We were not quite ready to face Great Barringtonward, so went a little farther easterly, then took a genuine westward direction. To know how soon and how often we deviated you should see the little outline maps we made of this trip. We drove west, then southwest to the border line, then up again, taking dinner or spending a night at Medfield and Milford, Uxbridge and Webster, Southbridge and Palmer, having reasons of our own for each deviation, one of which was to make sure we did not get so near home that Jerry would insist upon taking us there.
On the way to Palmer we discovered that the whiffletree was broken. We were trying to secure it with wire, which we always have with us, when an elderly gentleman drove along and asked if he could help us. He examined our work and approved it, but did not seem quite satisfied to leave, and finally said, “Does this team belong ’round here?”
“No, sir; it does not.”
“Oh, I see; perhaps you do not care to tell where you came from.”
“Oh, yes, we do; we are from Leominster.”
A little intimation of business came next and we assured him we were not book agents or canvassers of any kind, but were simply traveling for pleasure. His interest warmed, and when in justice to Jerry, we told him he took us seven hundred miles, to Canada and back, in one month last year, he was greatly pleased, and said, “Well, well, that is good, I will warrant you!” and drove on.
Our repairs were completed just in season for the next shower. The little whiffletree episode came in one of those between-times when the rain seemed to stop to take breath for a fresh start. This last, which proved the clearing shower, was a triumph. How it did pour!
We left Palmer in the morning, after some delay, in glorious sunshine and with a new whiffletree, but minus some of our literature, owing to the washing of the phaeton. The hostler said he knew some of the “papers” went off in “that man’s buggy.” We do not know who “that man” was, but what he thought when he found himself possessed of a writing tablet, a “New Ideal” and “The Esoteric” depends upon his intellectual status and attitude of thought. A new world may have been revealed to him.
Our next destination was Springfield, and after dinner at the Massasoit, with our first letters from home for dessert, we drove on, via Chicopee, to Westfield for the night. Here we considered our next deviation from a direct course. As there was some uncertainty about the condition of the roads, we were advised to go to Chester, which gave us a pretty drive along the Westfield River. We got in earlier than usual, and went out for a walk, and amused ourselves—or rather one did, while the other sketched—walking over the swinging wire footbridges. They are precarious looking things, and when half-way across, the rushing of the river many feet below and the swinging motion give one the impression of bridge and all going up stream.
We remembered well the drive from Chester to Lee, a few years ago. It is almost as good as among the mountains just after leaving Chester. Up, up, we go, and every spring, rill, rivulet and cascade is alive. We wish everybody could go through Berkshire after a ten days’ storm. After a few miles we changed our course towards Otis and Monterey, and all might have been well if we had not made a turn too soon, which took us over a back road deserted and demoralized; but they say “all is well that ends well,” and we reached Monterey in season to climb a hill for a view and take a brisk walk to get warm.