Why has no one ever written up the bright side of dull weather? The sun gets all the glory, and yet the moment he sends down his longed-for smiles, even after days of rain, over go the people to the other side of the car, the brakeman rushes to draw your shutter, the blinds in the parlor are closed, and the winking, blinking travelers on the highway sigh, “Oh, dear, that sun is blinding,” and look eagerly for a cloud. Then, if the sun does shine many days without rain, just think of the discomfort and the perpetual fretting. Clouds of dust choke you, everything looks dry and worthless, the little brooks are moping along, or there is only a dry stony path that tells they once lived, and the roadsides look like dusty millers. Now, fancy a drive without the sunshine to blind your eyes, no dust (surely not, when the mud fairly clogs the wheels), every tree and shrub glistening and all the little mountain streams awakened to life and tearing along, crossing and recrossing your path like playful children; indeed, all Nature’s face looking like that of a beautiful child just washed. Really, there is no comparison.
Perhaps you are thinking that is a dull day drive. Now, how about a drive when it pours. Oh, that is lovely—so cosy! A waterproof and veil protect you, and the boot covers up all the bags and traps, and there is a real fascination in splashing recklessly through the mud, knowing you have only to say the word and you will come out spick and span in the morning.
We have purposely put all the weather in one spot, like “Lord” Timothy Dexter’s punctuation marks, and now you can sprinkle it in according to your recollection of the September days, and go on with us, ignoring the rain, as we did, excepting casual comments.
Our journey was the fulfilment of the longing we felt for the mountains, when we were driving home from our Narragansett Pier and Newport trip one year ago. Perhaps you remember those hazy, soft-tinted days, the very last of September. The air was like summer, as we drove along through Framingham to Southboro, gathering those gorgeous sumacs by the wayside, and wishing we could go straight north for two weeks.
The morning of Sept. 6th, 1888, was very bright, just the morning to start “straight north,” but with our usual aversion to direct routes we turned our faces towards Boston. We could not stop at Stow this time, for the old hotel, where we slept so sweetly our first night one year ago, is gone, and only ashes mark the spot. Waltham had a place for us, however. A cold wave came on during the night, and we shivered all the way from Waltham to Hull, except when we were near the warm hearts of our friends on the way.
The ocean looked cold, but nothing could mar that quiet drive of five miles on Nantasket Beach just before sunset. We were lifted far above physical conditions. We were just in season to join in the last supper at The Pemberton, and share in the closing up. We were about the last of the lingering guests to take leave in the morning, after dreaming of driving through snowdrifts ten feet deep, and wondering if we should enjoy the mountains as well as we had fancied. The weather, however, changed greatly before noon, and it was very sultry by the time we reached Boston. Prudence prompted us, nevertheless, to add to our outfit, against another cold wave. We found all we wanted except wristers. Asking for them that sultry afternoon produced such an effect that we casually remarked, to prove our sanity, that we did not wish them to wear that day.
Night found us at Lexington, pleading for shelter at the Massachusetts House. Darkness, rain and importunity touched the heart of the proprietor, and he took us into the great hall, which serves for parlor as well, saying all the time he did not know what he should do with us. We wanted to stay there, because we do not often have a chance to stay in a house that has traveled. The signs are over the doors just as when it stood on the Centennial grounds, and many things seem quite natural, although we did not chance to be among the distinguished guests entertained under its roof when in Philadelphia.
Our stay there was made very pleasant by a lady who gave us interesting accounts of her journeys by carriage with “Gail Hamilton” and her sister.
Here ended our one hundred miles preliminary, and bright and early Monday morning we were off for the mountains. The day was just right for a wayside camp, and just at the right time we came to a pretty pine grove, with seats under the trees. We asked a bright young woman in the yard opposite if we could camp there, and were given full liberty. She said Jerry might as well be put into the barn, then helped unharness and gave him some hay. Jerry was happy.
He does not have hay—which is his “soup,” I suppose—when he camps. We went to the grove with our little pail filled with delicious milk, and a comfortable seat supplied by our hospitable hostess. When we went to pay our bill, everything was refused but our thanks. We said then, “If you ever come to Leominster you must let us do something for you.”