CHAPTER V.
CONNECTICUT, WITH SIDE TRIP TO NEW JERSEY.
Early in the afternoon of one of the hottest days in August, Charlie and our cosy phaeton stood at the door waiting for us, and we had with us our bags, wraps, umbrellas, books, the lunch basket, and never-used weapon. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” is verified in that phaeton, and in little time all were stowed away, and we were off on our thirteenth annual drive.
We had expected that our drive must be omitted this year, and so suddenly did we decide to go, that, to save trying to plan, we turned towards Barre, where we spent the first night of our first journey, thirteen years ago. It proved a pleasant beginning, for when we got up among the hills of Princeton the air was cool and refreshing. We drove very leisurely, and it was quite dark when we found our way to the hotel.
After supper we began our geography lesson for the morrow. We had two questions to answer—“Shall we drive on towards the western part of the state, and visit some of the lovely spots among the Berkshire Hills, which we did not see when we drove there some summers ago?” or, “Shall we take a new direction, and turn southward?” After much deliberation, for Berkshire is like a magnet, we decided to gratify the friends who are always asking why we have never driven into Connecticut.
Our lesson having been disposed of, we slept soundly and awoke reconciled to a wandering in Connecticut, only we wished we knew the places of interest or had some reason for going to one place rather than another. The wish was soon gratified by a friend we met before leaving Barre, who spoke very enthusiastically of Tolland, as she recalled a visit there many years ago. This was enough for us; we had a connecting link with somebody, and took direction accordingly.
We rested Charlie at Ware, after our morning drive. We remembered the pleasant driving in this vicinity, but towards Palmer it was new to us. The thunder was muttering all the afternoon, and it was our good fortune to find ourselves in a comfortable hotel at Palmer an hour earlier than we usually stop, for we had only reached our room when the rain fell in sheets, and the lightning flashed at random.
Palmer is so associated with the Boston and Albany railroad, that it seemed as if only the spirit of opposition could prompt us to take a short cut to Hartford without paying our respects to Springfield; but we declare independence of railroads when we have our phaeton, and as we “did” Springfield so thoroughly a few years ago, we did not diverge, but aimed straight for Connecticut.
The morning was bright and fresh after the shower, and we left Palmer early, with a little book sounding the praises of Connecticut, handed us by the clerk, which proved quite useful. We drove on through Monson, but before we got to Stafford Springs, where we intended to stop, we came to a place too tempting to be passed by—such a pretty rocky hillside, with inviting nooks under the trees, and a barn just opposite, where very likely Charlie could be cared for.
“Oh, yes!” a woman said, when we asked her. “Leave your horse tied there, and——will take care of him when he comes to dinner.” The rocky hillside was also granted us, and we took our wraps and lunch basket and prepared for a two-hours’ rest.