14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

At three Jerry appeared, with the phaeton still unwashed and another “M. D.” excuse. We never knew it took so many people to take care of doctors.

We went first to see the cousin who had piloted us to see the wharves and stations, to tell her the labor was all lost, for we were going to Canada. We then went to the post office, and got a letter containing information of special interest to us just then; for while we had been driving leisurely up through Vermont, friends from Boston had whizzed past us by rail, and were already at Berthier.

We drove only fourteen miles that afternoon, and did not unpack until very late at the little hotel under a high bluff on one side, and over the rocky Lamoille River on the other, for there was a heavy thunder shower and we inclined to wait. The next morning we proceeded to St. Albans to get “bonded.” It proved a very simple process. One went into the custom house and the other sat reading in the phaeton. Presently three men came out and apparently “took the measure” of Jerry. He only was of any consequence evidently. The occupant of the phaeton was ignored, or trusted. A little more time elapsed, and we were “bonded” at a cost of twenty-five cents, and all right for Canada. We wonder if the papers are good for another trip, for they have not been called for yet.

We crossed the invisible line that afternoon, and never knew just where the deed was done, but when we were directed to a little one-story house, well guarded by jabbering Frenchmen, as the hotel in St. Armand, we realized we were out of the States. We felt like intruders on a private family, outside, but once inside we became members. All seemed interested in our welfare, and asked about our “papers,” advising us to have them looked at, as in case we had any difficulty farther on we would have to return there.

There was some delay in giving us a room, for it had been cleared ready for the paperhanger, and the bed had to be set up, etc. Our hostess seemed so sorry to put us into such a forlorn place, and the rolls of paper in the closet looked so tempting, we had half a mind to surprise her by saying we would stop over a day and hang it for her. We gave that up, however, but once in our room we had to “stop over” till morning, for two men occupied the room adjoining—our only exit. If the house was small, the funnel-holes were large, and we were lulled to sleep by the murmuring of voices in the room below us. We caught the words “drivin’,” “St. John” and “kind o’ pleasant,” and felt as if we were not forgotten.

Our interview with the officer was very reassuring. He said no one would molest us unless it was some mean person who might think, “There’s a Yankee ‘rig’!” That did not frighten us, for we never come across any mean people in our travels, and then a clear conscience in this case gave confidence, for we surely did not wish to part with Jerry; and trading horses seemed to be the only thing to be suspected of.

We found a pretty woody camp that first noon, quite Vermontish, but for the remainder of our two weeks’ sojourn in Canada it would have been like camping on a base-ball ground. We needed no “line” to make us realize we were in a different country. No windings and twistings among the hills, but long stretches of straight level roads, clayey and grassgrown, sometimes good, but oftener bad, especially after a rain, when the clay, grass and weeds two or three feet in length stuck to the wheels, until we looked as if equipped for a burlesque Fourth of July procession.

After leaving St. Armand, to find an English-speaking person was the exception, and as English is the only language we have mastered, our funny experiences began. If we wanted a direction, we named the place desired, then pointed with an interrogatory expression on the face. If we wanted the phaeton washed and axles oiled, we showed the hostler the vehicle with a few gesticulations. The oiling was generally attended to, but the clay coating of the wheels was evidently considered our private property, and it was rarely molested.

At the larger hotels we usually found some one who could understand a little English, but in one small village we began to think we should have to spend the night in the phaeton, for we could not find anything that looked like a hotel, or any one who could understand we wanted one. After going to the telegraph office, a store, and in despair, attacking a man sawing wood—most hopeless of all, with his senseless grin—we found two or three boys, and between them we were directed to a little house we saw as we drove into the village, with the inevitable faded sign, and thanked fortune we had not to stay there. “Well, you wanted to drive to Canada, so you may go and see what you can do while I stay with Jerry” (the most unkind word on the trip). With feigned courage the threshold of the wee hotel was crossed. In Canada we usually enter by the bar-room, and those we saw had an air of great respectability and were frequently tended by women. All the doleful misgivings were dispelled the moment we entered this tiny bar-room and glanced through the house, for unparalleled neatness reigned there. Three persons were sent for before our wants were comprehended. The bright-faced girl from the kitchen proved an angel in disguise, for she could speak a very little English, although she said she did not have much “practix.” A gem of a boy took Jerry, and in half an hour we were as much at home as in our own parlor. We were shown to a little room with one French window high up, from which we watched the Montreal steamer as it glided by on the Richelieu in the night. The little parlor was opened for us; it was hardly larger than a good-sized closet, but radiant with its bright tapestry carpet, Nottingham curtains and gay table-cover. There was a lounge in one corner and a rocking-chair before the large window, thrown open like a door, from which we looked out upon a tiny garden in “rounds” and “diamonds,” full of blossoms, and not a weed. This was like a bit of paradise, and we now thanked fortune we were there. Our supper would make one wish always for Canadian cooking. We left with regret and were very glad to stop there again a week later, on our return trip. We were welcomed like old friends, and the changes we had made in the arrangement of furniture had been accepted.

At another much larger hotel we were under great obligations to a Montreal traveling merchant, who received us, answered all our questions about mails and routes, and gave our orders for supper and breakfast. He spoke English well, only he did say several times he would not “advertise” us to go a certain route, as it would be out of our way.