CHAPTER XV.
ON HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS. 1894 to 1904.
In response to many requests to share this journey with our friends as we used, the spirit has moved us to give you first an inkling of our annual trips for the ten years since our last report.
This is easily done, for we have a book in which is recorded the name given to each journey, the name of every town we pass through, with distance from place to place, and the sum total of time, distance and expense of each journey. This goes with us, and is a valuable book of reference. The revolver still goes with us, too, the one thing we take but never use. Our electric hand-lamp, on the contrary, is very useful. The Kennebec journey was followed by our first visit to Nantucket, leaving our horse at New Bedford, and once again prolonging the return trip to Leominster by driving to Boston. This journey had a memorable postscript: We drove to Boston for a day or two in the autumn and were detained eleven days by that terrific November snow storm, and even then the last thirty miles of the return trip it was good sleighing!
A September mountain trip, “The Figure 8” we named it, comes next in order, followed by a Jefferson and Jackson trip, and then a Massachusetts journey, which is always delightful.
The three ranges of the Green Mountains, with their“gulf” roads, was a journey unsurpassed, and from Cape Ann to Mt. Tom was another interesting journey in our own state, followed by a Cape Cod trip, which completed the coast for us from New Haven to Bar Harbor.
By this time we were ready for another journey to Lake George, Saratoga, and the Berkshires, and the next trip through the mountains was exceptionally fine, as we returned via Sebago Lake, Portland and the coast, being just in time for the September surf.
The following journey “capped the climax,” seemingly, when we crossed the Green Mountains, ferried Lake Champlain to Ticonderoga, and drove to Eagle, Paradox and Schroon Lakes in the Adirondack region, returning to Lake George, thence to the Berkshire towns and as far south as Hartford, Connecticut, a superb drive of five hundred miles.
Most of our journeys have covered more than four hundred miles, and we are frequently asked if we have done all this with one horse. No, there was handsome black Charlie, Old Nick, who liked to lie down in harness now and then, bay Charlie, who had the longest record—ten years—and was best loved and least trusted, faithful, serious Jerry, whose long strides took us so easily through the country, saucy and exasperatingly lazy Bess, who could do so well, and altogether worthy Nan, whose two journeys have not revealed a fault.
“Do you plan your journeys?” is another question often asked. Never, except the Cape Cod trip, and we observed the innovation by having a letter party. Imagine the pleasure of receiving thirty or more letters at the tip end of Cape Cod, and of mailing an answer to thelast one at Plymouth on the way home! We have many times driven from home to the post office packed for a three or four weeks’ journey, without the faintest idea where we should go, and even sat there in the buggy fifteen or twenty minutes trying to decide which way we would leave town.
Our journeys make themselves and we thought this summer’s journey was not going to be worthy of mention, but would simply preserve the record unbroken. We could spare but two weeks, and we were never more at a loss what to do with it. Maine came to mind most frequently, and we finally faced in that direction, spending the first night at the Groton Inn. Of course, facing Maineward the Isles of Shoals lay in our way as a side attraction, and as it was many years since we had been there, we left our horse at Portsmouth, and took the boat to Appledore, where we found the friends we hoped to meet. After dinner and a walk to Celia Thaxter’s resting place, we returned on the afternoon boat to Portsmouth. Our horse was waiting for us at the wharf, and we drove on to Eliot, Me., where Green-Acre attracted us.
A visit to Green-Acre alone would be enough for a summer’s outing, even if one were limited to the exoteric interests of life—this beautiful acre of green on the banks of the Piscataqua River, the finely located Inn, with its hospitality, and the glorious sunsets—what more could one desire? But if you have chanced to be, or wish to be, initiated into the esoteric mysteries, what a feast!
Unfortunately Miss Farmer, the organizer and secretary of Green-Acre, was away for a few days, but we hada brief sunset meeting sitting on the river bank, a very fine reading in the parlor in the evening, from Longfellow and Lowell, an early morning gathering on the piazza of the Eirenion—House of Peace—when Browning and Emerson were beautifully read and interpreted, and a later session under Lysekloster Pines, a half mile away through the fields, where the meetings of the Monsalvat School are held. This was a novel experience, sitting on the dry brown needles, under the low, broad-spreading branches of a mammoth pine, listening to the wisdom of an Indian teacher.
We were loth to leave the tempting program, “The Oneness of Mankind,” by Mirza Abul Fazl, and Mirza Ali Kuli Khan, next morning in the Pines, and later “Man, the Master of His Own Destiny,” by Swami Rami; in truth a whole summer’s feast of reason and music, but our journey was waiting.
We had scarcely left the Inn after dinner, before muttering thunder gave us warning, and a shower came up so quickly we barely had time to drive under a shed back of the village church before the floods came down. The shower was violent, but did not last very long, and when the rain was over, we drove on. We were utterly in doubt where we were being led until at the first glimpse of a distant mountain peak our entire journey was revealed to us—a trip through Sebago Lake, then on to Jefferson Highlands, and home through Crawford Notch and Lake Winnipiseogee! We had not a doubt or misgiving after the revelation. We had at last struck our trail!
According to the revelation, Sebago Lake was the firstpoint of note, but the incidents along the way, the pretty woodsy roads, the ponds and brooks, the camping near a farmhouse at noon, and the small country hotels, with their hospitable hosts, make up by far the larger part of a carriage journey. When we answered our host, who asked where we had driven from that day, he said, “Green-Acre? That’s the place where Buddhists confirm people in their error,” adding “there’s only one kind of good people—good Christian men and women.”
We were packing up wraps and waterproofs after a shower, when a white-haired farmer came from the field and asked if we were in trouble. We told him we were “clearing up” so as to look better. “Oh, pride, is it?” he said, and asked where we came from. He seemed so much interested that we also told him where we were going—it was just after the “revelation.” He was very appreciative and wished us a hearty Godspeed. The incident was suggestive of the universal brotherhood to be, in the millennium. At a point on the Saco we saw logs leaping a dam like a lot of jubilant divers—singly, and by twos and threes.
We had an early drive of eight miles to meet the boat at Sebago Lake, and on the way there was a slight break in the harness. We drove back a short distance, hoping to find the rosette lost from the head band, and finally tied it up with a string. This delayed us more than we realized and when we drove to a hotel near the wharf and were waiting for the proprietor, we asked a guest of the house what time the boat was to leave. He answered quickly, “Now! run! I will take care of your horse!” We ran, and not until we were fairly on board did itoccur to us that we had not told him who we were, where we came from, or when we should return. It did not matter, however, as the names on whip and writing tablet would give all that was needful in case of necessity or curiosity.
The day was perfect, there was a pleasant company on board the Longfellow, Sebago Lake was all one could wish for a morning’s sail, and the Songo River, with its twenty-seven turns in six miles, although only two and a half miles “as the bird flies,” fascinating beyond all anticipation. Passing through the locks was a novelty and the Bay of Naples as lovely as its name suggests. Then came the sail through Long Lake to Harrison, the terminus, where the boat stayed long enough for us to stroll up the street and go to the post office, and then we had all this over again, enjoying the afternoon sail even more than that of the morning.
This was a round trip of seventy miles, and it was too late when we returned to drive farther, as we had planned, but we were off early next morning, the buggy scrupulously clean, and with a new head band and rosette. We hoped Nan’s pride was not hurt by wearing a plain A on one side of her head, and an old English S on the other!
We drove up the east side of Sebago Lake, passed the Bay of Naples, and on through the various towns on Long Lake, and at night found ourselves at the Songo House, North Bridgton, just a mile and a half across the end of the lake from Harrison, where we posted cards the day before at noon.
The following day we turned our thoughts from lakes, bays and rivers, and faced the mountains, which are never more enjoyable than when approaching them. We retraced our route of two years ago, but there is a great difference between driving towards the mountains and away from them. As we drove on through the Waterfords, Albany, West Bethel and Gilead, the views were finer every hour, and at Shelburne we had a most beautiful sunset, and watched the after-glow a long time from a high bluff.
The rain clouds of the night vanished after a few sprinkles, leaving only delicate misty caps on the highest peaks, and the day was perfect for the famous drive from Gorham to Jefferson, so close to the mountains of the Presidential range, along through Randolph. The afternoon drive over Cherry Mountain to Fabyan’s was never more lovely. We feasted on wild strawberries as we walked up and down the long hills through the woods.
That this was the tenth time we had driven through the White Mountains did not in the least diminish their charm for us. On the contrary, they have become like old friends. To walk up and down the steep pitches through Crawford Notch, leading the horse, listening at every turnout for mountain wagons, and this year for automobiles, would be a delight every year. Our youthful impression of a notch as a level pass between two mountains was so strong, the steep pitches are a lovely surprise every time.
The old Willey House was one of our favorite restingplaces. We are glad the driveway and barn were spared when the house was burned, and we still stop there to give our horse her noon rest.
After the “pitches,” the rest at old Willey, and a snap shot at the ruins, come the miles and miles of driving through the dense woods, with high mountains on either side, the way made cheery by the sunlight glimmering through the treetops, and the music of the babbling brooks.
At Bartlett we received a large forwarded mail, the first for ten days, which we read as we drove on to North Conway, and we were grateful for the good news which came from every direction.
After leaving North Conway and getting our first glimpse of Chocorua’s rugged peak, there was no more regretful looking backward. Chocorua in its lofty loneliness is all-absorbing. We had an ideal mid-day camp on the shores of the beautiful Chocorua lake at the base of the mountain.
After two hours of concentrated admiration of the rocky peak, what wonder we were hypnotized, and that on leaving the lake with one mind we confidently took the turn that would have led us to the summit in time! Having driven a distance which we knew should have brought us to the next village, we began to suspect something was wrong. There was nothing to do but to go on, for there was not a turn to right or left, and not a house in sight. We were surely on a main road to somewhere, so we kept on, until we met a farmer driving, who brought us to our senses. We were miles out of our way, but by following his directions in the course of theafternoon we arrived safely at our destination for the night.
Immediately we took our books and writing-tablet, and climbed to a summer house on a knoll just above the hotel, commanding a magnificent view of Chocorua, also Passaconaway, White Face, Sandwich Dome, and several others of the range. After supper we returned to the knoll for the sunset, and later were interested in what was thought to be a bonfire at the Appalachian camp on the summit of Passaconaway, lingering until the outlines were lost in the darkness.
We were up before six o’clock and went to the hammock in the summer house before breakfast, and if it had not been such a beautiful day for the sail through Lake Winnipiseogee, we would have been strongly tempted to stay over at this homelike place, the Swift River House, Tamworth Village, New Hampshire, opened only last year, and already attracting lovers of fishing and hunting.
A drive of seventeen miles with Chocorua in the background, and raspberries in abundance by the wayside, brought us to Centre Harbor, where we took the boat for Alton Bay. A trip through Lake Winnipiseogee sitting in the buggy in the bow of the Mt. Washington, is an indescribable pleasure, and even our horse seemed to enjoy it, after she became accustomed to the new experience. On the way we had our parting glimpses of Mt. Washington and Chocorua.
With this glorious sail the “revelation” was fulfilled, and the one hundred miles—or nearly that—between us and home was like the quiet evening after an eventful day.
For more than two hundred and fifty miles we had been away from the trolleys, and the busy world, among the mountains and lakes, and recreation lovers everywhere, from the tent on the river bank to the large mountain houses. Now came the familiar ways through the country towns and villages, the gathering and pressing wild flowers for Christmas cards, catching a pretty picture with the camera, and a drive along the Merrimac in the cool of the morning, the atmosphere clear as crystal after another dry shower, when clouds threatened but gave no rain.
Then there were the lovely camping places at noon, the hospitable farmers, and the pleasant chats in the kitchen while our spoons were being washed—the souvenir spoons that were presented to us with a poem after our twenty-fifth journey. One bright young woman discovered the silver we left when we returned the milk pitcher and glasses, and came after us, forcing it into our hands, telling us not to dare leave it, but come again and she would give us a gallon. At another place where we asked permission to stop in a little grove, the farmer came out and set up a table for us, and gave us use of a hammock. We prolonged our stay to the utmost limit—nearly three hours—reading in the buggy and hammock under the fragrant pines, our horse tied close by, nodding and “swishing” the flies. We have an amusing reminder of that camp, for we had posed Nan for the camera, and just as it snapped she dashed her nose into one of the paper bags on the table.
A notable experience in the latter part of every journey is a visit to the blacksmith, and it came, as oftenbefore, unexpectedly on the way. The chatting that goes with the shoeing would be good material for Mary Wilkins.
At last came a rainy day, without which no journey is quite complete. We had a leisure morning with our books, and after an early dinner enjoyed an easy, comfortable drive in the rain, which ended our journey of more than four hundred miles in two weeks and two days.