“Too bad you did not have your trip this year,” and “You did not have your usual drive, did you?” from one and another, proves that others besides ourselves thought we did not “go anywhere” just because we did not drive seven hundred miles, and cross the borders into Canada as we did last year. But we will remind you as we have reminded ourselves, that a little is just as good as a great deal so long as it lasts, and that no one need go to Canada thinking to find finer driving than right here in Massachusetts. Indeed, the enchantment of Canadian roads is largely that lent by distance.
Seriously, it is not that we did not go to Canada or to the mountains, that the impression has gone abroad that we did not go anywhere, but because of the mountains or obstructions that lay across our path all July and August, and threatened September. Scripture says mountains can be removed by faith, and perhaps it was due to our faith in believing we should go because we always have been, that the way was suddenly cleared near the middle of September, and we were off without any farewells for just a little turn in Massachusetts.
Our annual outing had a long preliminary of waiting, and our story would be quite incomplete unless we gave you a little account of our doings during the weeks we were—not weeping and wailing—but wondering, and watching the signs of the times and trying to think how it would seem if we should have to give it up after eighteen summers without a break.
There is a balm for every ill, and a row boat is next to a phaeton, while camping is an indescribable pleasure to those who like it. We do, and joined the first party of ladies who camped in this vicinity. The delightful recollections of our tent life by Wachusett Lake have intensified as time went on, and one year ago they seemed to culminate when the A. family purchased an acre of land by Spec pond, and built a camping cottage.
Probably there are very few Transcript readers who know there is such a lovely spot in the world as Spec, for you cannot see it unless you go where it is.
The passing traveler on the highway would never suspect that these little wood roads lead to such a lovely sheet of water, clear and very deep, a half mile perhaps from shore to shore, and so thickly wooded all around that all you can see of the outer world is just the tip of Wachusett from one place in the pond. Almost adjoining, although entirely hidden, is another pond known as “Little Spec.” Spectacle Pond is the correct but never-used name of these waters, about four miles from Leominster, and indeed, four miles from everywhere—Lancaster, Harvard, Shirley or Lunenburg.
Now you know about the pond you may be interested in the cottage, which is reached by a private winding road through the woods after leaving the highway, or by a long flight of easy steps from the little wharf. A clearing was made large enough for the cottage, which is simple in construction, but all a true camper could wish in comfort and convenience. There is one large room, and a smaller room back for a kitchen, which furnishes ample opportunity for as many to lend a hand as chance to be in camp, for co-operation is specially adapted to such life. Six cosy bedrooms open from these two rooms. There is a broad piazza in front, which serves as an ideal dining-room, from which you seem to have water on three sides, as Breezy Point (it so christened itself one hot summer day) is shaped something like half an egg. The entire front of the cottage can be opened, and what could look cosier than that roomy room, with a large hanging lamp over a table surrounded by comfortable chairs, the walls bright with shade hats and boating caps, handy pin-cushions, and in fact everything one is likely to want in camp—all so convenient? Under a little table you would find reading enough for the longest season, and in the drawer a “register” which testifies to about seven hundred visitors, among them Elder Whitely from the Shaker community we read about in Howells’s “Undiscovered Country,” who brought with him a lady from Australia, and an Englishman who was interested to examine a mosquito, having never seen one before—happy man! Hammocks may swing by the dozen, right in front of the cottage; and just down the slope to the left is a little stable, with an open and a box stall, and a shed for the carriage. If you follow along the shore towards the steps, you will find the boats in a sheltered spot.
The hospitality of the A. family is unlimited, and the friend who was “counted in” so many times the first season that she felt as if she “belonged” resolved she would have a boat next season that could be shared with the campers; for you cannot have too many boats. When the summer days were over, and one would almost shiver to think of Spec, with the bare trees and the cold water beneath the icy surface, the boat fever still ran high, and one of the coldest, dreariest days last winter, we went to Clinton to look at some boats partly built. We ploughed through the snow in search of the boats, and then of the man who owned them, and were nearly frozen when we had at last selected one and given directions for the finishing up. We had an hour to wait in the station, and we said, “Now, let’s name the boat!” As quick as thought one exclaimed, “What do you think of ‘G. W.’—not George Washington, but simply the ‘mystic initials’ suggested by date of purchase?” As quick came the answer, “I like it.” “Very well, the G. W. it is.” Lest we take too much credit to ourselves for quick thinking we will tell you that a little friend said in the morning, “Why, if you get your boat today, you ought to call it George Washington, for it is his birthday, a fact which had not occurred to us.”
Now if Jerry could tell a story as well as Black Beauty, he would fill the Transcript with his observations, but he never speaks; that is, in our language. He wears no blinkers, however, and nothing escapes those eyes, and he may think more than if he spent his time talking. I feel positively sure that could he have told his thoughts when we began to speak in earnest of our drive in September, he would have said, “What is the need of those two thinking they must go so far for a good time, making me travel over such roads, sometimes all clay and weeds, or pulling up very steep hills, only to go down again, perhaps tugging through sand, or worse yet, through water-fording they call it, I call it an imposition—when they have such good times here, and I have only to travel eight miles a day, even if they go home nights, as they usually do; for the regular campers like to have a sort of daily express to bring stores and visitors,—leaving me all the day to rest and enjoy myself?” He would tell you how many pretty ways to go and come, although left to himself he would always take the shortest, if it does go over Rice Hill; of the lovely way by “Alden’s” where they stop for ice; and a lovelier yet going home through the woods by “Whiting Gates’,” when a view bursts upon you as you suddenly leave the woods, which is like a Berkshire picture; and how discouraging it is, when they take it into their heads to go by way of Lunenburg station, or perhaps Lancaster. He has decided preferences, and his ears and the turn of his head betray him.
He would give you glowing accounts of so many happy days at Spec, beginning with a bright day in April, when we took our paint pots and drove down early, having ordered the boat delivered that day. We waited all day and no boat came, but we had such a good time roaming about the woods and rowing that we overcame easily our disappointment. We issued another order for delivery, and on the second day of May, when we once more took a day, Jerry would tell you how astonished he was to find waiting for us, right at the turn into the woods, two men with a big wagon, and such a big thing on it. His eyes were open all that day, for we tipped the boat up in the shed right beside him and eagerly went to work. What fun it was to put on that bright yellow paint, and then trim it up with black, only the black flecks would get on to the fresh yellow, and what a mixture, when we tried to remove them! You would have thought we were painting the daintiest panel, by the care we used; and you know it is said a woman never stops as long as there is a drop of paint left, so the four oars were gleaming.