Once more, as we drove along the Saco—
“All, all, is beautiful.
What if earth be but the shadow of heaven.”
If you think we are writing up a book instead of a journey, let us tell you that the book cannot be left out if the journey is to be truly chronicled, for it was never out of mind, being constantly in sight, nor was it any trouble. In this respect, too, we fared better than the Denver ladies, for they were real artists, and never had any comfort after the first day, for their “oils” would not dry, even when they pinned them up around the buggy.
We should have been miserable if we had stayed in Hooksett all the time we have been telling you about the sketch book, but we were off early in the morning for Concord, and as we drove into the city, Charlie knew better than we which turn to take to find the welcome which always awaits us. The clouds were very black when we left our friends at four o’clock, feeling we must go a few miles farther that day; and when we had driven a mile or two a sudden turn in the road revealed to us “cyclonic” symptoms. We saw an open shed, and asked a portly old man if we could drive in, as it looked like rain. “Yes, and quick too,” he said, hobbling ahead of us. We were scarcely under cover before the cloud burst, and such a gust of wind came as it seemed must have overturned our phaeton if we had been exposed to it. We threw our wraps over our heads and ran to the house, where we were kindly received, amid the banging of doors and crackling of glass. The rain fell in sheets and the lightning flashes almost blinded us, but in an hour, perhaps less, we were on our way again, dry and peaceful, the sun shining and the clean, washed roads and prostrate limbs of trees simply reminding us there had been a shower. We spent the night at Penacook, formerly Fisherville.
By this time we had decided we would deviate from our straight course to Mt. Washington just a bit, only a few miles, and spend a night at Weirs. We remembered very well our last drive from Weirs to Penacook via Tilton and Franklin, and thought to take the same course this time. Franklin came to hand all right, but where was Tilton? We were sure we knew the way, but were equally sure Tilton should have put in an appearance. We inquired, and were much surprised when told we had taken a wrong turn, or failed, rather, to take the right one seven miles back. We had not only lost our way to Weirs, but we were off our course to Mt. Washington, and there is no such thing as going “across lots” in that part of the country. Not knowing what to do, we said we would have luncheon, and take time to accept the situation.
At this point we discovered that our diary was left twenty miles back at Penacook. Our first dilemma paled before this, for that diary means something; indeed, it means everything. Without it, life would not be worth living—even were it possible. We must have it. But how should we get it? We went back to the man in the garden, and he told us a train would go down directly, and we could get back the same afternoon, he thought. We considered it only a moment, for having lost our way and the diary, we feared losing each other or Charlie next. We returned to the carriage, unharnessed Charlie, tied him to a telegraph pole, then took our luncheon. After a good rest our way seemed clear, and we started on towards Bristol, resolved that we would make no more plans, but give ourselves up to the guidance of Fate. We find in the “jotting column” for that day, “A criss-cross day.” Our honest intention to go straight to Mt. Washington was overthrown, and we found ourselves at night castaways on the shores of Newfound Lake, while our letters awaited us at Weirs, and the diary was speeding its way to Plymouth, in response to a telegram.
Eleven miles driving the next morning brought us to the Pemigewasset House, Plymouth, just in season to telephone our mail from Weirs on the one o’clock train. We felt like embracing the express boy who handed us the precious sealed package from Penacook. Thanks and a quarter seemed a poor expression of our real feelings. Perfect happiness restored, where should we go to enjoy it over Sunday? Fate suggested Rumney, and we quickly assented, remembering its delightful quiet, and the lovely drive of eight miles. We could go across from Plymouth to Centre Harbor, and thence to Conway, as we had planned, but we would not. We had been defeated and determined to stay so. The drive along the valley was as lovely as ever, and a look of pleasant recognition was on the face of our hostess at the “Stinson House” in Rumney. After supper we took our sketch book and strolled through the meadow to the river bank, quite artist like. We spent the next day quietly in our room, reading and writing, until towards night, then drove two miles to call on a lady who had found us out through the Transcript, and assured us a welcome if we ever drove to Rumney again. We had a delightful hour with our new friends, and left them with a promise to return in the morning for a few days.
It would fill the Transcript if we were to tell you all we enjoyed in that little visit, the adventures, pedestrian excursions, camping on islands, nights in caves and barns, related by our friends, which made us long to explore for ourselves the region about Rumney. Some of the Transcript readers may remember a letter two years ago (Feb. 15, 1884), from one of a party of six who braved Franconia Notch in winter. We read it with great interest at the time, and wondered from which house in Rumney so brave and jolly a party started. Our curiosity was more than gratified by finding ourselves guests in the hospitable home, and by meeting several of the party, two of whom arrived from Boston while we were there. One morning we bowled in the loft of the ideal barn, and one rainy afternoon we had lessons in perspective. Miss D. proved a good instructor, and we thought we were fair pupils as we talked glibly of the station point, point of sight, base and horizontal lines, and the vanishing point, and reproduced Mrs. Q.’s desk by rule.
We reluctantly left our friends to their camping preparations, while we traveled over once more the route of the sleighing party. This was our fourth drive through the Pemigewasset Valley, but its beauty is ever new. We took two hours’ rest at the entrance of a cathedral-like archway of trees, which now adorns our parlor in “oils.” We tried to sketch properly, but, alas! all our points were “vanishing points” without Miss D. at hand, and we returned to the ways of ignorance. We spent the night at “Tuttle’s,” and heard from the cheery old lady and “Priscilla” the story of the sleighing party who were refused shelter at the Flume House, and though half-perished with cold had to drive back seven miles to spend the night with them. She told us how sorry she was for them, and how she built a roaring fire in the old kitchen fireplace, and filled the warming-pans for them. We imagined how good they must have felt buried in the hot feathers that cold night.