OUTINGS IN MASSACHUSETTS.
“Too bad you did not have your trip this year,” and “You did not have
your usual drive, did you?” from one and another, proves that others
besides ourselves thought we did not “go anywhere” just because we did
not drive seven hundred miles, and cross the borders into Canada as we
did last year. But we will remind you as we have reminded ourselves,
that a little is just as good as a great deal so long as it lasts, and
that no one need go to Canada thinking to find finer driving than right
here in Massachusetts. Indeed, the enchantment of Canadian roads is
largely that lent by distance.
Seriously, it is not that we did not go to Canada or to the mountains,
that the impression has gone abroad that we did not go anywhere, but
because of the mountains or obstructions that lay across our path all
July and August, and threatened September. Scripture says mountains can
be removed by faith, and perhaps it was due to our faith in believing
we should go because we always have been, that the way was suddenly
cleared near the middle of September, and we were off without any
farewells for just a little turn in Massachusetts.
Our annual outing had a long preliminary of waiting, and our story
would be quite incomplete unless we gave you a little account of
our doings during the weeks we were—not weeping and wailing—but
wondering, and watching the signs of the times and trying to think how
it would seem if we should have to give it up after eighteen summers
without a break.
There is a balm for every ill, and a row boat is next to a phaeton,
while camping is an indescribable pleasure to those who like it. We
do, and joined the first party of ladies who camped in this vicinity.
The delightful recollections of our tent life by Wachusett Lake have
intensified as time went on, and one year ago they seemed to culminate
when the A. family purchased an acre of land by Spec pond, and built a
camping cottage.
Probably there are very few Transcript readers who know there is such a
lovely spot in the world as Spec, for you cannot see it unless you go
where it is.
The passing traveler on the highway would never suspect that these
little wood roads lead to such a lovely sheet of water, clear and very
deep, a half mile perhaps from shore to shore, and so thickly wooded
all around that all you can see of the outer world is just the tip
of Wachusett from one place in the pond. Almost adjoining, although
entirely hidden, is another pond known as “Little Spec.” Spectacle Pond
is the correct but never-used name of these waters, about four miles
from Leominster, and indeed, four miles from everywhere—Lancaster,
Harvard, Shirley or Lunenburg.
Now you know about the pond you may be interested in the cottage,
which is reached by a private winding road through the woods after
leaving the highway, or by a long flight of easy steps from the little
wharf. A clearing was made large enough for the cottage, which is
simple in construction, but all a true camper could wish in comfort
and convenience. There is one large room, and a smaller room back
for a kitchen, which furnishes ample opportunity for as many to lend
a hand as chance to be in camp, for co-operation is specially adapted
to such life. Six cosy bedrooms open from these two rooms. There is
a broad piazza in front, which serves as an ideal dining-room, from
which you seem to have water on three sides, as Breezy Point (it so
christened itself one hot summer day) is shaped something like half
an egg. The entire front of the cottage can be opened, and what could
look cosier than that roomy room, with a large hanging lamp over a
table surrounded by comfortable chairs, the walls bright with shade
hats and boating caps, handy pin-cushions, and in fact everything one
is likely to want in camp—all so convenient? Under a little table you
would find reading enough for the longest season, and in the drawer a
“register” which testifies to about seven hundred visitors, among them
Elder Whitely from the Shaker community we read about in Howells’s
“Undiscovered Country,” who brought with him a lady from Australia, and
an Englishman who was interested to examine a mosquito, having never
seen one before—happy man! Hammocks may swing by the dozen, right in
front of the cottage; and just down the slope to the left is a little
stable, with an open and a box stall, and a shed for the carriage. If
you follow along the shore towards the steps, you will find the boats
in a sheltered spot.
The hospitality of the A. family is unlimited, and the friend who was
“counted in” so many times the first season that she felt as if she
“belonged” resolved she would have a boat next season that could be
shared with the campers; for you cannot have too many boats. When
the summer days were over, and one would almost shiver to think of
Spec, with the bare trees and the cold water beneath the icy surface,
the boat fever still ran high, and one of the coldest, dreariest days
last winter, we went to Clinton to look at some boats partly built. We
ploughed through the snow in search of the boats, and then of the man
who owned them, and were nearly frozen when we had at last selected
one and given directions for the finishing up. We had an hour to wait
in the station, and we said, “Now, let’s name the boat!” As quick
as thought one exclaimed, “What do you think of ‘G. W.’—not George
Washington, but simply the ‘mystic initials’ suggested by date of
purchase?” As quick came the answer, “I like it.” “Very well, the G. W.
it is.” Lest we take too much credit to ourselves for quick thinking we
will tell you that a little friend said in the morning, “Why, if you
get your boat today, you ought to call it George Washington, for it is
his birthday, a fact which had not occurred to us.”
Now if Jerry could tell a story as well as Black Beauty, he would fill
the Transcript with his observations, but he never speaks; that is,
in our language. He wears no blinkers, however, and nothing escapes
those eyes, and he may think more than if he spent his time talking.
I feel positively sure that could he have told his thoughts when we
began to speak in earnest of our drive in September, he would have
said, “What is the need of those two thinking they must go so far for
a good time, making me travel over such roads, sometimes all clay and
weeds, or pulling up very steep hills, only to go down again, perhaps
tugging through sand, or worse yet, through water-fording they call
it, I call it an imposition—when they have such good times here, and
I have only to travel eight miles a day, even if they go home nights,
as they usually do; for the regular campers like to have a sort of
daily express to bring stores and visitors,—leaving me all the day to
rest and enjoy myself?” He would tell you how many pretty ways to go
and come, although left to himself he would always take the shortest,
if it does go over Rice Hill; of the lovely way by “Alden’s” where
they stop for ice; and a lovelier yet going home through the woods by
“Whiting Gates’,” when a view bursts upon you as you suddenly leave the
woods, which is like a Berkshire picture; and how discouraging it is,
when they take it into their heads to go by way of Lunenburg station,
or perhaps Lancaster. He has decided preferences, and his ears and the
turn of his head betray him.
He would give you glowing accounts of so many happy days at Spec,
beginning with a bright day in April, when we took our paint pots and
drove down early, having ordered the boat delivered that day. We waited
all day and no boat came, but we had such a good time roaming about
the woods and rowing that we overcame easily our disappointment. We
issued another order for delivery, and on the second day of May, when
we once more took a day, Jerry would tell you how astonished he was to
find waiting for us, right at the turn into the woods, two men with a
big wagon, and such a big thing on it. His eyes were open all that day,
for we tipped the boat up in the shed right beside him and eagerly went
to work. What fun it was to put on that bright yellow paint, and then
trim it up with black, only the black flecks would get on to the fresh
yellow, and what a mixture, when we tried to remove them! You would
have thought we were painting the daintiest panel, by the care we used;
and you know it is said a woman never stops as long as there is a drop
of paint left, so the four oars were gleaming.
A week later we went again to put on the second coat, and this time we
had a friend with us from New York. The little smooth rock on which she
inscribed her name and the date in yellow paint still rests in its cosy
spot by a tree, just as she left it.
Next came the launching, and later yet the painting of “G. W.” in
monogram on the stern by the camp artist, and in due time the red
cushions, with the monograms in black made by loving friends.
The “G. W.” has many friends, and one day in the summer, when we were
drifting at the will of the wind and musing, we were startled by the
sound of a gong. A horn is the usual summons to return to camp. We
caught up the oars, and hastened to solve the mystery. “Don’t you
wonder how those Lancaster friends ever thought of a beautiful Japanese
gong for the ‘G. W.’ to call the crew together?” they said.
If we are not careful we shall make the “preliminary” as long as Jerry
would; but then that covers months, while the journey was only a little
over two weeks. Really, we have hardly begun to tell you the good
times we had during these weeks of waiting. Sometimes we went to Spec
with a carriage full of people, and oftentimes with a wagon full of
things; anything and everything from a cream pie to a bale of hay, or a
sawhorse. However we went, or whatever for, it was never so sunny or
so cloudy, so hot or so cold, that we could resist taking a turn with
the “G. W.” even if we had to bail out nearly five hundred dipperfuls
first, as we did more than once; you know it has rained now and then
for a year or two.
It was always a delight, from the time of the budding of the trees
and bushes along the shore to that raw cold day late in November when
we had our last row in fur cloak and mittens while waiting for the
men to come and put the G. W. on shore for the winter. The hillside
of laurel, in its season, is beyond description. You must leave the
boat and take a look for yourself. Although close by the shore, it is
hidden from the water except in glimpses. Later come the fragrant white
azaleas all along the shore, and the beautiful lilies in the coves,
then the gorgeous autumn foliage, and lastly the chestnuts, which tempt
one to pull the boat into the bushes and just look for a few. We said
“lastly.” How could we forget that day when we went sleighing to Spec
to see how it looked in winter, and just wished we had some skates as
we walked about on the ice! How lovely it was that day! How cold it was
the day after when the “camp artist” took her chair out on the ice, and
tried to finish up a sketch begun in the fall!
Nothing is more enjoyable than to make a complete circuit of the pond,
rounding Point Judith, passing Laurel landing, touching at the old club
landing if friends are there, then on by Divoll’s landing, Spiritualist
Point, Sandy Beach, and so on to Breezy Point again. Passing the
Lancaster landing reminds us that we have forgotten to tell you that
a party of Lancaster gentlemen purchased five acres adjoining Breezy
Point, and have built a cottage, which makes us begin to wonder if
Spec will sometime be a fashionable watering place. May the day be far
distant!
We must go on, and yet not one word have we told you of the times when
we stayed two or three days, and how we spent all our evenings on the
water, just dipping lightly the oars, while we watched the sunset
clouds, and then were on the alert for the first glimpse of Venus,
followed by Mars and Jupiter, and all the rest of the heavenly host,
not to mention seeing the moon rise three times in fifteen minutes, one
night, by changing our position on the water, after waiting four hours
for it; or glorious to tell of, rising early and going out for a row
before breakfast. Mrs. Shayback will testify to all we tell you of the
joys of camp life, and how even work is play, for she and her friends
built a log cabin in their Memphremagog camp last summer and were
jubilant over it.
As I live it all over telling you about it, I marvel myself that we
think a phaeton trip is better than camping; but we do, and without a
pang we turned from it all, and started off in the rain Sept. 13th.
We will not trust Jerry to tell you anything of this outing, for his
enthusiasm is not sufficient to do it justice. It had rained constantly
for five days, and we waited two hours for what we thought might be the
“clearing up” shower, but we were only very glad we did not spoil our
day’s drive, for it continued to rain for five days longer.
You may remember, for we have often spoken of it, that we do not
usually plan our journeys beforehand; but this year, as our time was
too limited to permit us to stray away to Canada, or even among the
mountains, and as we had a suggestion of months’ standing to turn Jerry
towards Great Barrington, we decided to revel once more in the delights
of Berkshire.
A friend sent us her direct route from our house, but we proved true
to our wandering inclinations by going to the extreme eastern part
of the state to reach the extreme western portion, simply because we
have never been to Berkshire that way. The journey did not open as
auspiciously as sometimes, owing less to the rain, to which we have
become accustomed, almost attached to, than to the experience of our
first night, which we will spare you, as we wish we could have been
spared. It was all forgotten, however, when we stole quietly into the
back pew of a church near Boston, and were pleasantly taken possession
of by friends after service. In the evening we repeated the experience
in another suburb twelve or fifteen miles away.
We were not quite ready to face Great Barringtonward, so went a little
farther easterly, then took a genuine westward direction. To know how
soon and how often we deviated you should see the little outline maps
we made of this trip. We drove west, then southwest to the border
line, then up again, taking dinner or spending a night at Medfield and
Milford, Uxbridge and Webster, Southbridge and Palmer, having reasons
of our own for each deviation, one of which was to make sure we did not
get so near home that Jerry would insist upon taking us there.
On the way to Palmer we discovered that the whiffletree was broken.
We were trying to secure it with wire, which we always have with us,
when an elderly gentleman drove along and asked if he could help us. He
examined our work and approved it, but did not seem quite satisfied to
leave, and finally said, “Does this team belong ’round here?”
“No, sir; it does not.”
“Oh, I see; perhaps you do not care to tell where you came from.”
“Oh, yes, we do; we are from Leominster.”
A little intimation of business came next and we assured him we were
not book agents or canvassers of any kind, but were simply traveling
for pleasure. His interest warmed, and when in justice to Jerry, we
told him he took us seven hundred miles, to Canada and back, in one
month last year, he was greatly pleased, and said, “Well, well, that is
good, I will warrant you!” and drove on.
Our repairs were completed just in season for the next shower. The
little whiffletree episode came in one of those between-times when the
rain seemed to stop to take breath for a fresh start. This last, which
proved the clearing shower, was a triumph. How it did pour!
We left Palmer in the morning, after some delay, in glorious sunshine
and with a new whiffletree, but minus some of our literature, owing
to the washing of the phaeton. The hostler said he knew some of the
“papers” went off in “that man’s buggy.” We do not know who “that man”
was, but what he thought when he found himself possessed of a writing
tablet, a “New Ideal” and “The Esoteric” depends upon his intellectual
status and attitude of thought. A new world may have been revealed to
him.
Our next destination was Springfield, and after dinner at the
Massasoit, with our first letters from home for dessert, we drove on,
via Chicopee, to Westfield for the night. Here we considered our next
deviation from a direct course. As there was some uncertainty about the
condition of the roads, we were advised to go to Chester, which gave us
a pretty drive along the Westfield River. We got in earlier than usual,
and went out for a walk, and amused ourselves—or rather one did, while
the other sketched—walking over the swinging wire footbridges. They
are precarious looking things, and when half-way across, the rushing
of the river many feet below and the swinging motion give one the
impression of bridge and all going up stream.
We remembered well the drive from Chester to Lee, a few years ago. It
is almost as good as among the mountains just after leaving Chester.
Up, up, we go, and every spring, rill, rivulet and cascade is alive.
We wish everybody could go through Berkshire after a ten days’ storm.
After a few miles we changed our course towards Otis and Monterey, and
all might have been well if we had not made a turn too soon, which took
us over a back road deserted and demoralized; but they say “all is well
that ends well,” and we reached Monterey in season to climb a hill for
a view and take a brisk walk to get warm.
Our only definite plan when we left home was to meet friends at a
service in Great Barrington, Sunday afternoon, Sept. 21. It was now
Saturday night, and we were nine miles away, but that distance was
easily accomplished Sunday morning, and we reached Great Barrington
just in season to get a round dozen of letters at twelve o’clock. We
secured delightful quarters at the Berkshire House, and in due time
went to the service, as planned. We failed to surprise our friends,
as they were not there, but were well repaid otherwise, and went in
search of them later. A pleasant call, a promise to visit the next
day, a quiet hour at the Berkshire, a service in the Hopkins Memorial
Church, especially to hear the wonderful Roosevelt organ, and the day
ended. We had a fine view of the Hopkins-Searle castle-like residence
from our windows; but we lost all interest in it when we found a high
and massive wall was being built the length of the street, which will
deprive Great Barrington people of their finest view along the valley.
Our Monday visit was very delightful. We promised to go early and
stay late; but withal the day was too short for the visit with our
friends and their friends. With the help of those who have tried it
twice, driving for months through England and Scotland, we planned a
foreign tour, and got all the “points,” even to the expense of taking
Jerry across. We shall defer it however, until we get a new phaeton,
for we prefer to go through the prophesied “one-hoss shay” experience
on native soil. Really, crossing the water does not seem nearly so
“Spain-like” as crossing the “line,” and driving one hundred miles
north in Canada would have seemed some years ago; but we will defer
anticipation even.
In the afternoon our friends gave us a charming drive, and revealed
to us the attractions of Great Barrington and vicinity. We thought
of Bryant as we saw Green River, and felt nearer yet to him when we
called on a friend, known there as the historian of Great Barrington,
who showed to us the rooms in which Mr. Bryant first kept house.
A half-hour passed very quickly with our friend, who has a rare
collection of arrow-heads, and a fund of interesting information.
Tuesday we were off again, with a good morning from our friends and
the foreign tourists. There is no lovelier driving than through the
old town of Stockbridge, with its many noted attractions, on through
Lenox, captured by New Yorkers, to Pittsfield; and yet, just because
we had been there before, we decided to try a new route. We thought we
were enthusiastic over State lines and Shakers, and started off in good
faith, dined at West Stockbridge primitively, when Mr. Plumb would have
served us royally at the old Stockbridge inn, and took our directions
for State line. While we were waiting for a freight train to clear the
track, we came to our senses and asked each other why we were going
this way, confessed we were being cheerful under protest, repented,
and were converted literally in less time than it takes us to tell
it. Paul’s conversion was not more sudden. Jerry trotted back towards
Stockbridge as if he was as glad as we were. We could have gone direct
to Lenox, but we were going to Stockbridge, and we have been glad ever
since. Our folly only gave us nine miles extra driving on a very lovely
day, through a lovely country, and enhanced ten fold the enjoyment of
the afternoon drive back to Stockbridge, and then up through Lenox to
Pittsfield where we spent the night, and said many times “Oh, aren’t
you glad we are not over in York State?”
We busied ourselves quite late that night at Pittsfield making maps
of our zigzagging route to send to friends. In order to have them
strictly accurate according to Colton, we made use of a table and bed
blankets—but how foolish to give away our bright ideas, we may want to
get a patent some day!
The next morning we were off in good season for a drive over Windsor
Hill (still so glad we were not in York State). We took our lunch by
the way that day, and gave Jerry his rest at a farm house. Now we were
near Bryant’s birthplace, but had to satisfy ourselves with looking at
the signboard, “Two miles to Bryant’s place,” and a look at the library
presented by him to Cummington, as we drove by. We surely met a hundred
or more vehicles of great variety—the balloons, candy and peanuts
giving evidence that everybody had been to the fair. It was the season
of fairs, and we had encountered them all the way along. We saw the
Palmer people watching the racing in that clearing-up shower, and the
Great Barrington people were wondering how they should come out with
the track under water. At Westfield we had to go to the hotel “over the
river,” all because of the fair.
How they did fly around at that little hotel in East Cummington! It had
been filled to overflowing the night before with fair guests, and quite
a company of young people were still lingering for supper, enjoying
while waiting, a banjo and vocal medley. We sat full three hours in
the little sittingroom with hats on, and books in hand, trying to read,
before the beaux and banjos were out of the way, and our room was made
ready. Peace once restored, not a sound was heard all night.
Our next drive was over Goshen Hill, where we dined and “prospected.”
One cannot drive anywhere in this vicinity without recalling Mr.
Chadwick’s enthusiastic descriptions of the rivers and hills. We fully
agree with him as regards the justness of Mr. Warner’s observation,
“How much water adds to a river!” and if we drove over Goshen Hill as
often as he does when summering in Chesterfield, we too might like to
take a Century along with us, “in order to have plenty of time.”
Night found us once more at Northampton, where we always find pleasant
quarters, and the moon was just as bright as it was the last time we
were there. We spent the evening with a former pastor, who looked at
us a moment as he came to the door and then exclaimed, “Why, children,
how glad I am to see you!” A real catechism exercise followed between
pastor and “children” about everybody in Leominster in those bygone
years.
We dined at Amherst the next day, and had a hard pull over the hills
in the rain to Enfield in the afternoon. We had never been in Enfield
before, and were surprised to find such a pleasant hotel there—more
like a home. Sixteen miles next morning took us to the new hotel
in Barre, which has quite an “air,” with its hard floors, rugs and
attractive furnishings. We had no lovelier drive on the trip than
the fifteen miles from Barre to the old Mountain House at the foot
of Wachusett. The foliage was brighter than any we had seen and the
sunset clouds we enjoyed to the utmost, for we were late that night,
having taken the longest way round.
Many happy times were recalled here, where we used to go so much before
the carriage road to the summit was made on the other side, by the
lake. No road, however, can compete with the charm of that footpath up
the pasture back of the Mountain House, and on through the ferny woods
to the summit. We were almost tempted to try it in memory of old times,
but this was our last day, and we could not resist a quiet morning in
our sunny room, feasting on the extended view, and comparing it with
the Berkshire region. We wished our Berkshire friends were with us to
see how lovely our part of the state is.
We stayed just as long as we possibly could in the afternoon and then
drove the twelve miles to Leominster before dark, going by way of
Wachusett Lake to look at our first camping ground and the old chestnut
tree on which swung our five hammocks. Years have told upon the old
tree, and it looked very scraggy, while a cellar was being dug on the
very knoll where our big tent was pitched, that blew down three times
one day. The rocks on which we slept so peacefully, even after finding
a snake one morning, may be in the cellar wall. How many “auras” will
cluster about that dwelling! Whoever occupies it, may their years be
as full of happiness as were the days when “we twelve” camped there!
Why not stop right here and let our story end in the key it began,
“camping.” If there was a suggestion of minor at first, when we were
almost afraid we could not drive this year, the end was a joyous
major. What a lovely journey, if it was short!
* * * * *
Soon after this journey report appeared in the Transcript, a long and
very interesting letter, also photographs, were received from the
finder of the “literature” lost at Palmer. “That man” proved to be
two ladies just returning from a long trip by carriage, and when they
discovered the unknown property, they concluded some man had borrowed
their buggy, and driven to Springfield the night before, and left his
papers under the cushion! From the character of the magazines, they
fancied the “borrower” to be “a clergyman of liberal views, tall,
slender, an ascetic—we were sure he wore eyeglasses—and on that night
was arrayed in a long natty mackintosh.” They sent the “treasure trove”
back to the Weeks stable, and drove on “shaking the mud of Palmer off
our tires, and vowing that we would never trust our beloved Katrina Van
Tassel to a Palmer stable again in Fair time.”