14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

It does not seem as if anything could entirely spoil the drive from the Highlands to the Waumbek at Jefferson, and from Jefferson to Lancaster the views are wonderfully beautiful. The clouds relented a little as we slowly climbed the hills, and just as we reached the highest point we turned back once more for a last look at the entire White Mountain range, and we had a glimpse of the peak of Mt. Washington for the first time since the morning we left North Conway.

A moment more, and the Summit House glistened in sunlight, a stray ray from behind a cloud. As we began to descend, what a change of scene! Sun-glinted Washington was out of sight behind the hill, and before us were threatening clouds, black as midnight, and the mountains of northern New Hampshire looked almost purple. The sky foreboded a tempest rather than Mr. Crawford’s promised sunset, but while we were thinking of it there was a marvelous change. Color mingled with the blackness, and as we were going down the last steep hill into Lancaster, there was one of the most gorgeous sunset views we ever witnessed. We drove slowly through the broad, level streets to the outer limit of the town, and then turned back, but did not go to the hotel until his majesty dropped in full glory below the horizon.

The sun set that night for the rest of the week, and the clouds were on hand again in the morning. We went to Lancaster just for a look towards Dixville, but we made this our turning-point. The drive to Whitefield is very like the one just described, only reversed. There were no sun-glints this time, but memory could furnish all the clouds refused to reveal, for that ride was indelibly photographed on our minds.

From Whitefield we drove to Franconia, and as we went through Bethlehem street we thought it seemed pleasanter than ever before. The gray shades were becoming, somehow.

Having driven through Franconia Notch five times and seen the “boulder” before and after its fall, we did not fret about what the weather might be this time. We had been through in rain and sunshine, in perfect, gray, and yellow days, and never failed to find it charming. This time it poured in torrents. We dined at the Flume House, and watched those who were “doing” the Notch for the first time, and almost envied them as they gayly donned their waterproofs and were off for the Pool and Flume. One party declared they had laughed more than if it had been pleasant, and all in spite of that ruined Derby, too, which the gentleman of the party said he had just got new in Boston, and intended to wear all winter. They had passed us in the Notch in an open wagon, with the rain pelting their heads.

The drive to Campton that afternoon was one of those “cosy” drives. It never rained faster, and the roads were like rivers. Memory was busy, for it is one of the loveliest drives in the mountains. It was dark when we reached Sanborn’s, at West Campton, but it is always cheery there, and the house looked as lively as in summer.

One might think we had had enough of mountains and mists by this time, but we were not yet satisfied, and having plenty of time, we turned north again, just before reaching Plymouth, with Moosilauke and the Green Mountains in mind. A happy thought prompted us to ask for dinner at Daisy Cottage in Quincy, and unexpectedly we met there one of the party who braved Franconia Notch in winter a few years ago, and who told the tale of their joys and sorrows in the Transcript. We mailed our cards to the friends whose house was closed, and then on to Warren, near Moosilauke. We experienced just a shade of depression here, perhaps because the hotel, which had been full of guests all summer, was now empty and cold, or possibly the sunshine we absorbed at North Conway—“canned” sunshine, Mr. Shayback calls it—was giving out. Be that as it may, our enthusiasm was not up to the point of climbing a mountain to see what we had seen for eight successive days,—peaks shrouded in white clouds. The sun did shine in the early morning; but it takes time to clear the mountains, and the wind blew such a gale we actually feared we might be blown off the “ridge” on Moosilauke if we did go up. We waited and watched the weather, finished “Robert Elsmere,” and began for a second reading, and after dinner gave up the ascent. By night we were reconciled, for we had the most charming drive of twenty miles to Bradford, Vt., crossing the Connecticut at Haverhill, and saying good-by to New Hampshire and its misty mountains.

A new kind of weather was on hand next morning, strangely like that we have become accustomed to, but not so hopeless.

These dense fogs along the Connecticut in September are the salvation of vegetation from frosts, we were told, but they are fatal to views. We drove above and away from the fog, however, on our way over the hills to West Fairlee, but it rested in the valley until nearly noon. It was encouraging to learn that fair weather always followed.

A “bridge up” sent us a little way round, but we reached West Fairlee just at dinner time, and while Jerry was at the blacksmith’s we strolled about the village with friends. The afternoon drive to Norwich on the Connecticut—a pretty, old university town—was very pleasant. We were directed to the hotel, but when a lady answered the door bell, we thought we must have made a mistake, and were asking hospitality at a private mansion. There was no sign; the yard was full of flowers, and the big square parlor, with the fire crackling under the high old mantel, the fan-decorated music-room through the portieres—everything, in fact, betokened a home. And such in truth it was, only, having been a hotel, transients were still accommodated there, as there was no other place in Norwich. When the very gallant colored boy ushered us into a room the size of the parlor below, with all the homey touches, we felt really like company. The delicious supper, well served from the daintiest of dishes, confirmed the company feeling.