It was only six miles to New London, and it was too early to stop there for dinner, and it would be too late to wait until we got to Norwich; so, after driving about the principal streets for a half-hour, we filled our lunch basket and got some oats, trusting to find a place to “camp.” Just at the right time to halt we came to a village church on a little hill, all by itself, and we took possession of the “grounds,” put Charlie into one of the sheds, taking refuge ourselves in the shadow of a stone wall. We hung our shawls over the wall, for the wind blew cool through the chinks, spread the blanket on the ground, and gave ourselves up to comfort and books. The lofty ceiling of our temporary parlor was tinted blue, and the spacious walls were adorned with lovely pictures, for our little hill was higher than we realized. We had taken the river road, and we knew that by rail from New London to Norwich we followed the river very closely; but this was, like most “river” roads, over the hills.
We reluctantly left our luxurious quarters and journeyed on to Norwich. We had found on our map a town beyond Norwich which we thought would serve us for the night; but when we inquired about hotels there, people looked as if they had never heard of the place, and in fact there was none by that name. We were advised to go to Jewett City. After a little experience we learned that in many cases towns on the map are but names, and if we wanted to find the places where all business interests centred, we must look for a “city” or “ville” in small italics touching the railroad. Niantic was an “italic” resort. This lesson learned, we had no difficulty. The hotel at Jewett City looked as if it would blow over, and if it had we think our room would have landed on the railroad; but the breezes were gentle, and we had a safe and restful night after our thirty-miles’ drive.
We were directed next morning via one “ville” to another “ville,” and the delightful recollections of our “sky” parlor tempted us to try camping again, and we got another bag of oats. We had not driven far before we came to the largest lily pond we ever saw, and a railroad ran right through it. It looked as if we could step down the gravel bank and get all the lilies we wanted. We tied Charlie by the roadside, and ran to the railroad bank to find they were just provokingly beyond our reach. A company of men were working on the road, and one said, “I would send one of my men to get you some; but a train is due in ten minutes, and these rails must be laid.” His kindly words softened our disappointment, and we went back to the carriage. It seemed as if there was no end to the pond, and surely there was an endless supply of lilies, but we knew that the stray ones so close to the shore were only waiting to entice somebody over shoes, and perhaps more, in water, and we passed them by. We camped on a stone wall under a tree, a spot so perfectly adapted to our convenience that it developed the heretofore latent talent of our “special artist,” and a dainty little picture is ever reminding us of our pleasant stay there. We spent the night at Putnam, and as a matter of course, we went for oats just before leaving, as if we had always traveled that way, instead of its being an entirely new feature. A pine grove invited us this time, with a house near by where we bought milk, and we stopped for a half-hour again in the afternoon, by a bewitching little brook, and made ourselves comfortable with our books among the rocks and ferns, for it was a very hot day. Our drive that day took us through Webster and Oxford and brought us to Millbury for the night. Our remembrance of that night is not so pleasant as we could wish, and we are going again some time to get a better impression.
The next day was one of the hottest of the season, and we availed ourselves of the early morning to drive to North Grafton, where we had a chatty visit with a friend. We dreaded to begin our last twenty-five miles, for it would be so hard for Charlie in the heat. We delayed as long as we dared, then braved it. We drove very leisurely to Worcester, and made one or two calls, then took the old road over the hill as we left the city towards home. We seemed to be above the heat and dust, and had one of the most charming drives of our whole journey. We are so familiar with the road that we did not mind prolonging our drive into the evening, with a full moon to illumine our way. The seven miles from Sterling to Leominster were so pleasant we made them last as long as possible. The moon was unclouded and it seemed almost as light as day; the air was soft and we did not need the lightest wrap. We enjoyed just that perfect comfort one dreads to have disturbed. But all things have an end, it is said, and our pleasant journey ended about nine o’clock that evening, but it was close on to the “wee sma’ hours” before the “doings” in our absence were all talked over with the friends who welcomed us home.
This story, written out in a week of Fridays, on the way to Symphony Rehearsals, will assure you that a phaeton trip loses none of its charms for us by many repetitions.
CHAPTER VI.
DIXVILLE NOTCH AND OLD ORCHARD.
A Colorado friend recently sent us a paper with an interesting account of “Two Women in a Buggy—How two Denver ladies drove five hundred miles through the Rockies.” Now, “Two Ladies in a Phaeton,” and “How they drove six hundred miles through, beyond and around the White Mountains,” would be laid aside as hardly worth reading, compared with the adventures of two women driving through the “Rockies;” but, for actual experience, we think almost everybody would prefer ours. We all like ease, comfort and smooth ways, and yet disasters and discomfort have a wonderful charm somehow in print. Our two weeks’ drive in Connecticut last year seemed small to us, but we have been asked many times if it was not the best journey we ever had, and as many times we have discovered that the opinion was based on the hard time we had crossing the Connecticut by ferry, the one unpleasant incident of the whole trip. Now if we could tell you of hair-breadth escapes passing “sixers and eighters” on the edge of precipices, and about sleeping in a garret reached by a ladder, shared by a boy in a cot at that; or better yet, how one day, when we were driving along on level ground chatting pleasantly, we suddenly found ourselves in a “prayerful attitude” and the horse disappearing with the forward wheels, the humiliating result being that the buggy had to be taken to pieces, and packed into a Norwegian’s wagon and we and it transported to the next town for repairs—if we could tell you such things like the Denver ladies, we should be sure you would not doubt our last was our best journey. How we are to convince you of that fact, for fact it is, when we did not even cross a ferry, is a puzzle.
Before we really begin our story we will tell you one or two notable differences between the Denver tourists and ourselves. They took their “best” bonnets and gowns, and such “bibbity bobbities” as “no woman, even were she going to an uninhabited desert, would think she could do without;” bedding and household utensils, too, so of course had baggage strapped on the back of the buggy, and they had a pail underneath, filled, “woman fashion, with everything, which suffered in the overturns,” but, will you believe it, they had no revolver! Were they to meet us, they would never suspect we were fellow travelers, unless the slight “hump” under the blanket or duster should give them an inkling that we had more “things” than were essential for a morning’s drive. Helpless and innocent as we look we could warrant “sure cure” to a horse whatever ill might befall him, and we could “show fire” if necessary. The last need not have been mentioned, however, for like the Denver tourists, we can testify that we receive everywhere the “truest and kindest courtesy.”
You may remember that one of the peculiar features of our journeys is that we never know where we are going, but last summer we thought we would be like other people, and make plans. As a result we assured our friends we were going straight to Mt. Washington via the Crawford Notch, but, as Mr. Hale has a way of saying in his stories, “we did not go there at all.” Why we did not fulfil so honest an intention we will reveal to you later.