POSTSCRIPT.
BUGGY JOTTINGS OF A SEVEN HUNDRED MILES DRIVE.CIRCUIT OF THE NEW ENGLAND STATES.
Postscripts in general are not considered good form, but this one is exceptional, and may be pardoned by virtue of its length. This book did not exist to “material sense,” until after this journey, but it existed in mind, and even more tangibly in the manuscript, which we took along with us for the final reading before placing it in the printer’s hands. We had guarded the precious pages for some weeks, many times having tied it up with the diary, ready to be snatched at an earthquake’s notice.
Book-reading had been a lifetime pleasure, but book-making was entirely new to us, and we were greatly interested in the work of detail—the preparation of manuscript, form of type, Gothic or old French style, paper, modern and antique, leaves cut or uncut, “reproduction of Ruskin,” everything in fact from cover to copyright.
The notes of more than 14000 miles in addition to the seven hundred miles driving made this journey one of unusual interest.
As usual we had no plan beyond going north for a month’s drive, a longer time than we have taken for several years. At the last moment, as it invariably happens when we have had some particular direction in mind, we decided to go south, spend Sunday with friends in Rhode Island, and take a turn in Connecticut before facing north.
We left home on the afternoon of June 22, Fridaybeing a day of good omen to us, surprised friends in Chapinville with a carriage call, spent the night at Westboro, telephoned our coming from Woonsocket, and were with our friends in Pawtucket before six o’clock Saturday night. Our horse rested Sunday, but our cousins gave us a long and very enjoyable drive, showing the places of interest about the city suburbs, giving us a glimpse of Narragansett Bay, a fine view of Providence, and a general idea of their drives, so different from our home drives with the many hills.
We were advised to go to Providence, four miles south of Pawtucket, to get the best roads westward, for our turn in Connecticut. Had we been really wise we would have followed this advice, but being wise in our own conceit only, we followed our map, and took a course directly west, aiming for the Connecticut River. We started early Monday morning. As we drove on, we were directed one way and another to strike better roads, until after a day’s drive we brought up at a hotel in North Scituate, just ten miles from Providence! Then we realized our folly in not going to Providence in the morning, wondered why we were so opposed to going there, and after discussing the problem as we sat in the buggy in the stable yard, for it was too late to go to the next hotel, we concluded our journey would not be complete unless it included Providence. A happy thought then struck us. We recalled the landlord, who had left us when we seemed so undecided, secured rooms for the night, deposited our baggage, and took the next car, which passed the hotel, and in an hour left us at Shepherd’s rear door in Providence. We went about the wonderfulstore, got the glass we wanted so much, and took the return car, being extremely fortunate in standing all the way in the vestibule with only twelve, the inside being much more crowded, owing to a circus. We faced the open window, and thoroughly enjoyed the ride in the bracing breeze, which restored our much disturbed mental equilibrium and made us declare that things come out right, if you let them alone.
We fully appreciated the late supper served by our obliging hostess, passed a very comfortable night, and again with the same dogged persistency faced westward. We crossed the state line, which was as definitely marked by the instant change in the general character of the roads, as by the pink line which divides Rhode Island from Connecticut on our map. We were thinking of going straight west until we reached the Connecticut River, then driving northwest to Norfolk, the second Lenox we discovered three years ago, and from there to Great Barrington and up through Stockbridge, Lenox, and all those lovely Berkshire towns.
After several miles of cross-roads we began to consider and wondered if we were not foolish to go so far west just to go through the Berkshires, which we knew by heart already. We decided to compromise, and turn north earlier, going to Springfield and up the Westfield River to the northern Berkshire region. A few miles more of criss-cross roads and we experienced full conversion, and said, “Why go further westward, when by turning north now we will see some towns we do not know?”
We were delighted with this new plan, especially whenwe came to Pomfret street, which seemed to us a second Norfolk, and when after being sent from one place to another for the night, we found ourselves at Mrs. Mathewson’s “Lakeside” in South Woodstock, with Mrs. Mott as present hostess. We now fully believed what we have often suspected, that we do not always do our own planning. You will not find this place on the advertised lists, but those who have been there for twenty summers, and those who are drawn there as we were, keep the house more than full.
For the first time we had the pleasure of meeting with one who had passed the century mark. He said he should like to apply as our driver! They were interested in our wanderings, and Mrs. Mathewson exclaimed, “Why don’t you make a book?” How could we help confessing that was just what we were going to do on our return? “Oh, I want to subscribe,” she said. We were much gratified, and told her she would be number three, and represent Connecticut. Before we left home a Michigan cousin, who was east for the Christian Science church dedication in Boston, had begged to head the list, and a mutual cousin in Pawtucket asked to represent Rhode Island.
We sat on the piazza with the other Lakeside guests until a late hour, and all the ophies and isms, sciences, Christian and otherwise, were touched upon.
The turn in Connecticut ended most satisfactorily, and the next morning’s drive took us over another State line, but just when we entered our native state we do not know, for we missed the boundary stone. We were aiming for Keene, New Hampshire, eager for our first mail,and as we passed within a half day’s drive of our starting point, in crossing Massachusetts, we felt as if the loop of one hundred and sixty miles was a sort of prologue to our journey. We had a wayside camp with a stone wall for a table, and we washed our spoons at the farm house where we got milk.
At the hotel where we spent our first night last year, we were remembered and most cordially received. After breakfast the next morning our hostess showed us their rare collection of antiques. Showers threatened and we took dinner and wrote letters at the Monadnock House, in Troy, New Hampshire, having crossed another State line, then hurried on to Keene, where we found a large mail, full of good news.
Among the letters was one from a nephew, adding four subscriptions to our book for the privilege of being number four, and so you see our list was started and growing as our plans are made, not altogether by ourselves.
While reading our letters we noticed our horse rested one foot, and as we drove away from the post office, she was a little lame. We had eleven miles of hilly driving before us, and as the lameness increased in the first half mile, we returned to a blacksmith, remembering Charlie and the sand under his shoe, which came near spoiling one journey. Again sand was the trouble, which was remedied by the blacksmith, and once more we started for Munsonville and Granite Lake, for a glimpse of friends from New York, Canada and Texas.
The welcome at Mrs. Guillow’s cottage in the village was cordial, as was promised last year, when we were there at both the beginning and end of our journey.Again we brought a rainy day, and wrote all the morning, as there was not time between showers to drive to our friend’s new studio and cottage, but after dinner we decided to walk the mile and a half round the lake, through the woods, and risk the rain. We surprised our friends as much as we can surprise any one who knows of our wanderings.
After we had enjoyed the lake views from the broad piazza, a fire was built on the hearth for good cheer, in the huge room which was reception-room, dining-room and library, all in one, with couches here and there, bookcases galore, and altogether such a room as we never before saw, but a fulfilment of Thoreau’s description of an ideal living-room in one of his poems. A broad stairway led from this room to the floor above, where every room was airy and delightful, and the floor above this has no end of possibilities. The studio is a small, attractive building by itself.
We started to walk back the other way, making a circuit of the lake, but had not gone far, when a driver with an empty carriage asked us to ride. In the evening two young friends, who were away at a ball game in the afternoon, rowed across to see us.
Never lovelier morning dawned than that first Sunday in July. We should have enjoyed hearing another good Fourth of July sermon by Mr. Radoslavoff as we did last year, but we had already stayed over a day, and must improve this rare morning for the “awful hills” everybody told us were on our way north. So with more promises of hospitality from Mrs. Guillow, an invitation to leave our horse with her neighbor opposite any time,and pleasant words from friends of the students who are attracted to this growing Summer School of Music, we retraced three miles of the lovely Keene road, then up we went, and up some more, then down and up again. We walked the steepest pitches, and the day ended at Bellows Falls as beautiful as it began. We were now in Vermont. Fifth state in ten days!
From Bellows Falls to Rutland by rail is not to be spurned, but by the hilly highways, it is a joy forever. We always anticipate that superb bit of driving through Cavendish Gorge before we reach Ludlow, where once more we enjoyed the comforts of the old Ludlow House, spick and span this time. Then came another perfect day for crossing Mt. Holly of the Green Mountain range, and we chose the rough short cut over the mountain, ignoring the smooth roundabout way for automobiles. Miles of wayside, and whole fields, were radiant with yellow buttercups, white daisies, orange tassel-flower, red and white clover, and ferns. The views are beyond description. We stopped on the summit to give our horse water, and never can resist pumping even if the tub is full. A woman seeing us came from the house bringing a glass, and we made a new wayside acquaintance; and still another when we camped by a brook at the foot, and got milk for our lunch.
We reached Rutland at four o’clock, just as demonstrations for the Fourth were beginning, and once in our room at The Berwick, with three large windows front, we could have fancied we were at Newport, New Hampshire, where we were last year the night before the Fourth. The program of entertainment was fully equal;nothing was missing but the bonfire of barrels. We watched the street panorama until ten o’clock, then examined the fire rope, but concluded a fire was necessary to make one know how to use it, packed our things ready for quick action, and slept serenely.
We waited until the early morning firing was over before we ordered our horse, and then found by some mistake she had had an extra feed of oats, which was quite unnecessary, for the crackers, common and cannon, furnished sufficient stimulus. Clouds were heavy, the wind strong, air cool, and we thought the list of prophecies for that week might be at hand all at once. Singularly, none of them came to pass on the dates given!
When at Bellows Falls, something prompted us to write our Fair Haven friends we were on the way, which we rarely do. Had we not, we would have been disappointed, for we found the house closed. A note pinned on the door, however, we were sure was for us. They were at the Country Club, Bomoseen Lake, for a few days, and asked us to join them there. We first called on the cousin from New York State, whose address was given, and whom we had not seen in many years. She gave us direction for the four miles’ beautiful drive to the lake, and as we followed its lovely shores to the Country Club, we recalled how many times we had read on the trolley posts from Rutland, “Go to Bomoseen.” We say to all who have the chance, “Go to Bomoseen.”
All the Fair Haven cousins were there, the “Michigan Subscriber” too, and for another surprise, our cousin, the story-writer, who had just finished a book. After a rowon the lake, we returned to the Country Club piazza over the bluff, to enjoy the exquisite views of the hills on the opposite shore—mountains, we called them—until we were called to the tempting supper served by the caretaker and presiding genius of the culinary department. He was unceasing in his attention, even to the lemonade served at a late hour, after the fireworks were over, and the literary works compared, as we watched the lake by moonlight from the piazza, or sat by the open fire. Vermont was now represented on our list.
The sun rose gloriously across the lake, just opposite our window. Another perfect day! No wonder all regretted it was their last at the Country Club. While some were packing, and others down by the lake, or out with the camera, two of us walked through the woods to the top of the hill, but at noon we all met at the pleasant home in Fair Haven for dinner.
Benson was our next destination, and our visit there had been arranged by telephone. The nine miles’ drive over the hills in the afternoon of that glorious day was a joy and we gathered wild-flowers on the way for our ever young cousin who always welcomes us at the homestead. The “first subscriber” and the “authoress” followed by stage, and a tableful of cousins met at supper in the heart of the hills, as on the border of Lake Bomoseen the night before. After supper we all went to “Cousin Charlie’s” store, and he made us happy with taffy-on-a-stick. Our special artist “took” us, taffy in evidence, being careful to have our ever-young chaperone in the foreground. By this same leading spirit we are always beguiled to the cream of conversation, and the morning visit amidthe flowers on her corner piazza is so well described by the “story-writer,” who asked for three minutes just as we were ready to resume our journey after dinner, that we will share it.
Lines on Departure:
The Fannies have come and the Fannies are goingOf mirth, metaphysics, we’ve had a fair showing.We’ve all aired our fancies, our pet point of view,If we only could run things the world would be new.We all know we’re right, and the others mistaken,But we’ve charity each for the other relation.So we join hearts and hands in the fraternal song:—The right, the eternal, will triumph o’er wrong.Whatever is true, friends, will live, yes, forever,So now we will stop—and discuss the weather.
The Fannies have come and the Fannies are goingOf mirth, metaphysics, we’ve had a fair showing.We’ve all aired our fancies, our pet point of view,If we only could run things the world would be new.We all know we’re right, and the others mistaken,But we’ve charity each for the other relation.So we join hearts and hands in the fraternal song:—The right, the eternal, will triumph o’er wrong.Whatever is true, friends, will live, yes, forever,So now we will stop—and discuss the weather.
The Fannies have come and the Fannies are goingOf mirth, metaphysics, we’ve had a fair showing.We’ve all aired our fancies, our pet point of view,If we only could run things the world would be new.We all know we’re right, and the others mistaken,But we’ve charity each for the other relation.So we join hearts and hands in the fraternal song:—The right, the eternal, will triumph o’er wrong.Whatever is true, friends, will live, yes, forever,So now we will stop—and discuss the weather.
The Fannies have come and the Fannies are going
Of mirth, metaphysics, we’ve had a fair showing.
We’ve all aired our fancies, our pet point of view,
If we only could run things the world would be new.
We all know we’re right, and the others mistaken,
But we’ve charity each for the other relation.
So we join hearts and hands in the fraternal song:—
The right, the eternal, will triumph o’er wrong.
Whatever is true, friends, will live, yes, forever,
So now we will stop—and discuss the weather.
We had written in the guest book, “Every day is the best day of the year,” adding “This is surely true of July 6, 1906.” The parting lines were read to us as we sat in the carriage, and we had driven out of sight of the corner piazza when we heard a good-by call from the cousin who came in late the night before from his round of professional visits, feeling quite ill. He looked so much better we wondered if the “Michigan subscriber” had been sending wireless messages to her “materia medica” cousin.
The visiting part of our journey was now over, and we started anew, with no more reason for going to one place than another. We had spent so much time on the preliminary “loop” in Rhode Island and Connecticut that we could not go as far north in the Adirondacks as we want to some time, but a drive home through the WhiteMountains is always interesting. How to get there was the problem, when the Green Mountains were between. You can drive up and down New Hampshire and Vermont at will, but when you want to go across, the difficulties exceed those of the roads east and west in Rhode Island and Connecticut. We knew the lovely way from Benson to Bread Loaf Inn in Ripton, then over the mountains, and along the gulf roads to Montpelier, but we inclined to try a new route. You drive through the White Mountains but over the Green Mountains.
With a new route in mind, from Benson we drove over more and higher hills to Brandon Inn for the night. The Inn is very attractive, but remembering the warm welcome from our many friends, the inscription over the dining-room fire-place hardly appealed to us:
“Whoe’er has traveled this dull world’s round,Where’er his stages may have been,May sigh to think he yet has foundHis warmest welcome at an inn.”
“Whoe’er has traveled this dull world’s round,Where’er his stages may have been,May sigh to think he yet has foundHis warmest welcome at an inn.”
“Whoe’er has traveled this dull world’s round,Where’er his stages may have been,May sigh to think he yet has foundHis warmest welcome at an inn.”
“Whoe’er has traveled this dull world’s round,
Where’er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he yet has found
His warmest welcome at an inn.”
The next day we crossed the mountain, hoping to take a fairly direct course to the Connecticut River, but on first inquiry, were told we must follow down White River forty miles before we could strike anything but “going over mountains” to get north.
It matters not whether you drive north, south, east or west, among the Green Mountains. It is all beautiful. Even the “level” roads are hilly, with a continuous panorama of exquisite views. Crossing the mountains we are in and out of the buggy, walking the steepest pitches to the music of the lively brooks and myriad cascades, letting our horse have a nibble of grass at every “rest,”which makes her ambitious for the next one. We do not care how many automobiles we meet, but on these roads they are conspicuous by their absence days at a time.
As we revel in these mountain drives and walks, we think of our friends who say we must be “tired to death,” who would not be “hired” to go, and again of the one who likes to have a horse and “amble along,” not forgetting the one who wrote she had just come in from an automobile ride, and that “to shoot through miles of beautiful country, eyes squinted together, and holding on tightly was a punishment,” and still another automobilist who said it did seem rather nice to go with a horse, and stop to “pick things.”
The forty miles down White River in order to get north was truly following a river, and a charming drive as well as restful change, after the mountain climbing. As we journeyed we found genuine hospitality at the hotels in Stockbridge and West Hartford, small country towns in Vermont, and everywhere the phonograph, the R. F. D. and telephone, bringing the most remote farm house in touch with the outer world.
We left White River with real regret, but after cutting a corner by driving over a high hill, we started north along the Connecticut, and at first should hardly have known the difference. In the course of twenty-five miles we realized we had faced about, as the hills gave place to mountains. We found very pleasant accommodation at the hotel in Fairlee, which was being renovated for summer guests. We remember the bevy of young people we saw there last year, as we passed.
The river fog was heavy in the early morning, butcleared later, and all day long we reviewed the views we have reveled in so many times; the river with us, and the New Hampshire mountains in the distance. For two or three miles we were on the lookout for a parting “camp” in Vermont. We almost stopped several times, and once began to unharness, then concluded to go a little further. When we reached the highest point on the hill, a large tree by the roadside, and a magnificent view of the river, hills, and mountains, assured us this was the spot we were being led to. Nan usually takes her oats from the ground, after she has made a “table” by eating the grass, but here they were served from a bank. We had taken our lunch, added a few lines to the journey report, which we write as we go, harnessed, and were ready to drive on, when a man came to the fence, from the field where he had been at work, and resting on his hoe said, “Well, ladies, you are enjoying yourselves, but you might just as well have put your horse in the barn, and given her some hay.” We thanked him, saying she seemed to enjoy the camping as much as we do, and was always eager for the grass. He then told us we had chosen historic ground. Our camp was on the road spotted by Gen. Bailey and Gen. Johnson to Quebec for the militia. He gave several interesting anecdotes. At one time in Quebec he was shown a small cannon, which they were very proud of, taken from “your folks” at Bunker Hill. His wife replied, “Yes, you have the gun, and we have the hill.”
We shall have to take back some things we have said about river roads, for that day’s drive completed more than one hundred miles of superb river driving, in turnclose by White River, the Connecticut, Wells River, and the Ammonoosuc, which roared like Niagara, as it rushed wildly over the rocks under our window at the hotel in Lisbon, New Hampshire.
It rained heavily during the night, but the sun was out bright in the morning. We surprised friends with a very early call, and then went on, taking our river along with us. At Littleton we found a generous mail, and all was well, so still on we went, camping at noon by our Ammonoosuc but parting with it at Wing Road, for it was bound Bethlehem-ward, and we were going to Whitefield, where we found a new proprietor at the hotel, who at one time lived in Leominster.
Jefferson was our next objective point, and there are two ways to go. We wanted that lovely way marked out for us once by a Mt. Washington summit friend, who knew all the ways. We took a way that we wish to forget. We called it the ridgepole road between the White Mountains and the mountains farther north. There were mountains on all sides, but some of them were dimly discerned through the haze, which threatened to hide them all. We went up until we were so high we had to go down in order to go up more hills. The road was full of mudholes, and swamps or burnt forests on either side, instead of the fine road and exquisite views we remembered that other way. We had not been so annoyed with ourselves since we did not go to Providence to start westward. That came out all right, however, and we went to Providence after all. We had to trust to providence to pacify us this time, for we could not go back as we did then.
For immediate diversion we considered our homeward route. The “ridgepole” must be our northern limit for this journey. From Lake Memphremagog last year we drove home through Franconia Notch, and from the Sebago Lake trip two years ago through Crawford Notch. It was Pinkham’s turn. Yes, and that would give us that unsurpassed drive from Jefferson to Gorham. How easy it was to decide, with the thought of that drive so close to the mountains which are never twice alike, and North Conway would be a good mail point.
Before we got to Jefferson Highlands, we suddenly recognized a pleasant place where we camped several years ago, in a large open yard, facing the mountains. Once more we asked permission, which was cordially granted, with assurance we were remembered. In the hour and a half we were there, we kept watch of the clouds as we were writing in the buggy. They had threatened all the morning, and now we could distinctly follow the showers, as they passed along, hiding one mountain after another. They passed so rapidly, however, that by the time we were on our way again, the first ominous clouds had given way to blue sky, and before long the showers were out of sight, and the most distant peak of the Presidential range was sun-glinted. The bluish haze, which so marred the distant views, entranced the beauty of the outlines and varying shades, when so close to this wonderful range. Later in the afternoon the sun came out bright, and the “ridgepole” and clouds were forgotten, as once more we reveled in the beauty and grandeur of Mts. Washington, Adams, Jefferson and Madison, with the Randolph hills in theforeground. We know of no drive to compare with this drive from Jefferson to Gorham.
As we came into Gorham, we saw the first trolley since we left Fair Haven, Vermont, and had a glimpse of the Androscoggin River. The old Alpine House where we have always been was closed, but The Willis House proved a pleasant substitute.
Twenty miles from Gorham to Jackson, through Pinkham Notch, and we had forgotten the drive was so beautiful! Everything was freshened by the showers we watched the day before, and the mountains seemed nearer than ever. A river ran along with us over its rocky bed, the road was in fine condition, and we could only look, lacking words to express our enthusiasm. The little house in the Notch by the A. M. C. path to Mt. Washington summit, where the woman gave us milk and cookies, and the strange little girl had a “library,” was gone, not a vestige of anything left. We took our lunch there, however, as evidently many others had done. We had barely unharnessed, when a large touring car shot by, and we were glad the road was clear, for in many places it is too narrow to pass. We followed on later, and gathered wild strawberries, as we walked down the steep hills towards Jackson.
The showers evidently did not make the turn we made at Jackson for Glen Station, for here it was very dusty. We have stayed so many times in North Conway, that we proposed trying some one of those pleasant places we have often spoken of on the way. We drove by several, but when we came to Pequawket Inn, Intervale, we stopped with one accord. Somehow we know the rightplace when we come to it. This was another of those we note, and remember to make come in our “way” again. When we left in the morning our friendly hostess assured us that the lovely room facing Mt. Washington should always be “reserved” for us.
She gave us directions for Fryeburg, for having been by turn in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont and New Hampshire again, we wanted to complete the circuit of the New England States by driving into Maine. We left New Hampshire at Conway, and thought we took our mid-day rest in Maine, and remembering the hospitality of some years ago, were not surprised when a miss came from the house near by, and asked if we would not like a cup of tea. When we went later for a glass of water, we learned we were still in New Hampshire, and concluded hospitality was universal, and not affected by State lines.
We had not time to explore the “wilds” of Maine, but it was sufficiently wild and uninhabited where we did go. Many of the houses were deserted, and hotels were scarce. One night we had to ask to stay at a small country house. We knew they did not really want us, but when we told them how far we had driven, they quickly consented. Thinking we would appreciate it supper was served on china one hundred and twenty-five years old, after which a whole saw-mill was set in operation for our entertainment. Buried in the hills as we were, we could have “called-up” our friends in Boston, New York or elsewhere.
We were getting away from the mountains, but there were so many high hills, and one a mile long, that we didnot miss them very much. We were in Maine; that was enough. The wooded roads were very pretty, too. We would walk up a steep hill, then get in the buggy, write a sentence or two, and out again for a walk down a pitch. In number, steepness and length of hills, Franconia, Crawford and Pinkham Notches do not compare with these drives. The roads being grass-grown for miles indicates that all tourists do not take our route. As we came into Springvale, we saw automobiles for the first time since we left North Conway.
As we drove on towards the coast, we were delighted to find it would come just right to spend a night at Green-Acre-on-the-Piscataqua, where we found so much of interest to us two years ago, and were greatly disappointed when we arrived at the inn, to find there was no possible way of caring for our horse, as the stable near the inn was closed. We did not want to go on to Portsmouth, and the manager of the inn assured us of good care for ourselves and horse, if we would go back to Mrs. Adlington’s cottage, which he pointed out to us on a hill up from the river. Before the evening ended we could have fancied ourselves on the piazzas of the inn, for the subjects that came up and were discussed by summer guests from New York, Philadelphia, Boston and Saco would have furnished a program for the entire season at the Eirenion. We were shown an ideal study in the cottage connected, where a book is to be written. Indeed, we seemed to be in an atmosphere of book-making, and again we were questioned until we confessed, and the “representative list” was materially increased.
Regrets for the inn were quite forgotten, and we felt we were leaving the Green Acre “Annex” when we said good morning to all the guests and went first to find Miss Ford in her summer study to secure a copy of her book, “Interwoven,” sure to interest us, after the enthusiastic comments.
We got our mail as we passed through Portsmouth, made a call at The Farragut, Rye Beach, and were invited to spend the night, but we had planned to go to Salisbury Beach, and thought best to go on. We took the boulevard, and were full of anticipation for the drive along the shore to Salisbury, via Boar’s Head and Hampton. Here we drove on the beach for a time, then returned to the boulevard, the beach flies becoming more and more troublesome, until our horse was nearly frantic. Our fine road changed to a hard sandy pull, and we were glad to get on the Hampton River Bridge. All went smoothly until we were nearly across the longest wooden bridge in the world, a mile, when obstructions loomed up, the trolley track being the only passable part. Workmen came forward, and said, rather than send us so many miles round, they would try to take us across. They unharnessed Nan, and led her along planks in the track, and put down extra planks for the buggy. We followed on over the loose boards. This difficulty surmounted, another soon presented itself. The boulevard ended, and the remaining two miles’ beach road to Salisbury was nothing but a rough track in the sand. We were advised to go round, though double the distance.
When we made the turn from the beach, we facedthunder clouds, which we had not seen before. We do not like to be on the road in such a shower as threatened, and there was no hotel within four or five miles. There were only small houses dotted along, but when the thunder began, we resolved to seek shelter in the first house that had a stable for Nan. We asked at the first two-story house, if there was any place near where transients were taken. No one offered to take us, but directed us to a house a little farther up the road, but there the old lady said, “Oh no, I couldn’t!” As an apology for asking her, we told her we understood she did sometimes take people. The thunder was increasing, the clouds now getting blacker, and we urged her a little, but she told us to go to the “store” a little way up, and they would take us. Reluctantly we went and asked another old lady who looked aghast. “I never take anybody, but you go to the house opposite the church; she takes folks.” By this time the lightning was flashing in all directions, and we felt drops of rain. Imagine our dismay to find the house was the one we had just left. (Ought we to have stayed at the Farragut?) We explained and begged her to keep us, promising to be as little trouble as possible. She said she was old and sick, and had nothing “cooked-up,” but she would not turn us out in such a storm, she would give us a room, and we could get something to eat at the store.
We tumbled our baggage into the kitchen, hurried Nan to the barn, and escaped the deluge. We were hardly inside when a terrific bolt came, and we left the kitchen with the open door, and stole into the front room, where windows were closed and shades down. The grand-daughter came in from the “other part,” with severalchildren, and we all sat there, until a cry came, “Something has happened down the road!” We all rushed to the open door and word came back that a tree was struck in a yard near the house where we made our first inquiry for shelter, and a man at an open window was prostrated and had not “come to.” One of the children had run away down the street and was brought back screaming with fright, and asking if the thunder struck him! The shower was very severe, but passed over rapidly, and when the golden sunset glow came on, we began to think of making a supper from the crackers, nuts, raisins and pineapple in our lunch box, thinking how much better that was than standing in the “breadline” at San Francisco. But while we were still watching the sunset, we were called to supper, and the lunch box was forgotten. Our good lady finally told us she boarded the school masters for thirty-five years, and “took” people, but now she was alone she did not like to take men, having been frightened, and she always sends them to a man a little way up the road, but does not tell them he is the “select-man.” When they ask there, they are offered the lock-up. “If you had been two men I should have sent you there!” We talked until nearly dark, before taking our things upstairs.
Breakfast was served in the morning, and our hostess seemed ten years younger, declaring we had been no trouble. When we gave her what we usually pay at a small hotel, she accepted it reluctantly. We promised to send her the report of our journey, and she asked if we should come the same way next year.
It was all right that we did not stay at the Farragut,for that hard drive would have shortened our visit in Newburyport, and dinner with a friend at the Wolfe Tavern.
We found a large mail at Newburyport, and then looked up a way home. Really, the only fitting terminal route to such a fine journey was to follow the coast to Boston, and then home via Concord. At Hamilton we found the family tomb of Gail Hamilton, and took a snap-shot of her home.
The miles of driving along the coast, and the boulevards of the Park Reservation through Beverly, Salem, Marblehead, Swampscott, Lynn, Revere Beach and Winthrop, were a striking contrast to the miles of hills. We found friends along the way, and stayed one night close by the shore, then drove into Boston, where Nan fell into line on Atlantic avenue as unconcerned as when in the solitude of the mountains. We made a call or two as we passed through the city to Cambridge, and on through Arlington and Lexington to Concord, where we spent the last night at the Old Wright Tavern, built in 1747. It is full of souvenirs and reminders of the Revolutionary times. Framed illuminated inscriptions hung on the walls of the dining-room.
We began our last day very pleasantly, after leaving our cards at a friend’s house, by calling on the Chaplain of the Concord Reformatory, and finding in his home friends from Chicago, who asked about the revolver, which reminded us we had not taken it from the bottom of the bag in which it was packed before we left home.
At noon it began to rain, and we had the first cosy rainy drive, enjoying it as we always do. We did notregret, however, missing the deluge which came just as Nan was hurrying in to her stall. She knew all the afternoon where she was going, and was impatient with every delay. We did not blame her, for she had taken a great many steps in the seven hundred miles and more, and been equal to every demand, traveling every day but two in the whole month. The miles of this journey swell the number to nearly 15000, but we will not change the title of our book, for 14000 is a multiple of the mystic number 7, and also of the 700 miles of this Postscript.
14000
MILES
A CARRIAGE AND TWO WOMEN
BY
FRANCES S. HOWE
This book is privately printed and the edition is limited. It contains reports of an unbroken series of annual drives through New England, New York State and Canada. Copies will be sent on receipt of price, $1.50, and 15 cents additional for express or postage.
Address, Leominster, Mass.
MISS F. S. HOWE,
60Mt.Pleasant Ave., or
MISS F. C. ALLEN,
5 Park Street.