AN IDEAL AFTERNOON.
[Illustration]
The charms 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 for the
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 sound smartly. 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 not just 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.
[Illustration: 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 a drive 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.
[Illustration]
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 games of 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 stretch of 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!”
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 the scene 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 small _douceur_ that 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.