We drove on through Gloucester to Rockport on the Cape, and there passed the night. We were hardly out of sight of the hotel in the morning before it began to rain, and the thunder rumbled among the rocks as if it would unearth them. We did not enjoy it, and just as it reached a point unbearable, and the rain was coming in white sheets, we saw a private stable and begged the privilege of driving in. We were urged to go into the house, but declined, thinking the shower would soon be over. For a full half hour we sat there, rejoicing after each flash that we still lived, when a man appeared and insisted we should go in, as the rain would last another hour, and it would be better for our horse to have his dinner. We declined dinner for ourselves, but the delicious milk the good wife brought us was very refreshing, and if we had not accepted that boiled rice, with big plums and real cream after their dinner, it would have been the mistake of our lives.
Soon after noon the sun came out in full glory, and we left our kind host and hostess with hearty thanks, the only return they would accept. Everything was fresh after the shower, and the roads were clean as floors. Full of enthusiasm we drove on and by some mistake, before we knew it, Cape Ann was “rounded” without a glimpse of the “pretty part” of Pigeon Cove. We had no time to retrace our way, so left Pigeon Cove, and Annisquam friends, for the next time, and hurried on through Gloucester, anticipating the wonderfully beautiful drive of twenty miles before us. At Magnolia we inquired for friends, and were directed to the cottage struck by lightning that morning. The waves dashed angrily on the rocks at Magnolia Point, and the surf at Manchester-by-the-Sea would have held us entranced for hours. It was the time for driving and we met all the fine turnouts and jaunty village carts as we went through Beverly Farms, with the tangled slopes and bewitching little paths or cultivated terraces with broad avenues, the stately entrances assuring you that both paths and avenues lead to some princely “cottage.”
A night at Beverly was followed by a crooked wandering through Salem and Marblehead Neck, then on through Swampscott and Lynn to Maplewood, where we spent an hour or two, then drove into Boston. The city was draped in memory of General Grant. We drove through the principal streets down town, then over Beacon Hill and through Commonwealth avenue to the Mill-dam, winding up our day’s drive of nearly forty miles by pulling over Corey Hill on our way to Brighton, where we gave Charlie and ourselves a day’s rest. As we were packing our traps into the phaeton for the last time on this trip, for we usually drive the forty miles from Boston, or vicinity, to Leominster in one day, our friend gave the phaeton a little shake and said, “This will wear out some day; you must have driven two thousand miles in it.” “Oh! yes,” we said, and referring to that encyclopedic diary, exclaimed, “Why, we have driven over five thousand miles!” He complimented its endurance, but we thought of the “one hoss shay.”
It was a bright day, and the familiar roads seemed pleasant as we drove along through Newton, Watertown and Stow, leaving Lexington and Concord one side this time. We found a very pretty spot for our last “camp,” and there we squared our accounts, named our journey and pressed a bright bit of blackberry vine for the sketchbook. The afternoon drive was even more familiar. We let Charlie take his own time, and did not reach home until eight o’clock, and finding everybody and everything just as we left them nearly five weeks before, gradually all that had come between began to seem like one long dream.
“Summer Gleanings” lies on our table, and we often take it up and live over again the pleasant days recorded there in “timely jottings,” crude little sketches, and pretty wayside flowers, and then we just take a peep into the possibilities of the future by turning over a leaf and reading—
“To one who has been long in city pent,”
and think what a nice beginning that will be for our fifteenth “annual.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE CATSKILLS, LAKE GEORGE AND GREEN MOUNTAINS.
In answer to the oft-repeated queries, “Did you have your journey last summer?” and “Where did you go?” we reply, “Oh, yes; we had a delightful journey. We were away four weeks and drove five hundred and seventy-five miles. We went all through Berkshire, up the Hudson, among the Catskills, then on to Albany, Saratoga, Lake George, Lake Champlain and home over the Green Mountains.”