BY PHAETON TO CANADA—NOTES OF A SEVEN HUNDRED MILES TRIP.
Where shall we begin to tell you about our very best journey? Perhaps
the beginning is a good starting point, but we must make long leaps
somewhere or the story will be as long as the journey. We have taken
a great many phaeton trips—we think we will not say how many much
longer—but we will say softly to you that two more will make twenty.
They are never planned beforehand, so of course we did not know when we
started off on the morning of July 8th that we were going to “skip to
Canada.” When the daily letters began to appear with little pink stamps
on them, some were so unkind as to doubt our veracity, and declare a
solemn belief that we meant to go there all the time, for all we said
we really did not know where we would go after we got to Fitchburg. If
it was in our inner mind, the idea never found expression until we had
that chance conversation at Burlington, a full week after we left home.
That week alone would have been a fair summer “outing.” The first
one hundred miles was along a lovely, woodsy road, taking us through
Winchendon, Fitzwilliam, Keene, Walpole, Bellows Falls and Chester to
Ludlow. The gap between Chester and Ludlow would be a charming daily
drive in midsummer. From Ludlow the fates led us over Mt. Holly to
Rutland, where we have been so many times and then seemed to leave us
entirely, unless the faint whisperings that we might go to Benson to
make a wedding call beforehand, and then decide on some route north,
was intended for a timely hint.
Whatever sent us or drew us there, we were glad we went, and once there
talking it all over with friends, who knew how to avoid the worst of
the clay roads, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to go
right on to Burlington, spending Sunday so restfully at Middlebury. Had
we doubted our course we should have been reassured, when we learned
from the cousin whose aching head was cured by the sudden shock of our
appearance, that we were just in season for the commencement exercises
that would make of a mutual cousin a full-fledged M. D. The evening at
the lovely Opera House was a pleasant incident.
Here again we came to a standstill, without a whispering, even. As we
were “doing” Burlington the next day, with cousin number one for a
guide (cousin number two took early flight for home, and missed the
surprise we planned for him), visiting the hospital, Ethan Allen’s
monument, and so on, we talked one minute of crossing Lake Champlain,
and going to Au Sable Chasm, and the next of taking the boat to
Plattsburg, then driving north. We did get so far as to think of the
possibility of leaving Jerry at Rouse’s Point, and taking a little trip
to Montreal and down the St. Lawrence to call on a friend who said to
us at her wedding, “You must drive up to see me next summer.” But we
did not think to explore the Canadian wilds with no other protector
than Jerry; for we had strange ideas of that country. We went to the
different boat-landings and made all sorts of inquiries; then returned
to the hotel for dinner and decision on something.
The city was so full of M. D.’s and their friends that the washing of
our phaeton had been neglected, and as the proprietor stood at the door
when we drove to the hotel, we thought we would appeal to his authority
in the matter. “Why,” he said, “are you driving yourselves; where are
you going? Come right into the office and let me plan a trip for you.”
We took our map and followed along, as he mentioned point after point
in northern Vermont where we would find comfortable hotels; and he
seemed to know so much of the country about that we asked finally how
it would be driving in Canada? Would it be safe for us? “Safe! You can
go just as well as not. You can drive after dark or any time—nicest
people in the world—do anything for you.” Then he began again with a
Canadian route via St. Armand, St. John, St. Cesaire, St. Hilaire, and
we began to think the country was full of saints instead of sinners
as we had fancied. We ran our finger along the map as he glibly spoke
these strange-sounding names and found he was headed straight for
Berthier, the very place we wanted to go to. We stopped him long enough
to ask how far from St. Hilaire to Berthier.
“Berthier! Drive to Berthier! Why, bless me, your horse would die of
old age before you got home!”
Evidently he had reached his limits. Berthier was beyond him. We,
however, could see no obstacles on our map, and it was only “an inch
and a half” farther (to be sure, our map was a very small one), and
Jerry is young and strong—why not try it, any way?
We ordered Jerry sent round at three o’clock, and in the meantime we
dined, and went with our helpful friend to the Custom House, as we
could not drive into Canada without being “bonded.” Whatever sort of an
operation this might be, we ascertained it could not be effected until
we got to St. Albans.
At three Jerry appeared, with the phaeton still unwashed and another
“M. D.” excuse. We never knew it took so many people to take care of
doctors.
We went first to see the cousin who had piloted us to see the wharves
and stations, to tell her the labor was all lost, for we were going to
Canada. We then went to the post office, and got a letter containing
information of special interest to us just then; for while we had been
driving leisurely up through Vermont, friends from Boston had whizzed
past us by rail, and were already at Berthier.
We drove only fourteen miles that afternoon, and did not unpack until
very late at the little hotel under a high bluff on one side, and over
the rocky Lamoille River on the other, for there was a heavy thunder
shower and we inclined to wait. The next morning we proceeded to St.
Albans to get “bonded.” It proved a very simple process. One went into
the custom house and the other sat reading in the phaeton. Presently
three men came out and apparently “took the measure” of Jerry. He only
was of any consequence evidently. The occupant of the phaeton was
ignored, or trusted. A little more time elapsed, and we were “bonded”
at a cost of twenty-five cents, and all right for Canada. We wonder if
the papers are good for another trip, for they have not been called for
yet.
We crossed the invisible line that afternoon, and never knew just where
the deed was done, but when we were directed to a little one-story
house, well guarded by jabbering Frenchmen, as the hotel in St. Armand,
we realized we were out of the States. We felt like intruders on a
private family, outside, but once inside we became members. All seemed
interested in our welfare, and asked about our “papers,” advising us
to have them looked at, as in case we had any difficulty farther on we
would have to return there.
There was some delay in giving us a room, for it had been cleared ready
for the paperhanger, and the bed had to be set up, etc. Our hostess
seemed so sorry to put us into such a forlorn place, and the rolls of
paper in the closet looked so tempting, we had half a mind to surprise
her by saying we would stop over a day and hang it for her. We gave
that up, however, but once in our room we had to “stop over” till
morning, for two men occupied the room adjoining—our only exit. If the
house was small, the funnel-holes were large, and we were lulled to
sleep by the murmuring of voices in the room below us. We caught the
words “drivin’,” “St. John” and “kind o’ pleasant,” and felt as if we
were not forgotten.
Our interview with the officer was very reassuring. He said no one
would molest us unless it was some mean person who might think,
“There’s a Yankee ‘rig’!” That did not frighten us, for we never come
across any mean people in our travels, and then a clear conscience in
this case gave confidence, for we surely did not wish to part with
Jerry; and trading horses seemed to be the only thing to be suspected
of.
We found a pretty woody camp that first noon, quite Vermontish, but
for the remainder of our two weeks’ sojourn in Canada it would have
been like camping on a base-ball ground. We needed no “line” to make
us realize we were in a different country. No windings and twistings
among the hills, but long stretches of straight level roads, clayey and
grassgrown, sometimes good, but oftener bad, especially after a rain,
when the clay, grass and weeds two or three feet in length stuck to the
wheels, until we looked as if equipped for a burlesque Fourth of July
procession.
After leaving St. Armand, to find an English-speaking person was the
exception, and as English is the only language we have mastered, our
funny experiences began. If we wanted a direction, we named the place
desired, then pointed with an interrogatory expression on the face. If
we wanted the phaeton washed and axles oiled, we showed the hostler the
vehicle with a few gesticulations. The oiling was generally attended
to, but the clay coating of the wheels was evidently considered our
private property, and it was rarely molested.
At the larger hotels we usually found some one who could understand a
little English, but in one small village we began to think we should
have to spend the night in the phaeton, for we could not find anything
that looked like a hotel, or any one who could understand we wanted
one. After going to the telegraph office, a store, and in despair,
attacking a man sawing wood—most hopeless of all, with his senseless
grin—we found two or three boys, and between them we were directed to
a little house we saw as we drove into the village, with the inevitable
faded sign, and thanked fortune we had not to stay there. “Well, you
wanted to drive to Canada, so you may go and see what you can do while
I stay with Jerry” (the most unkind word on the trip). With feigned
courage the threshold of the wee hotel was crossed. In Canada we
usually enter by the bar-room, and those we saw had an air of great
respectability and were frequently tended by women. All the doleful
misgivings were dispelled the moment we entered this tiny bar-room and
glanced through the house, for unparalleled neatness reigned there.
Three persons were sent for before our wants were comprehended. The
bright-faced girl from the kitchen proved an angel in disguise, for
she could speak a very little English, although she said she did not
have much “practix.” A gem of a boy took Jerry, and in half an hour
we were as much at home as in our own parlor. We were shown to a
little room with one French window high up, from which we watched the
Montreal steamer as it glided by on the Richelieu in the night. The
little parlor was opened for us; it was hardly larger than a good-sized
closet, but radiant with its bright tapestry carpet, Nottingham
curtains and gay table-cover. There was a lounge in one corner and a
rocking-chair before the large window, thrown open like a door, from
which we looked out upon a tiny garden in “rounds” and “diamonds,”
full of blossoms, and not a weed. This was like a bit of paradise, and
we now thanked fortune we were there. Our supper would make one wish
always for Canadian cooking. We left with regret and were very glad to
stop there again a week later, on our return trip. We were welcomed
like old friends, and the changes we had made in the arrangement of
furniture had been accepted.
At another much larger hotel we were under great obligations to
a Montreal traveling merchant, who received us, answered all our
questions about mails and routes, and gave our orders for supper and
breakfast. He spoke English well, only he did say several times he
would not “advertise” us to go a certain route, as it would be out of
our way.
We dined at the Iroquois, on the “mountain,” the resort of Canada.
It is a large English hotel with all the appointments, and a pretty
lake is seen a little farther up the mountain, through the woods. We
illustrated the Canada Mountains we saw, to a friend in New Hampshire,
by placing balls of lamp-wicking on her table; they have no foothills
and look like excrescences.
One night in quite a large hotel, we had no fastening on our door. We
were assured we were perfectly safe, but our room could be changed
if we wished. We did not like to distrust such hospitality as we had
met continually in Canada, so we kept our room, but, lest the wind
should blow the door open, we tilted a rocking-chair against it, with
a bag balanced on one corner, and so arranged the lunch basket, with
the tin cups attached, that if the door opened a half-inch the whole
arrangement would have fallen with a crash, and everybody else would
have been frightened if we were not.
The last forty miles to Sorel, where we crossed the St. Lawrence to
Berthier, we drove close by the river Richelieu. We had left Montreal
twenty miles to our left, as we were bound to a point fifty miles
farther north. There were villages all along on either side of the
river, the larger ones marked by the cathedrals, whose roofs and spires
are dazzlingly bright with the tin covering, which does not change in
the Canadian atmosphere. In the smaller villages we saw many little
“shrines” along the wayside; sometimes a tiny enclosure in the corner
of a field, with a cross ten or twelve feet high, and a weather-beaten
image nailed to it; and again a smaller and ruder affair. Life in all
the little villages seemed very leisurely; no rush or luxury, save
of the camping-out style. The little houses were very like the rough
cottages we find by lakes and ponds and at the seashore. We were
charmed by the French windows, which open to all the light and air
there is. The living-room was, without exception, spotlessly neat, and
almost invariably furnished with a highly polished range, which would
put to shame many we see in the States; and frequently a bed with a
bright patched quilt in one corner. The little yards and the space
under the piazza, which is usually three or four feet from the ground,
were swept like a parlor. Touches of color and curtains of lace reveal
a love of the beautiful. The men in the field often had wisps of red or
white around their big straw hats, but the women wore theirs without
ornamentation. We saw them loading hay and digging in the field; those
at home were spinning by the door. If we came across a group of men
“loafing,” they would cease their jabbering, raise their hats and stand
in silence while we passed. We missed these little attentions when we
got back to the States.
By the time we reached Sorel we felt quite at home in Canada. We found
there a mixture of nationalities. The host of the Brunswick, where
we stopped for dinner and to wait two or three hours for the boat to
Berthier, was a native of the States, and we were well cared for. We
were well entertained while waiting, for it was market-day, and men and
women were standing by their carts, arms akimbo, as they traded their
vegetables for straw hats and loaves of bread—so large, it took two
to carry them off. We had been meeting them all along, the women and
children usually sitting on the floor of the rude carts, with their
purchases packed about them.
At four o’clock Jerry was driven to the door in visiting trim, well
groomed, and the phaeton washed. We went to the boat, and there for the
first time we thought we had encountered that “mean person,” attracted
by our “Yankee rig,” for a fellow stepped up where we stood by Jerry in
the bow of the boat, as he was a little uneasy, and began to talk about
“trading horses.” The young woman who had him in charge soon called him
away, however, and we heard no more from him.
The sail of nearly an hour among the islands, which at this point
in the St. Lawrence begin to be quite numerous, was very pleasant,
and when we came in sight of Berthier, marked by its twin shining
spires, we thought it the prettiest village we had seen in Canada.
The main street is alongside the river, and as we stood on the deck,
we caught sight of Mr. —— and Ruthie walking down street, and waved
a salute with our handkerchiefs. In a few moments more we landed, and
perching Ruthie on the top of our bags, we drove back to a charming
home, walking in upon our somewhat surprised friends as if it was an
every-day occurrence.
Rowing is the thing to do there, and we had a feast of it, exploring
the “Little Rivers” with so many unexpected turns. Then too, of course,
we rowed out to take the wake of the big boats, all of which recalled
vividly gala times farther up the river, in days before carriage
journeys were dreamed of even.
When we at last faced about and said good-by to our friends, we
realized we were a long way from home. We knew now what was before us;
indeed, could trace the way in mind way back to the State line, and
then the length of Vermont or New Hampshire, as the case might be.
At all events we must take in the Shayback camp on Lake Memphremagog
before we left Canada, and as a direct course promised to take us
over hills too large to illustrate by lamp-wicking, we followed
the Richelieu again, revisited the Saints Hilaire and Cesaire, and
turned east farther south. Our hosts along the way who had directed
us to Berthier, were now confirmed in their belief that “we could go
anywhere.” When we turned east, after leaving St. Cesaire, we felt
we were going among strangers once more, so we prepared ourselves by
stopping in a stumpy land, uninhabited even by beasts, and blacking our
boots by the wayside.
We drove over a mountain that was a mountain before we reached the
level of Lake Memphremagog. We had been told we could save quite a
distance by going to Tuck’s Landing, where we could be taken across
to Georgeville, instead of driving to Newport. We went by faith
altogether, having no idea what sort of a raft we should find; we only
knew if it was not there we were to signal for it.
As we slowly picked our way down the last steep pitch, we saw something
coming towards the landing. It moved so slowly we could only tell
which way it was going by the silver trail which we traced back to
Georgeville. We reached the landing just in season to go back on its
last regular trip for the night, and were greatly interested in this
new, but not rapid transit. Jerry was impressed with the strangeness,
but is very sensible and never forgets himself. We think he would
really have enjoyed the trip had it not been for the continual snapping
of a whip as a sort of mental incentive to the two horses, or outlines
of horses, which revolved very slowly around a pole, thereby turning
a wheel which occasioned the silent trail that indicated we moved. A
man, a boy, and a girl alternated in using the incentive which was
absolutely essential to progress, and we chatted with them by turn,
recalling to mind the points on the lake, and hearing of the drowning
men rescued by this propeller.
The Camperdown, that charming old inn at Georgeville, has been
supplanted by a hotel so large no one wants it, and its doors were
closed. We were directed to a new boarding-house standing very high,
where we were soon quite settled in an upper front room with two
French windows, one opening on a piazza and the other on a charming
little balcony, with the lake before us in all its beauty. This was
to be our home for several days; of course our friends wanted to know
how we got there, and when we told them how we crossed the lake,
they exclaimed, “Oh! you came on the hay-eater!” The “hay-eater!”
Well-named, surely. Late in the evening, as we were watching the
lake bathed in moonlight, we saw again that silver trail, and knew
the hay-eater must have been signalled. Morning, noon and night
those outlines of horses walked their weary round, and the hay-eater
faithfully performed its work of helpfulness.
It is a mile from the village to the Shayback camp, and before walking
over, we went down to the wharf to see the Lady come in—one of the
things to do in Georgeville. We were at once recognized by one of the
campers who had just rowed over, and who invited us to go back with
them in the boat. They had come over for three friends, and as the
gentleman only was there, we were substituted for his two ladies,
and we did not feel out of the family, as we soon learned he was a
relative, dating back to the Mayflower. Mrs. Shayback did not quite
take in the situation when we presented ourselves, but she is equal to
any emergency, and soon recovered from her surprise.
How can we condense into the limits of the Transcript the delights of
Camp-by-the-Cliff, when we could easily fill a volume! Twelve years’
experience on Lake Memphremagog have resulted in ideal camping, with a
semi-circle of tents, a log cabin, boats, books and banjos and a happy
party of twenty; nothing is lacking. We spent the nights in our “home”
and the days in camp, going and coming by land or water, having first
a row, and next a lovely walk over the hill. We enjoyed every moment
as all good campers do, whether wiping dishes, spreading bread for
supper, watching the bathers, trolling for lunge, cruising about with
Mr. Shayback in the rain for driftwood, or drifting in the sunshine for
pleasure, not to forget the afternoon spent in the attic of the log
cabin, writing to far-away friends.
The attic consisted of a few boards across one end of the cabin,
reached by a ladder, and afforded a fine view of the lake through a
tiny square window, and an ideal standpoint for taking in the charms
of the cabin, which is the camp parlor. The fire-place, swing chair,
hammock, lounges, large round table with writing materials and latest
magazines, and touches of color here and there, suggest infinite
comfort and delight.
The Sunday service in the chapel of cedars, to the music of the water
lapping against the rocks, was a pleasure too. There was no thought of
tenets and dogmas, in this living temple—only a soul-uplifting for the
friends of many faiths who had come together on that bright morning.
Monday came, and with it the Maid—the “hay-eater” would not do for a
trip to Newport. A delegation of campers rowed over to see us off, and
by ten o’clock we were seated on the forward deck, despite the crazy
wind, ready to enjoy the two-hours’ sail.
At Newport we set foot on native soil, after our two weeks’ sojourn
in Canada. The post office was our first interest, and there we got
a large package of letters, tied up, just ready to be forwarded to
Georgeville when our countermand order was received. They had been
following us all through Canada, reaching each place just after we left
it. The contents were even more eagerly devoured than the dinner at the
Memphremagog House.
Next in order was “How shall we go home?” By a little deviation to the
left we could go to the lovely Willoughby Lake and down through the
Franconia Notch; or by a turn toward the right we could go down through
Vermont into the Berkshire region, and call on a friend in Great
Barrington. As we had deviated sufficiently, perhaps, for one trip, we
decided on a drive through central Vermont, which was the most direct
route, and the only one we had not taken before. This route would
take us to Montpelier, and through a lovely country generally; such a
contrast to the Canada driving.
The next ten days were full of interest; a good wetting was our first
experience after leaving Newport. The shower came on so suddenly that
we used a waterproof in place of the boot, and did not know until
night that the water stood in the bottom of the phaeton and found its
way into our canvas grip. The large rooms we were fortunate in having
in that old ark of a hotel were turned into drying rooms, and were
suggestive of a laundry. Our misfortune seemed very light when we read
the disasters of the shower just ahead of us. We passed, the next day,
an old lady sitting in the midst of her household goods on one side of
the road, and her wreck of a house, unroofed by the lightning or wind,
on the other.
We begged the privilege of taking our lunch in a barn that day, as
it rained again. We tried to be romantic and bury ourselves in the
hay with a book, but the spiders and grasshoppers drove us to the
carriage. We spent a night at Morristown on the lovely Lamoille River,
and again revived delightful memories of a week spent there before
carriage-journey days; especially the twenty miles’ drive on the top of
a stage in the heaviest thunderstorm of the season, and a day on Mt.
Mansfield.
We had another look at the Winooski River, which we saw first at
Burlington, and the day after our visit to Montpelier we followed
Wait’s River, which ought to have a prettier name, from its infancy, in
the shape of a tiny crack on a hillside, through its gradual growth to
a rarely beautiful stream, and its final plunge into the Connecticut.
We forgot the rain in studying the life of a river.
In one little hotel the dining-room was like a green-house; plants in
every corner, in the windows, on the top of the stove, and in seven
chairs. The air was redolent of tuberoses instead of fried meats, and
we were reminded of the wish expressed by a friend in the Newport
package of letters, that we might live on perfumes.
At another hotel in Vermont we did not at first quite like the clerk,
and we think he was not favorably impressed with us, for he conducted
us past several pleasant unoccupied rooms, through a narrow passage way
to a small back room with one gas jet over the wash-stand. We accepted
the quarters without comment, except asking to have some garments
removed, as we do not follow Dr. Mary Walker’s style of dress. We then
improved our appearance so far as possible and went to supper. When
we came out of the dining-room, we very politely asked the clerk if he
could give us a room with better light, as we had some writing to do.
He looked at us a moment and then said he would see what he could do.
We followed him by all these rooms, which would have been perfectly
satisfactory, until, in another part of the house, he ushered us into
what must be the bridal suite—an elegantly furnished apartment, with
dressing-room and bath, a chandelier, piano, sofa and every luxury.
We expressed not the least surprise, but quietly thanked him, saying,
“This is much more like.”
We stayed over a half-day at one place, to rest Jerry, and as we were
sitting with our books under a tree in the yard, a traveling doctor,
who was staying at the same house, came rather abruptly upon us, asking
many questions. We do not know his name or his “hame,” nor does he know
nearly as much of us as he would if our civil answers had contained
more information. Evidently he was leading up to something, and after
he had tried to find out whether we were married or single, where we
lived, what we should do if we were attacked on the road, or if a wheel
should get “set,” as his did the other day, etc., etc., etc., out it
came: “Well, what do you take with you for medicine?” The “nothing but
mind-cure,” which spoke itself as quick as thought, was a cruel blow,
and too much for his patience. The hasty gesture which waived the whole
subject and a gruff “you ought to have something” was followed by the
opportune dinner bell, and we never saw him more. He fasted until we
were off.
As we journeyed south we found we should be just in time to take
in the last Sunday of the grove meeting at Weirs, and we thought
Lake Champlain, the St. Lawrence River, Lake Memphremagog and Lake
Winnipiseogee would make an interesting water outline for our trip.
This little plan was, however, delightfully frustrated, for as we
drove along Saturday morning on our way to Plymouth, we saw our Great
Barrington friend sitting at the window of her New Hampshire home, and
in less than five minutes Jerry was in the barn and we were captured
for a Sunday conference at Quincy. There was only one thing to regret,
the delay in getting to Plymouth for our mail, and it was suggested one
of us might go down on a train between five and six, and there would be
just time to go to the post office before the return train. There was
a terrific thunder shower early in the afternoon, but it had passed,
and so we decided to go, although we confess it did seem more of an
undertaking than the trip to Canada. Our courage nearly failed when we
stood on the platform of the little station and saw, as we looked up
the valley, that another shower was coming and seemed likely to burst
in fury upon us before we could get on board the train. We should have
given it up, but while waiting we had discovered another Mayflower
relative going farther south, and we faced it together. Repentance
came in earnest when the conductor said there would not be time to
go to the post office. Being in the habit of reckoning time by the
fractions of minutes, we took out our watch and asked for time-table
figures; but do our best we could not extort from him the exact time
the train was due to return. We kept ahead of the shower the six or
seven miles to Plymouth, and before we got to the station he came to
say that by getting off at the crossing, and going up a back street,
there might be time. A young man got off at the same place, and said,
as we hastened up the street, “the shower will get there before you
do!” We distanced the elements, however, but imagine our dismay at
sight of the delivery window closed. It was an urgent case, and we
ventured to tap on the glass. No answer, and we tapped again, trembling
with the double fear of the liberty taken, and of losing the train. A
young man with a pleasant face—how fortunate it was not the deaf old
man we once battled with for our mail, for taps would have been wasted
on him—lifted the window a crack, and with overwhelming thanks we
took the letters. By this time the office was full of people who had
sought shelter from the shower, which had got there in dreadful fury.
Water-proof and umbrella were about as much protection as they would
be in the ocean. Like a maniac, we ran through the streets, and smiled
audibly as we waded rubberless, to the station under the Pemigewasset
House. If we had dropped right out of the clouds upon that platform,
alive with men, we should not have been received with more open-eyed
amazement. Out of breath and drenched, we asked if the train had gone
to Quincy. “No, and I guess it won’t yet awhile, if it rains like
this!” Washouts and probable detentions danced through our mind, as the
lightning flashed and the thunder roared as if the end had come. In
course of time it came out that the “return” train was a freight, which
would start after two other trains had gone. The conductor came along
and said, “It is too bad, but the office will be closed now.” “Oh, I
have been, and have my letters too.”
The freight “time” was announced, and the car was reached by a jump
down three feet from the platform into water as many inches deep, and
a climb on the other side. Every face was strange but one, that of the
“drummer” who breakfasted at our table that morning, and who liked the
little hotel so much that he was going back to spend Sunday, as we
were informed by the waitress. We do not think he mistrusted that the
bedraggled passenger was one of the carriage tourists. We wrung out
the dress skirt, hung up the waterproof to drain, and then were ready
to enjoy the luxury,—the caboose. When we reached Quincy the sun was
setting in bright clouds, as if it had never heard of rain.
The prodigal himself was not more gladly welcomed. Our outer self was
hung up to dry, and in borrowed plumage we spent a very social evening,
with the many friends who had come to us by mail, through tribulation,
to swell the company.
We went to Vermont to begin our journey, and we may as well end it in
New Hampshire. We must tell you first, however, that this journey has
opened the way for many trips that have seemed among the impossible,
but which we now hope to enjoy before Jerry is overtaken by old age or
the phaeton shares the fate of the proverbial chaise.