We watched the clouds from our window until quite late, then drew the shade and pinned to it our map with the two supplements.
For an hour or more we studied diligently, trying to find an unfamiliar route home, but all in vain. We had jestingly remarked, one day, that “we would go home through the mountains to avoid the hills,” and as a last resort we decided to do so, for that is a drive that will bear repeating any number of times.
The lake was dotted with white-caps next morning, and our desire to row was forgotten. We experienced our idea of a lakeshore drive as we followed the lovely road close to the water’s edge for four miles, Mt. Hor and Mt. Pisgah towering so high above, and looking as if they were one mountain, but rent in twain by some convulsion of nature, while the water had rushed in to fill the gap, as they drifted apart. The drive was a striking contrast to the sandy hills we went over in the afternoon, which we remembered too well, but no planning could avoid. We passed the night at St. Johnsbury, and just as the mail came for which we were waiting, Charlie returned from the blacksmith’s with his new shoes.
We now turned our faces towards the mountains, feeling quite at home as we journeyed off the supplements on to our old map, and still more so, when after a long, hot drive, we reached Franconia, where we struck the route of our last year’s journey, which we must now follow all the way, even spending the nights at the same places. We took a good view of the mountains at Franconia, recalling the names of the different peaks, and very fortunately, for in the morning there was not one to be seen. The sun looked like a huge ball of fire, and the atmosphere was very smoky. We drove on, trying to realize we were surrounded by grand mountains; but not until we were close to them in the Notch could we discern the faintest outline, and the “Old Man” looked as if dissolving in the clouds. It seemed dreamy and mysterious until we got to the Basin, Pool and Flume, which were not affected by the atmosphere.
Our night at Campton passed pleasantly, but we started in the rain next day for Weirs, Lake Winnipiseogee, where we proposed to rest our horse for a day or two. From Plymouth to Weirs is a crooked way, and the pouring rain so changed the aspect of everything, that we felt every turn was a wrong one. It was chilly and disagreeable, but we put on all our wraps, the waterproof hoods over our heads, and brought the “boot” close up to our chins, then kept warm with ginger cookies. From the manner of the people of whom we made inquiries as we passed, we suspected our appearance was ludicrous. After many twistings and turnings we arrived at Hotel Weirs. We had never been there except when ministers and meetings abounded, but the place was now deserted, and we read “Endymion” instead of being preached to four times a day.
After two days’ rest we journeyed towards Concord, N. H., spending a night with the Canterbury Shakers on our way. Sister Philinda thought she remembered us, and found our names registered in her book eight years ago. The “yellow day” we passed with friends in Concord. Only two days more! We wanted to go to Boston as we did last year, but thought it best to follow the same old route to Milford, which we had been over so many times, then varied our course by going through Mason instead of Townsend Harbor, although we were told it was “very hilly.” We knew they were not Vermont or Canada hills. This new road, with its charming bits of scenery, gave a touch of freshness to the latter part of our journey. According to our annual custom, we supped with friends in Fitchburg, then drove home by moonlight. Nearly four weeks, and just five hundred miles’ driving, is the brief summing up of our tenth anniversary.
CHAPTER III.
OLD ORCHARD AND BOSTON.
“We shall look for a report of your journey in the Transcript,” has been said to us many times, and we will respond to the interest manifested in our wanderings by sharing with our friends through your columns as much of our pleasure as is transferable.
The fact that we had driven between three and four thousand miles in ten successive summers by no means diminished our desire to go again, and it gave us great pleasure when, in reply to “Can we have the horse for a journey this summer?” Mr. A. said “Why, I suppose of course you will go.” We decided to start about the middle of July, a little earlier than usual, and one might well imagine that in the intervening weeks many routes were planned and talked over, but in truth we said nothing about it until the last moment, when we asked each other, “Have you thought where to go?” and in turn each answered “No.” It may seem strange and suggest lack of purpose, but we like our journeys to make themselves, as a certain novelist says her stories write themselves, and she cannot tell when they begin how they will end.