CHAPTER XX.AN IDEAL AFTERNOON.
Thecharms of Chicago as a summer resort have been sung ever since one can remember. No matter how sultry the atmosphere in the down-town district, there is generally a cool breeze from the lake to temper the fierceness of the sun if one can only get where it is blowing. It is the purpose of the present chapter to describe how a simply ideal afternoon may be spent, provided the weather is suitable, by a drive along the north shore, taking in two well-known summer resorts in the journey.
About three in the afternoon is a good time to start. By that time the sun has moved well around toward the western heavens and the extremity of its fierceness has departed. Let it be understood for the sake of illustration that the traveler has secured a companion forthe journey—for who likes to go driving alone, I should like to know?—and this makes him seem so much the better natured when he asks the hotel clerk to procure him from some first-class livery stable the particular sort of a rig he may fancy. It may be either a modest one-horse buggy, a high-wheeled cart (if it is desired to make an attempt at style), a mail-phaeton with a spanking team, or any one of half a dozen other styles of conveyance to be had at short notice. It may even happen that he has secured a lady companion for the trip, and if so, the lucky dog is to be envied, eh? Who does not know how much more pleasure is attached to the task of holding the ribbons when one’s left elbow is continually jolting against the shoulder of a pretty woman at one’s side.
The start is made in due season. The pace is necessarily careful up Michigan avenue and on to the big Rush street bridge (we are to have a mammoth viaduct hereabouts some day, so “they say”) but once on the North side the gait may be accelerated to a slashing trot, the smart pace of which will lend an added color to the cheek of the charmer at your elbow—always supposing the companion to be feminine. Turning into Dearborn avenue at Ohio street the smooth asphalt pave is encountered on which the hoofs of the spirited animals soundsmartly. It is only a few minutes until North avenue is passed and Lincoln Park reached, upon which we swerve gently to the right, pass around the curves by Mr. Yerkes’ great electric fountain, and the Lake Shore Drive (referred to in a previous chapter) is reached. Hence and away there stretches a wide and smooth expanse of roadway two full miles straight to the northward. The blue waters of the lake are dancing and sparkling in the sunlight. The refreshing breeze is coming straight from the east and rustling the green foliage of the trees on the left. Is it any wonder that the blood flows quicker through the veins and that the tug of the horses at the bits produces an exhilaration that leads to a desire for increased speed? Even the beasts feel the spirit of the thing, and dash ahead buoyantly over the broad roadway. Other vehicles swarm over the pleasure course—heavy family carriages, in which fat dowagers are taking an airing; dog carts driven tandem by smart young men whose fathers have big bank accounts, and here and there an actual exercising cart with a blooded trotter between the shafts—it all makes up a gay panorama and the probabilities are that if you are human you will let out a link in the lines and indulge in a wee bit of a race just to see if the horseflesh you are in charge of is notjust a little better than the next man’s. This will go all right until the mounted park policeman motions you to moderate your pace. His mandate must be obeyed or an arrest and fine will be the result. The policemen are sometimes conveniently blind, however, and sometimes enjoy a bit of a brush as much as anybody, but really furious driving is against the law and will not be tolerated.
A SUMMER CONCERT GARDEN.
A SUMMER CONCERT GARDEN.
But the two miles have been passed by this time and Diversey street and the northern limit of the park is reached. A few yards further and it is time to stop, for we have reached the great gateway of the famous summer garden, formerly known as “Fischer’s,” but which is now conducted by a gentleman of another name. No matter what the name is; it is still Fischer’s just the same. Driving through the gates into the grounds a servant takes charge of the team, leaving you at liberty to stroll down to the covered pavilion which abuts on the very edge of the lake and sit and drink in the cooling breeze to your heart’s content. There are other refreshments that you may indulge in if you choose, but it is generally conceded that the breeze alone is worth the price of admission.
Fischer’s is an established North side resort. Besides being a favorite objective point for adrive it is also pleasantly accessible by water. There is a landing for boats, many of which arrive there during the afternoon and evening hours, freighted with many young folks who laugh and sing gaily as they come skimming over the water to the common haven. On certain evenings during the summer, generally three in each week, Professor Rosenbecker’s orchestra (see Sunday concerts) gives a concert at the garden, and then is the time to see whole bevies of pretty girls and women, decked out in all the attractive bravery of summer attire, sipping sherbet or lemonade in the moonlight and contributing their quota of charm to a scene as picturesque and brilliant as any to be found in the West.
The stop at Fischer’s, however, is merely for a brief rest and change of scene; with the team freshly rubbed down we may start on the drive to Sunnyside. A quarter of a mile north of Fischer’s we turn west to Evanston avenue and speed through the pretty suburb of Lake View. The branches of the trees at the side of the road will brush our hats off as we go by if we don’t look out. But the horses spin onward, past neat villas, with their snow-white barns in the rear—pictures of comfort; past smoothly shaven lawns, upon which young people of both sexes are engaged in rattling gamesof tennis; past lissome beauties who look coyly up from the hammocks in which they are indolently reclining; past all manner of interesting objects, each of which lend their separate and special charm to the journey. We are skimming through Edgewater presently—nicknamed by the irreverent “the dude town,” by reason of its being so very spick and span. Then a sharp turn to the left and a long stretchof highway, lined on one side by pretty trees. It begins to look like the country at last, for here are some fields in which thrifty husband-men and their wives are at work. A rattle and a thud as we cross the railroad tracks, the dust flying from the hoofs of our nimble steeds. One more sharp turn, a start into a private drive-way, and here we are at our destination—Sunnyside.
One reason, perhaps, why the summer hotel—roadhouse, some people call it—named Sunnyside is so popular is that it is just within comfortable driving distance of the city. An hour and a half, or two hours (counting for the customary stop at Fischer’s) is the time allowed for the journey. The hotel itself, kept by the Dowling family for years, is a great rambling old wooden building standing in the midst of spacious grounds. A peculiarity of the place is the beautiful independence of the proprietors, an independence that manifests itself in their refusal to cater to the whims of guests. A supper bill of fare is arranged by them. Supper costs one dollar per person served. No orders for special dishes are taken. You can take what is there or go without it. But no one was ever heard to complain of the fare. There is beef-steak, from the loins of fat cattle slaughtered by old man Dowling himself. In addition,maybe, there is a plump chicken raised in old lady Dowling’s own poultry yard, and whose neck was blithely wrung by her own fair hand that very morning. There is green corn and ripe tomatoes and young onions and other delicacies all raised on the Dowling demesne, and all included in the dollar. If there has been no joke about it and you really are accompanied by the charming damsel I have hinted at, the meal is doubtless all the more enjoyable. Having youth and good appetite, sharpened by the ride, you can do justice to the homely and honest fare. You may have a little private dining-room all to your two selves, bless your dear hearts, and every two minutes or so Mother Dowling will come bustling into the room, eager to see if you are satisfied with the service and anxious to supply any deficiencies. She is a sweet old dame, and if by the merest chance she should catch you in the very act of conveying to your inamorata an idea of the high estimation in which you hold her—if, indeed, she should detect your face in too close proximity to your inamorata’s face, her joyous laugh, strident and cracked though it may be under the stress of the many years that have rolled over her head, will echo uncannily through the corridors, awakening all the echoes and making you wonder if your fair companion will look as well as she does when she is as old.
Dear old Lady Dowling! Venerable high priestess of the quaint old sanctuary of Sunnyside! Many a time and oft, as the writer has heard some merry party of noisy but honest fellows, of whom, alas! he was one, roll out the rare old drinking chorus:
“Then here’s to Mrs. Dowling,Drink her down! Drink her down!”
“Then here’s to Mrs. Dowling,Drink her down! Drink her down!”
“Then here’s to Mrs. Dowling,Drink her down! Drink her down!”
“Then here’s to Mrs. Dowling,
Drink her down! Drink her down!”
has he marvelled at the fewness of the wrinkles upon thy brow—considering all that thou hast passed through in thy progress through this earthly vale of tears.
The repast concluded, an adjournment to the wide verandah is in order, there to enjoy a peaceful smoke and ruminate upon the experiences of the hour. There may be at the other end of the verandah a party of frolicsome youths who have driven out on a six-horse tally-ho, and who have brought their mandolins and guitars along. Their songs and laughter fall pleasantly upon the balmy air. If the songs and laughter grow wearisome you may wander among the trees and shrubbery—and, always supposing that fair feminine companion a pleasant possibility—who may picture the enjoyment of such a stroll? The sly old moon, always indulgent enough toward lovers to shrink gracefully behind a cloud at the critical moment, smiles down a jocund benediction upon thescene and it is all too soon that one is reminded of the flight of time and that the proprieties demand a return to town.
Within three minutes of signifying a wish to that effect the conveyance is brought to the front door by a cheery hostler, who gracefully accepts from you the smalldouceurthat you may give him, and which is the only charge—even that being voluntary—that is made for the entertainment of your team. A chirrup to the horses and off you go, the frolicsome youths upon the verandah lifting their hats and gratuitously wishing you a pleasant voyage home as you speed away.
The drive back? Well, the pleasure thereof always depends upon circumstances. If that pleasant possibility before hinted at is an actuality—why, what is the use of picturing it? Have we not all, as it were, been there before? But the whispering breeze, the ceaseless murmur of the wavelets on the shore and the same old moon smiling so persistently and blandly down—form delicious adjuncts to an experience that once enjoyed will not soon be forgotten. The spirited horses still tug lustily at the lines, but they are homeward bound and you can afford them a little latitude if the supposititious companion seems to demand a little more of your attention than she did on the outward journey.
Pshaw! What does it all matter? It is only a few hours of pleasure, after all; yet I think you will confess to me, as your horses trot back over the Rush street bridge, that it has been an ideal afternoon.