At Easton we take a day or two to drive about the open country and see the charming country estates, the houses standing on the shores of creeks and inlets, and having the double charm of the country and the sea, just as they do in Tidewater Virginia. We drive out to "The Wilderness," the home of a Pittsburg gentleman. One approaches the old brick house through a long avenue of trees. The house faces on a green lawn which slopes to the waters of a broad stream, with glimpses in the distances of a wide bay. About the house there are broad fields with rich, fertile soil capable of high cultivation. Fine roads run all through the countryside and there are charming places on the creeks and inlets, each commanding a beautiful water view. You may take your launch in the late afternoon if you are weary, and run about in sheltered water ways commanding fine views of pretty homes set in lovely lawns and trees. Or you may take a sail, venturing out from a small inlet to a wider bay, and so on into the great open water of the Chesapeake.
I know a green lawn on a certain inlet, shaded by luxuriant oak trees, where the sound of bells comes across the water from the village spires of an historic old village. The family boat is just behind the house, rocking gently on the waters of a little stream, which runs up from the larger stream into the mainland. The situation is ideal.
We drive about Talbot County and on into Princess Ann County. Everywhere we find the same fertile, level fields, the same water ways with their lovely glimpses of broader water beyond. Where could one wish for a better luncheon than the one served us at an unpretentious little inn called Queen Cottage, in the old village of Queenstown? Delicious oyster soup, the oysters just out of the water, an omelet that would have done justice to a French chef, candied sweet potatoes cooked as only a Southern cook knows how, fresh peas, hot biscuits, excellent coffee, and the pink heart of a cool, unwilted water-melon; and all for a most reasonable sum. Queen Cottage would be a sweet spot in which to spend a little time of retreat, bountifully fed and free to wander about quiet streets and fertile open country.
We pass, in driving about, the largest oak tree in the county, standing in the door yard of a country place, and carefully preserved and watched over. Perhaps I should say watched under, as it is an immense green tent of huge spreading branches, each one a tree in itself in its girth and diameter.
From Easton we drive north and northwest to Wilmington over fine roads. The State of Maryland is improving her roads and will in a few years have highways that will be among the finest in the country, while her scenery is that of a smiling country becoming more and more cultivated. On from Wilmington to Philadelphia and from Philadelphia out to Byrn Mawr; and from the parked and shaded beauty of Byrn Mawr over the rolling farming country of Pennsylvania with its beautiful cultivation and its substantial stone farmhouses, up through Trenton and Newark and across the ferry to New York. We are once more on the Lincoln Highway as we travel northeast from Philadelphia. It is a joy to travel again by the familiar red, white, and blue signs. We know the pleasant open country of New Jersey through which the noble Highway runs for these last miles, and are at last At Home.
CHAPTER XIII
The Lincoln Highway is destined to be a much-traveled road. Already the motorists of the West are turning the hoods of their motor cars to face the East and the motorists of the East are starting Westward. Happy is the man who has his hotel or inn situated on the road marked by the red, white, and blue. The traveler is bound to come his way, and the traveler is bound to alight at his door if only he has something to offer that is worthy of the name of hospitality. But he can no longer afford to be careless. There is an unwritten rule of the open road which reads that the traveler shall tell his fellow traveler of places at which to halt and of places to avoid. It is inevitable that in the course of a short time the slovenly and careless inn-keeper must be supplanted by a better man.
The tourist does not enjoy looking out of his hotel window on piles of old tin cans and heaps of barrel staves and discarded packing boxes. Nor does he enjoy looking at mounds of ashes, and quantities of vegetable parings. He will not long endure a soiled table cloth, horrible green tea, and indifferently cooked food. Nor will he endure a lack of hot water and utterly careless sanitary arrangements. He may say little about them to the landlord who entertains his party, but he will very soon see to it that better inns take the place of the old ones of careless and indifferent management. The hotel keeper congratulates himself that his open door looks out on the Lincoln Highway, and that his own sign proudly bears the three distinguishing bars of red, white, and blue. He must have more than this to make his inn a success. It is surprising how fast the news of a clean, well kept inn, with excellently cooked food, travels from mouth to mouth.