The Camperdown, that charming old inn at Georgeville, has been supplanted by a hotel so large no one wants it, and its doors were closed. We were directed to a new boarding-house standing very high, where we were soon quite settled in an upper front room with two French windows, one opening on a piazza and the other on a charming little balcony, with the lake before us in all its beauty. This was to be our home for several days; of course our friends wanted to know how we got there, and when we told them how we crossed the lake, they exclaimed, “Oh! you came on the hay-eater!” The “hay-eater!” Well-named, surely. Late in the evening, as we were watching the lake bathed in moonlight, we saw again that silver trail, and knew the hay-eater must have been signalled. Morning, noon and night those outlines of horses walked their weary round, and the hay-eater faithfully performed its work of helpfulness.
It is a mile from the village to the Shayback camp, and before walking over, we went down to the wharf to see the Lady come in—one of the things to do in Georgeville. We were at once recognized by one of the campers who had just rowed over, and who invited us to go back with them in the boat. They had come over for three friends, and as the gentleman only was there, we were substituted for his two ladies, and we did not feel out of the family, as we soon learned he was a relative, dating back to the Mayflower. Mrs. Shayback did not quite take in the situation when we presented ourselves, but she is equal to any emergency, and soon recovered from her surprise.
How can we condense into the limits of the Transcript the delights of Camp-by-the-Cliff, when we could easily fill a volume! Twelve years’ experience on Lake Memphremagog have resulted in ideal camping, with a semi-circle of tents, a log cabin, boats, books and banjos and a happy party of twenty; nothing is lacking. We spent the nights in our “home” and the days in camp, going and coming by land or water, having first a row, and next a lovely walk over the hill. We enjoyed every moment as all good campers do, whether wiping dishes, spreading bread for supper, watching the bathers, trolling for lunge, cruising about with Mr. Shayback in the rain for driftwood, or drifting in the sunshine for pleasure, not to forget the afternoon spent in the attic of the log cabin, writing to far-away friends.
The attic consisted of a few boards across one end of the cabin, reached by a ladder, and afforded a fine view of the lake through a tiny square window, and an ideal standpoint for taking in the charms of the cabin, which is the camp parlor. The fire-place, swing chair, hammock, lounges, large round table with writing materials and latest magazines, and touches of color here and there, suggest infinite comfort and delight.
The Sunday service in the chapel of cedars, to the music of the water lapping against the rocks, was a pleasure too. There was no thought of tenets and dogmas, in this living temple—only a soul-uplifting for the friends of many faiths who had come together on that bright morning.
Monday came, and with it the Maid—the “hay-eater” would not do for a trip to Newport. A delegation of campers rowed over to see us off, and by ten o’clock we were seated on the forward deck, despite the crazy wind, ready to enjoy the two-hours’ sail.
At Newport we set foot on native soil, after our two weeks’ sojourn in Canada. The post office was our first interest, and there we got a large package of letters, tied up, just ready to be forwarded to Georgeville when our countermand order was received. They had been following us all through Canada, reaching each place just after we left it. The contents were even more eagerly devoured than the dinner at the Memphremagog House.
Next in order was “How shall we go home?” By a little deviation to the left we could go to the lovely Willoughby Lake and down through the Franconia Notch; or by a turn toward the right we could go down through Vermont into the Berkshire region, and call on a friend in Great Barrington. As we had deviated sufficiently, perhaps, for one trip, we decided on a drive through central Vermont, which was the most direct route, and the only one we had not taken before. This route would take us to Montpelier, and through a lovely country generally; such a contrast to the Canada driving.
The next ten days were full of interest; a good wetting was our first experience after leaving Newport. The shower came on so suddenly that we used a waterproof in place of the boot, and did not know until night that the water stood in the bottom of the phaeton and found its way into our canvas grip. The large rooms we were fortunate in having in that old ark of a hotel were turned into drying rooms, and were suggestive of a laundry. Our misfortune seemed very light when we read the disasters of the shower just ahead of us. We passed, the next day, an old lady sitting in the midst of her household goods on one side of the road, and her wreck of a house, unroofed by the lightning or wind, on the other.
We begged the privilege of taking our lunch in a barn that day, as it rained again. We tried to be romantic and bury ourselves in the hay with a book, but the spiders and grasshoppers drove us to the carriage. We spent a night at Morristown on the lovely Lamoille River, and again revived delightful memories of a week spent there before carriage-journey days; especially the twenty miles’ drive on the top of a stage in the heaviest thunderstorm of the season, and a day on Mt. Mansfield.