14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

We started out in the densest of fogs from our luxurious quarters in Norwich, but soon left it behind, and the drive along White River was very lovely. We had to dine at a “putting-up” place, with another fellow-traveler, in a kitchen alive with flies; and at Bridgewater, where we went for the night, we were received by a woman with mop and pail in hand—a little “come down” after our fine appointments. We must not forget our pleasant hour in Woodstock that afternoon. We drove through its pretty streets, called on friends, and took a look at the fair grounds, for everybody was “going to the fair.”

Fine appointments are not essential to comfort, and when we were all fixed in our little room, with a good book, waiting once more for it to simply rain, not pour, we were just as happy as at Norwich. After dinner we challenged the weather, and set forth for Ludlow. We overtook the little Italian pedler, with what looked like a feather bed on his back, who had sat at table with us, and was now ploughing his way through the mud. His face was wreathed in the most extravagant smiles in response to our greeting. The rain had spent itself, and we enjoyed walking down the mountain as we went through Plymouth. It seemed an unusual mountain, for there was no “up” to it, but the “down” was decidedly perceptible.

Ludlow was as homelike as ever, and the Notch drive on the way to Chester as interesting. The foliage, usually so brilliant at that season, had changed scarcely at all; only a touch of color now and then, but the streams were all up to danger point.

Bellows Falls was unusually attractive. We drove down the river, then crossed to Walpole, N. H., for the night.

The washouts here were quite serious, and we repented leaving Vermont to go zigzagging on cross-roads and roundabout ways in New Hampshire. I wish we had counted the guideboards we saw that day that said, “Keene eleven miles.” We had Brattleboro in mind, but after making some inquiries at Spofford Lake, we decided to put Brattleboro out of mind and Keene guideboards out of sight, and go to Northfield. We dined that day in a neat little hotel in the smallest town imaginable, and expected country accommodations at Northfield, but some of the Moody Institute young ladies directed us to the new hotel “everybody was talking about.” What a surprise to find ourselves in an elegantly furnished hotel on a high hill, with a commanding view. The steam heat and general air of comfort and luxury were truly delightful.

Another mountain was in our way, and the long, slow climb seemed endless. Near the summit we saw an old lady who said she had lived there twelve years, and added that it was pretty lonesome at the time of the big snowstorm last winter, for the road was not broken out for a week. We think we prefer a blockade at Southboro, in a warm car, with plenty of company.

A gentleman, speaking of an extended tour by carriage some years ago, said he thought Erving, Mass., the most forlorn place he was ever in. We fully assent. We were cold after coming over the mountain, and that dreary parlor, without a spark of fire or anything to make one in, and a broken window, was the climax of cheerlessness. The dinner was very good, but the waiting was dreary. We walked to the railway station, but that was no better, so we went to the stable for our extra wraps, and then tried to forget the dreary room and lose consciousness in a book. This was not a good preparation for a long drive, but a little hail flurry as we drove through Athol took some of the chill out of the air, and the drive to Petersham was more comfortable. At the little hotel in that airy town, fires were built for us up and down stairs, and Erving was forgotten.

And now comes our last day’s drive, for although Jerry had traveled already over six hundred miles on this trip, he was fully equal to the thirty miles from Petersham to Leominster. We forgot to ask to have the phaeton washed, and it looked so bad we stopped at a watering-trough in the outskirts of the town and washed off the shields with newspapers. After this we felt so respectable and self-confident that we did not heed our ways, until a familiar landmark in the wrong direction brought us to the certain knowledge that we were decidedly off our road.

We saw a young man and he knew we were wrong, but that was all he knew about it, so we turned back and presently came across an older and wiser man, who said, pityingly, “Oh, you are wrong, but if you will follow me, I will start you right.” We meekly followed for a mile and a half perhaps, but it seemed twice that, then he stopped and directed us to Princeton. We had no more difficulty, but were so late at the Prospect House that a special lunch was prepared for us, dinner being over.

It grew very cold, and was dark before we got home, but Jerry knew where he was going and lost no time. Although he had been through about ninety towns, and been cared for at over thirty different hotels, he had not forgotten Leominster and his own stall. Do you suppose he remembers, too, his old Kentucky home?