy who brought us milk, and entertained us while we had our first and only wayside camp at noon day. Our Sunday hostess had put up luncheon for us, as we were not to pass through any village on our way to Lewiston. Our boy friend took us down to a little beach on the river, and showed us where the river drivers had been for a week, but they were then at work half a mile below. We had often seen a river full of logs, and heard much about the river drivers, when in Maine and northern New Hampshire, but this was our first opportunity to see them at work. They were just coming from their tents after dinner, as we drove along. One of them tied Jerry for us, and conducted us to a nice place on the rocks. We watched them nearly an hour, and concluded it took brains to untangle the snarls of logs. It was quite exciting to see them jump from log to log with their spiked boots, and when the last of a snarl was started, leap into a boat and paddle off for another tangle. The river was low, and it was slow work getting them over the rocks.
The drive to Lewiston was over a sandy road. We met two boys puffing along on their wheels, who asked us if it was sandy all the way up. We were sorry wecould not cheer their hearts, by telling them the road was level and hard before them. We spent the night at Auburn, across the river from Lewiston, as the Elm House looked attractive. At the suggestion of the proprietor we took a horse car ride in the evening around the figure 8, one loop being in Lewiston and the other in Auburn. The horses must have been electrified, for we never rode so fast except by electricity, and we returned to our room quite refreshed.
Poland Springs was our next point of interest, and we were well repaid for our drive to the top of the hill, where the immense hotel when filled must be a little world in itself, for all sorts and conditions of men are attracted there. We met Boston friends who invited us to the morning concert, in the music room. After dinner we climbed to the cupola for the view, then ordered Jerry and were off again. Sabbath Day Pond, which lay along our way, is fittingly named. It has no look of a weekday pond, but is a crystal, clear, peaceful perfection, that is indescribable. The Parker House at Gray Corner afforded us every needful comfort, even to a hammock in the side yard through the twilight.
Now we began to lay aside—not forget—the things that were behind, and to strain our eyes for the first glimpse of the ocean. Portland was only sixteen miles away, and as we had left the sand, it did not seem long before we drove to the Portland post office and got home letters, always so welcome, then to the Preble House for dinner.
There was one place on the coast, that we skipped before, and now we proposed to explore Prouts Neck—ninemiles from Portland; but we did not leave the city until we had seen the good friends who entertained us so hospitably when we attended a meeting there. A storm cloud was over us, but we got only the last drops of a shower, that laid the dust all the way to Prouts Neck.
We were glad this lovely spot had been reserved for us until then, for we could not have seen it under a finer sky. We walked to the Rocks, piloted by a young lady, who knew all the paths through the woods, and we were fascinated with the path near the Rocks, over which the wild roses and low evergreens closed as soon as we passed through. We sat on the piazza watching Mt. Washington in the distance until the sunset sky grew gray, and finished up the pleasant evening in the cosy room of friends from Boston.
We saw them off in the morning for a day at Old Orchard, and then went on our way, through Saco and Biddeford to Kennebunkport, which also has its Rocks and many attractions. Spouting Rock was not spouting, but we saw where it would spout sixty feet in the air, when spouting time came.
The next morning we saw once again the friends we never pass by, at Kennebunk, and visited the old elm under which Lafayette is said to have taken lunch, when on a visit here after the Revolution. Night found us at another favorite resort, York Harbor, and the charms and comforts of the Albracca made us forget the heat and dust which a land breeze had made very oppressive during the day.
While we were at dinner at the Rockingham, Portsmouth,the next day, a black cloud spent its wild fury in a few terrific gusts of wind. All was over when we started on our afternoon drive, but when half way to Hampton, the clouds grew black again, and we had barely time to drop the back curtain, put on the sides and unfasten the boot, before a tempest was upon us; a tempest of wind and rain—not a common rain, but pelting drops with thunder and lightning. We read afterwards that a buggy was blown over not many miles from us, but ours withstood the gale, and Jerry did well, although it seemed almost impossible at times for him to go on against the storm. We drove away from the shower and all was calm when we got to the Whittier House, Hampton, one of our homelike stopping places.
We followed along the coast to Newburyport, and then the Merrimac River enticed us inland. The experience of the afternoon previous was repeated on our way from Haverhill to Andover. We were scarcely prepared, before another tempest burst upon us, the rain this time driving straight in our faces. It was soon over, however, and we reached Andover unharmed.
We were now only a day’s drive from home, but Boston is only twenty miles from Andover and as our mail reported all well, we could not resist going the longest way round to do another errand or two in Boston, and call on our friends in Reading and Maplewood on the way.
The drive from Malden to Boston is distracting, with little that is pleasant to offset the turmoil of the streets. We thought we could leave Jerry at the old stable in Mason street, while we went shopping, but like everythingelse in these days, the stable had “moved on.” When we found a place for him it was late. We did not idle this time, for it was so near five o’clock that gates were half closed, and a man stood at every door as if to say, “You can come out, but you cannot go in.”
The drive next morning was very fine. We went out on Beacon street to Chestnut Hill Reservoir, then drove on the new Commonwealth avenue as far as we could on our way to Allston. Whatever Scripture may say about the “broad way,” we shall surely risk our lives on that one as often as we have opportunity.
From Allston we retraced our first two days’ driving, making our journey like a circle with a handle. We called on the same friends along the way, spent the night at Wayland Inn, dined with the same friends at the Lancaster House, and called on the campers at Spectacle Pond. There was a slight variation in the return trip, however, in the form of a tornado, which passed over South Lancaster. We might have been “in it” if we had not stopped twenty minutes or more to sketch a very peculiar tree trunk, between Sudbury and Stow. There were nine huge oaks in a row, and every one showed signs of having been strangely perverted in its early growth, as if bent down to make a fence, perhaps; but later in life showed its innate goodness by growing an upright and shapely tree out of its horizontal trunk.
We called one journey a cemetery journey because we visited so many cemeteries, and another a ministerial journey because we met so many ministers. Trees were a marked feature of this journey. We saw many beautiful trees beside the big willow in Norridgewock, theLafayette Elm in Kennebunk, and now sketching the curious oak had possibly saved us harm from a beautiful maple, for we had not driven many miles before we struck the track of the gale, where large trees were torn apart, or uprooted. We had driven through the thunder shower, or rather it seemed to sweep quickly past us, the pelting rain lasting only a few moments, but as our direction turned we found a large maple across the road. We were obliged to go two miles farther round to reach the Lancaster House, and we had not driven far before the road was obstructed by another large tree. This time we could drive round through a field, and a third time, a large fallen branch had been cut and the way cleared. We rejoiced that the Great Elm stood unharmed, though mutilated trees were on each side of it.
Giant willows, historic elms, upright oaks from horizontal trunks, glorious maples and elms laid low, and scores of noble though not distinguished trees, that we admired and shall remember as we do pleasant people we meet, together with the fact that the greater part of our driving was in the grand old Pine Tree state, warrants us in calling this most delightful journey our Tree Journey.