THE KENNEBEC JOURNEY.
“I should think you would give up your carriage journey this year, and
go to the World’s Fair.”
We cannot tell you how many times this was said to us, but often enough
to become trite. Give up a carriage journey when we had not missed one
for more than twenty summers! What an idea! Our friends could go to the
World’s Fair, and tell us many things, and we could read volumes about
it, but who could take a carriage journey for us?
All that is neither here nor there, however, for we believe things will
be as they are to be, and for all we knew the journey, and Fair too,
were in store for us. So we waited until our summer program should be
revealed to us. For a time it seemed as if “Home, Sweet Home” would
claim us, but the way cleared after a while, and a two weeks’ journey
with Jerry began to assume form. Two weeks are better than none, but
where could we go in two weeks? Through the mountains, to be sure,
but when we go to the mountains, we like to go via Dixville Notch or
Boston, and take a month for it. Berkshire came next to mind, but we
like to take those unsurpassed drives at the beginning or end of a long
journey. We were perplexed, and wondered what we were to do.
In such times of doubt, we usually drive to Boston and there await
revelation. Since this last experience we shall always be ready to
trust Boston’s oracular power, for it there came to us to take passage
for Bath, Maine, on the boat which left Boston at six o’clock Wednesday
evening, July twelfth.
This beginning seems as abrupt as the ending of our trip two years
ago, when we drove over two weeks to reach Bar Harbor, and sailed back
to Boston in a night. For the sake of beginning a carriage journey on
terra firma, we will go back a bit, and tell you we had already enjoyed
two days’ journeying. We left Leominster Monday morning, July tenth,
driving to Lancaster the back way, to say good morning to the campers
at Spectacle Pond.
Jerry had two hours rest, and the time passed quickly with us, for we
met friends at dinner at the Lancaster House, and spent a half hour
studying a collection of fine etchings in the music room, where Mr.
Closson was to lecture in the evening.
We went out of our way to spend the night at Wayland Inn, and made
calls on friends along the way to Boston the next day.
The special medium of revelation as to our next move was the Sunday
Globe given us by the campers, in which our eyes chanced to rest on
an advertisement of an excursion to Nova Scotia. This seemed hardly
feasible, though we actually gave it consideration, as it was stated
the roads there were good for driving. This was only a “leader” to what
was foreordained for us. It must be it was foreordained, for our best
friend so declared it in writing us, and surely from the moment we
decided to take the boat for Bath, everything went like clock-work.
We thought best to go to the wharf, on arriving in Boston, to make
some inquiries, and secure a stateroom. We drove on Beacon Street as
far as we could, as we came in from Watertown via Allston, then made
a bold plunge into the tangles of carts, carriages, and cars across
Tremont street down Bromfield, through Washington to State, then in and
out, on and on, Jerry fully realizing the importance of his movements,
and using his abundant good sense in sparing his nose from the grazing
of the wheels that crossed his path, until we finally saw the welcome
sign, far down Atlantic avenue. Once safely in the office of the
Kennebec Steamship Company, going to Bath seemed the simplest thing
in the world. We were assured Jerry would have the best of care, and
a stateroom was secured for the next night. Some one else will have
to tell you how we got back to our destination for the night. We are
inadequate beyond saying we went back another way. Quite likely Jerry
knows every turn, but he is silent on the subject.
A good night had restored our shaken equilibrium, and we went down
town on a shopping expedition, also to get any mail that might have
been forwarded to Miles & Thompson’s in West street. We thought we
had too much time, and idled it away “looking” at things, until at
last we had to hasten back to dinner, without having done our chief
errand—replaced our broken hand mirror. That idling was a mistake;
idling always is. Although we hurried dinner, and hurried the letters
we ought to have written before dinner, the mail wagon drove away from
the Back Bay post office, just as we drove to the door.
We profited by this lesson, and took a straight course, that is as
straight as one can take in Boston, for the boat. The way we knew was
the straightest for us, and we repeated the intricate drive of Tuesday
afternoon, through Beacon, Tremont, Bromfield and State streets to
Atlantic avenue. We were on deck an hour and a half ahead of time, but
it began to rain, and we were glad Jerry and the buggy were under cover.
The abruptness of our story having been remedied, we will now proceed
to Bath as speedily as possible, but it takes all night, so there is
plenty of time to tell you of something of that part of our journey.
We found a dry corner on deck, and watched the passengers as they came
on board. A Sister of Charity was sitting not far from us, and an
every-day looking man went to her, and said “You’re a ‘Sister,’ ain’t
you?” and offered his hand as he took a stool by her. He was quite
deaf, and the attention was evidently embarrassing. As soon as she
could without seeming rude, the Sister rose quietly and went inside. In
a few moments she came out again, and took a seat by us, and we chatted
together until driven to the cabin by the rain, which finally found our
corner.
The sound of music attracted us to the other end of the boat, where a
blind man was entertaining the passengers with song and story combined.
After our experience, we marveled when he said that though blind he
could not lose his way in Boston. As his fingers flew over the piano
keys, we wondered if it was necessary to be blind, in order to navigate
Boston, and hit every note on the piano with never a miss.
Before going to our room, we went to see that Jerry was all right. The
man who took him on board piloted us to his stall, and on the way
back showed us the furnaces and the machinery. He interested us with
his appreciation of the mighty silent power. He said he often went in
alone, and watched it, and felt awed by the wonderful working of each
part, the perfect action of even the minutest being essential to the
whole.
We were obliged to take an inside stateroom, but found it very
comfortable, and there was an opening heavenward just large enough for
us to see one star, which told us the rain was over. We arose soon
after three to be sure of the sunrise, and were out on deck as we
stopped at Popham Beach, at the mouth of the Kennebec River. The apples
we bought on Atlantic avenue were a timely refreshment, and the sail up
the river, with the sunrise, was ample compensation for our effort. At
five o’clock we landed at Bath, and Jerry’s friend harnessed him for
us, saying courteously, as he handed us the reins, “Whenever you come
this way again call for the second mate.”
The drive through the main street of Bath at that early hour was a
decided contrast to our drive to the boat in Boston. It seemed as
if the morning was half spent, and we could hardly realize that our
waiting in the parlor of the hotel was for a six o’clock breakfast. At
our table we recognized the faces of the bride and bridegroom, whose
path we crossed four times on our Bar Harbor trip two years ago.
After doing justice to that early feast, we went out once more for a
hand mirror, as we were tired of looking cracked. Next door to the
hotel we found one that just suited us, and several other little
things as well, among them a penholder, which we purchased in memory of
the one we lost in Bath two years ago.
At eight o’clock all was ready for the thirty-four miles drive up the
Kennebec to Augusta. The day was lovely and cool, and we need not say
the scenery was fine. We dined at Richmond, and spent the night at the
Augusta House.
Thirty-two miles the next day, still following the river, taking dinner
at Waterville, brought us to Norridgewock, which was full of interest
to us, from descriptions so often given us by friends, of the old-time
beauty. It is one of the few places where we would like to stay, had
we time to delay. The Kennebec runs close by the main street, and the
large covered bridge is opposite the hotel. We walked to the middle of
the bridge to watch the sunset clouds, and feast our eyes on the view
up the river. As the light faded we strolled down the main street,
which is overarched by old willows. We measured the largest, walking
around it with a handkerchief, just twenty-four lengths, twenty-three
feet and four inches, a grand old trunk.
The wife of the proprietor brought some pictures of the town to our
room in the evening, and promised us a drive in the morning.
We rested well in our pretty blue room, and were ready for the drive,
after leaving Jerry with the blacksmith. We were taken to the river’s
edge for one view, and to Sunset Rock for another. All the places we
wished to see, and others we did not know of were pointed out to us,
and we were sure if people only knew about it, the Quinnebassett House
would be full of those who like a quiet, comfortable resting place.
We spend only one night in a place, and are usually ready to go on, but
we left Norridgewock reluctantly, and were only consoled for turning
away from the lovely Kennebec, by promising ourselves to drive to
Norridgewock again some time, and follow still farther up the river.
Maine cannot be exhausted in many trips, and we have some fine ones
growing in our mind. Every journey makes a better one possible.
We must now face about for this time, and we aimed next for the
Androscoggin, driving first to Farmington, then turning south, crossing
the Androscoggin on one of those scow ferries run along a wire, that
old Charlie disliked so much. He was not a good sailor, like Jerry, who
can hardly wait for the scow to touch the shore, before he leaps on.
We should have told you, before crossing the ferry, about our quiet
Sunday at a farm house. The man was reading his paper as we drove up,
and it seemed almost too bad to disturb their Sunday rest, but his
wife said we could stay if we would take them “as they were.” We were
soon settled in a cosy parlor with bedroom adjoining, away from all
sights and sounds of the busy world. We felt as if we were miles from
everywhere, and you can imagine our surprise when the man said that he
came down from Boston on the boat with us, and recognized us when we
drove to the door.
Monday morning we left our kind host and hostess, with directions for
Strickland’s ferry. We have already taken you across, but we did not
mention our ferryman. We do not remember now just what he said, but
we set him down for a philosopher. All that ride and philosophy for
ten cents! We thought it worth twenty-five at least, but he said some
grumbled at ten.
Now we renewed our acquaintance with the Androscoggin, which we
followed so many miles on one journey farther north. We wondered where
all the logs were, and found out all about it from a boy who brought
us milk, and entertained us while we had our first and only wayside
camp at noon day. Our Sunday hostess had put up luncheon for us, as we
were not to pass through any village on our way to Lewiston. Our boy
friend took us down to a little beach on the river, and showed us where
the river drivers had been for a week, but they were then at work half
a mile below. We had often seen a river full of logs, and heard much
about the river drivers, when in Maine and northern New Hampshire, but
this was our first opportunity to see them at work. They were just
coming from their tents after dinner, as we drove along. One of them
tied Jerry for us, and conducted us to a nice place on the rocks. We
watched them nearly an hour, and concluded it took brains to untangle
the snarls of logs. It was quite exciting to see them jump from log to
log with their spiked boots, and when the last of a snarl was started,
leap into a boat and paddle off for another tangle. The river was low,
and it was slow work getting them over the rocks.
The drive to Lewiston was over a sandy road. We met two boys puffing
along on their wheels, who asked us if it was sandy all the way up.
We were sorry we could not cheer their hearts, by telling them the
road was level and hard before them. We spent the night at Auburn,
across the river from Lewiston, as the Elm House looked attractive.
At the suggestion of the proprietor we took a horse car ride in the
evening around the figure 8, one loop being in Lewiston and the other
in Auburn. The horses must have been electrified, for we never rode so
fast except by electricity, and we returned to our room quite refreshed.
Poland Springs was our next point of interest, and we were well repaid
for our drive to the top of the hill, where the immense hotel when
filled must be a little world in itself, for all sorts and conditions
of men are attracted there. We met Boston friends who invited us to
the morning concert, in the music room. After dinner we climbed to the
cupola for the view, then ordered Jerry and were off again. Sabbath
Day Pond, which lay along our way, is fittingly named. It has no look
of a weekday pond, but is a crystal, clear, peaceful perfection,
that is indescribable. The Parker House at Gray Corner afforded us
every needful comfort, even to a hammock in the side yard through the
twilight.
Now we began to lay aside—not forget—the things that were behind, and
to strain our eyes for the first glimpse of the ocean. Portland was
only sixteen miles away, and as we had left the sand, it did not seem
long before we drove to the Portland post office and got home letters,
always so welcome, then to the Preble House for dinner.
There was one place on the coast, that we skipped before, and now we
proposed to explore Prouts Neck—nine miles from Portland; but we did
not leave the city until we had seen the good friends who entertained
us so hospitably when we attended a meeting there. A storm cloud was
over us, but we got only the last drops of a shower, that laid the dust
all the way to Prouts Neck.
We were glad this lovely spot had been reserved for us until then, for
we could not have seen it under a finer sky. We walked to the Rocks,
piloted by a young lady, who knew all the paths through the woods, and
we were fascinated with the path near the Rocks, over which the wild
roses and low evergreens closed as soon as we passed through. We sat
on the piazza watching Mt. Washington in the distance until the sunset
sky grew gray, and finished up the pleasant evening in the cosy room of
friends from Boston.
We saw them off in the morning for a day at Old Orchard, and then went
on our way, through Saco and Biddeford to Kennebunkport, which also has
its Rocks and many attractions. Spouting Rock was not spouting, but we
saw where it would spout sixty feet in the air, when spouting time came.
The next morning we saw once again the friends we never pass by, at
Kennebunk, and visited the old elm under which Lafayette is said to
have taken lunch, when on a visit here after the Revolution. Night
found us at another favorite resort, York Harbor, and the charms and
comforts of the Albracca made us forget the heat and dust which a land
breeze had made very oppressive during the day.
While we were at dinner at the Rockingham, Portsmouth, the next day,
a black cloud spent its wild fury in a few terrific gusts of wind. All
was over when we started on our afternoon drive, but when half way to
Hampton, the clouds grew black again, and we had barely time to drop
the back curtain, put on the sides and unfasten the boot, before a
tempest was upon us; a tempest of wind and rain—not a common rain,
but pelting drops with thunder and lightning. We read afterwards that
a buggy was blown over not many miles from us, but ours withstood the
gale, and Jerry did well, although it seemed almost impossible at times
for him to go on against the storm. We drove away from the shower and
all was calm when we got to the Whittier House, Hampton, one of our
homelike stopping places.
We followed along the coast to Newburyport, and then the Merrimac
River enticed us inland. The experience of the afternoon previous
was repeated on our way from Haverhill to Andover. We were scarcely
prepared, before another tempest burst upon us, the rain this time
driving straight in our faces. It was soon over, however, and we
reached Andover unharmed.
We were now only a day’s drive from home, but Boston is only twenty
miles from Andover and as our mail reported all well, we could not
resist going the longest way round to do another errand or two in
Boston, and call on our friends in Reading and Maplewood on the way.
The drive from Malden to Boston is distracting, with little that is
pleasant to offset the turmoil of the streets. We thought we could
leave Jerry at the old stable in Mason street, while we went shopping,
but like everything else in these days, the stable had “moved on.”
When we found a place for him it was late. We did not idle this time,
for it was so near five o’clock that gates were half closed, and a man
stood at every door as if to say, “You can come out, but you cannot go
in.”
The drive next morning was very fine. We went out on Beacon street to
Chestnut Hill Reservoir, then drove on the new Commonwealth avenue as
far as we could on our way to Allston. Whatever Scripture may say about
the “broad way,” we shall surely risk our lives on that one as often as
we have opportunity.
From Allston we retraced our first two days’ driving, making our
journey like a circle with a handle. We called on the same friends
along the way, spent the night at Wayland Inn, dined with the same
friends at the Lancaster House, and called on the campers at Spectacle
Pond. There was a slight variation in the return trip, however, in the
form of a tornado, which passed over South Lancaster. We might have
been “in it” if we had not stopped twenty minutes or more to sketch a
very peculiar tree trunk, between Sudbury and Stow. There were nine
huge oaks in a row, and every one showed signs of having been strangely
perverted in its early growth, as if bent down to make a fence,
perhaps; but later in life showed its innate goodness by growing an
upright and shapely tree out of its horizontal trunk.
We called one journey a cemetery journey because we visited so many
cemeteries, and another a ministerial journey because we met so many
ministers. Trees were a marked feature of this journey. We saw many
beautiful trees beside the big willow in Norridgewock, the Lafayette
Elm in Kennebunk, and now sketching the curious oak had possibly saved
us harm from a beautiful maple, for we had not driven many miles before
we struck the track of the gale, where large trees were torn apart, or
uprooted. We had driven through the thunder shower, or rather it seemed
to sweep quickly past us, the pelting rain lasting only a few moments,
but as our direction turned we found a large maple across the road.
We were obliged to go two miles farther round to reach the Lancaster
House, and we had not driven far before the road was obstructed by
another large tree. This time we could drive round through a field, and
a third time, a large fallen branch had been cut and the way cleared.
We rejoiced that the Great Elm stood unharmed, though mutilated trees
were on each side of it.
Giant willows, historic elms, upright oaks from horizontal trunks,
glorious maples and elms laid low, and scores of noble though not
distinguished trees, that we admired and shall remember as we do
pleasant people we meet, together with the fact that the greater part
of our driving was in the grand old Pine Tree state, warrants us in
calling this most delightful journey our Tree Journey.