A week later we went again to put on the second coat, and this time we had a friend with us from New York. The little smooth rock on which she inscribed her name and the date in yellow paint still rests in its cosy spot by a tree, just as she left it.
Next came the launching, and later yet the painting of “G. W.” in monogram on the stern by the camp artist, and in due time the red cushions, with the monograms in black made by loving friends.
The “G. W.” has many friends, and one day in the summer, when we were drifting at the will of the wind and musing, we were startled by the sound of a gong. A horn is the usual summons to return to camp. We caught up the oars, and hastened to solve the mystery. “Don’t you wonder how those Lancaster friends ever thought of a beautiful Japanese gong for the ‘G. W.’ to call the crew together?” they said.
If we are not careful we shall make the “preliminary” as long as Jerry would; but then that covers months, while the journey was only a little over two weeks. Really, we have hardly begun to tell you the good times we had during these weeks of waiting. Sometimes we went to Spec with a carriage full of people, and oftentimes with a wagon full of things; anything and everything from a cream pie to a bale of hay, or a sawhorse. However we went, or whatever for, it was never so sunny or so cloudy, so hot or so cold, that we could resist taking a turn with the “G. W.” even if we had to bail out nearly five hundred dipperfuls first, as we did more than once; you know it has rained now and then for a year or two.
It was always a delight, from the time of the budding of the trees and bushes along the shore to that raw cold day late in November when we had our last row in fur cloak and mittens while waiting for the men to come and put the G. W. on shore for the winter. The hillside of laurel, in its season, is beyond description. You must leave the boat and take a look for yourself. Although close by the shore, it is hidden from the water except in glimpses. Later come the fragrant white azaleas all along the shore, and the beautiful lilies in the coves, then the gorgeous autumn foliage, and lastly the chestnuts, which tempt one to pull the boat into the bushes and just look for a few. We said “lastly.” How could we forget that day when we went sleighing to Spec to see how it looked in winter, and just wished we had some skates as we walked about on the ice! How lovely it was that day! How cold it was the day after when the “camp artist” took her chair out on the ice, and tried to finish up a sketch begun in the fall!
Nothing is more enjoyable than to make a complete circuit of the pond, rounding Point Judith, passing Laurel landing, touching at the old club landing if friends are there, then on by Divoll’s landing, Spiritualist Point, Sandy Beach, and so on to Breezy Point again. Passing the Lancaster landing reminds us that we have forgotten to tell you that a party of Lancaster gentlemen purchased five acres adjoining Breezy Point, and have built a cottage, which makes us begin to wonder if Spec will sometime be a fashionable watering place. May the day be far distant!
We must go on, and yet not one word have we told you of the times when we stayed two or three days, and how we spent all our evenings on the water, just dipping lightly the oars, while we watched the sunset clouds, and then were on the alert for the first glimpse of Venus, followed by Mars and Jupiter, and all the rest of the heavenly host, not to mention seeing the moon rise three times in fifteen minutes, one night, by changing our position on the water, after waiting four hours for it; or glorious to tell of, rising early and going out for a row before breakfast. Mrs. Shayback will testify to all we tell you of the joys of camp life, and how even work is play, for she and her friends built a log cabin in their Memphremagog camp last summer and were jubilant over it.
As I live it all over telling you about it, I marvel myself that we think a phaeton trip is better than camping; but we do, and without a pang we turned from it all, and started off in the rain Sept. 13th. We will not trust Jerry to tell you anything of this outing, for his enthusiasm is not sufficient to do it justice. It had rained constantly for five days, and we waited two hours for what we thought might be the “clearing up” shower, but we were only very glad we did not spoil our day’s drive, for it continued to rain for five days longer.
You may remember, for we have often spoken of it, that we do not usually plan our journeys beforehand; but this year, as our time was too limited to permit us to stray away to Canada, or even among the mountains, and as we had a suggestion of months’ standing to turn Jerry towards Great Barrington, we decided to revel once more in the delights of Berkshire.
A friend sent us her direct route from our house, but we proved true to our wandering inclinations by going to the extreme eastern part of the state to reach the extreme western portion, simply because we have never been to Berkshire that way. The journey did not open as auspiciously as sometimes, owing less to the rain, to which we have become accustomed, almost attached to, than to the experience of our first night, which we will spare you, as we wish we could have been spared. It was all forgotten, however, when we stole quietly into the back pew of a church near Boston, and were pleasantly taken possession of by friends after service. In the evening we repeated the experience in another suburb twelve or fifteen miles away.