Our only definite plan when we left home was to meet friends at a service in Great Barrington, Sunday afternoon, Sept. 21. It was now Saturday night, and we were nine miles away, but that distance was easily accomplished Sunday morning, and we reached Great Barrington just in season to get a round dozen of letters at twelve o’clock. We secured delightful quarters at the Berkshire House, and in due time went to the service, as planned. We failed to surprise our friends, as they were not there, but were well repaid otherwise, and went in search of them later. A pleasant call, a promise to visit the next day, a quiet hour at the Berkshire, a service in the Hopkins Memorial Church, especially to hear the wonderful Roosevelt organ, and the day ended. We had a fine view of the Hopkins-Searle castle-like residence from our windows; but we lost all interest in it when we found a high and massive wall was being built the length of the street, which will deprive Great Barrington people of their finest view along the valley.
Our Monday visit was very delightful. We promised to go early and stay late; but withal the day was too short for the visit with our friends and their friends. With the help of those who have tried it twice, driving for months through England and Scotland, we planned a foreign tour, and got all the “points,” even to the expense of taking Jerry across. We shall defer it however, until we get a new phaeton, for we prefer to go through the prophesied “one-hoss shay” experience on native soil. Really, crossing the water does not seem nearly so “Spain-like” as crossing the “line,” and driving one hundred miles north in Canada would have seemed some years ago; but we will defer anticipation even.
In the afternoon our friends gave us a charming drive, and revealed to us the attractions of Great Barrington and vicinity. We thought of Bryant as we saw Green River, and felt nearer yet to him when we called on a friend, known there as the historian of Great Barrington, who showed to us the rooms in which Mr. Bryant first kept house. A half-hour passed very quickly with our friend, who has a rare collection of arrow-heads, and a fund of interesting information.
Tuesday we were off again, with a good morning from our friends and the foreign tourists. There is no lovelier driving than through the old town of Stockbridge, with its many noted attractions, on through Lenox, captured by New Yorkers, to Pittsfield; and yet, just because we had been there before, we decided to try a new route. We thought we were enthusiastic over State lines and Shakers, and started off in good faith, dined at West Stockbridge primitively, when Mr. Plumb would have served us royally at the old Stockbridge inn, and took our directions for State line. While we were waiting for a freight train to clear the track, we came to our senses and asked each other why we were going this way, confessed we were being cheerful under protest, repented, and were converted literally in less time than it takes us to tell it. Paul’s conversion was not more sudden. Jerry trotted back towards Stockbridge as if he was as glad as we were. We could have gone direct to Lenox, but we were going to Stockbridge, and we have been glad ever since. Our folly only gave us nine miles extra driving on a very lovely day, through a lovely country, and enhanced ten fold the enjoyment of the afternoon drive back to Stockbridge, and then up through Lenox to Pittsfield where we spent the night, and said many times “Oh, aren’t you glad we are not over in York State?”
We busied ourselves quite late that night at Pittsfield making maps of our zigzagging route to send to friends. In order to have them strictly accurate according to Colton, we made use of a table and bed blankets—but how foolish to give away our bright ideas, we may want to get a patent some day!
The next morning we were off in good season for a drive over Windsor Hill (still so glad we were not in York State). We took our lunch by the way that day, and gave Jerry his rest at a farm house. Now we were near Bryant’s birthplace, but had to satisfy ourselves with looking at the signboard, “Two miles to Bryant’s place,” and a look at the library presented by him to Cummington, as we drove by. We surely met a hundred or more vehicles of great variety—the balloons, candy and peanuts giving evidence that everybody had been to the fair. It was the season of fairs, and we had encountered them all the way along. We saw the Palmer people watching the racing in that clearing-up shower, and the Great Barrington people were wondering how they should come out with the track under water. At Westfield we had to go to the hotel “over the river,” all because of the fair.
How they did fly around at that little hotel in East Cummington! It had been filled to overflowing the night before with fair guests, and quite a company of young people were still lingering for supper, enjoying while waiting, a banjo and vocal medley. We sat full three hours in the little sittingroom with hats on, and books in hand, trying to read, before the beaux and banjos were out of the way, and our room was made ready. Peace once restored, not a sound was heard all night.
Our next drive was over Goshen Hill, where we dined and “prospected.” One cannot drive anywhere in this vicinity without recalling Mr. Chadwick’s enthusiastic descriptions of the rivers and hills. We fully agree with him as regards the justness of Mr. Warner’s observation, “How much water adds to a river!” and if we drove over Goshen Hill as often as he does when summering in Chesterfield, we too might like to take a Century along with us, “in order to have plenty of time.”
Night found us once more at Northampton, where we always find pleasant quarters, and the moon was just as bright as it was the last time we were there. We spent the evening with a former pastor, who looked at us a moment as he came to the door and then exclaimed, “Why, children, how glad I am to see you!” A real catechism exercise followed between pastor and “children” about everybody in Leominster in those bygone years.
We dined at Amherst the next day, and had a hard pull over the hills in the rain to Enfield in the afternoon. We had never been in Enfield before, and were surprised to find such a pleasant hotel there—more like a home. Sixteen miles next morning took us to the new hotel in Barre, which has quite an “air,” with its hard floors, rugs and attractive furnishings. We had no lovelier drive on the trip than the fifteen miles from Barre to the old Mountain House at the foot of Wachusett. The foliage was brighter than any we had seen and the sunset clouds we enjoyed to the utmost, for we were late that night, having taken the longest way round.