14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

Once more we spread our maps, as we have done so many times, just to find a place for the next night. We pinned Maine on to New Hampshire and Massachusetts, and how big it looked! Surely if we once got into Maine we could roam at will, with no fear of being lost over the borders. It looked very tempting too, for it was a new map, and the colors were bright, while the other maps were faded and worn. As we traced one possible route after another, it really seemed as if Maine was our destination, unless we should encounter the “green-heads,” which would send us flying, for Jerry would be frantic. We folded the maps after deciding on Andover for the second night. On our way we left cards at a friend’s house in Westford, bought a box of strawberries at Lowell, and had our first camp by the wayside.

At Andover we studied the “way to Maine,” as if it was the lesson assigned. Thirty-one miles took us to Hampton, N. H., via Haverhill, where we said “Good morning” to a friend, and later took our luncheon in a pretty grove by a lake.

At Hampton our journey seemed to begin in earnest, for here we began to follow the coast, driving on every beach accessible; Boar’s Head, Rye Beach, Jenness Beach, Straw’s Point, Foss Beach, and passing “The Wentworth,” which last took us a mile or two out of the direct route, and gave us a look at the old portions of Portsmouth, so like Marblehead in its quaintness. All these favorite resorts we took in on our way from Hampton to York, winding up with the new shore road from York Harbor to Hotel Bartlett on York Beach, where we went for the third night.

A good supper, brisk walk on the beach, refreshing sleep, and another lovely morning dawned. The view of the beach and surf is very fine from “Bartlett’s,” but we are birds of passage, and fly on, mentally photographing all the beauties by the way, to be recalled and enjoyed at our leisure. Instantaneous views had to suffice for that day, for the next was Fourth of July, and we wanted to reach Ferry Beach, where Jerry as well as ourselves could spend it peacefully, not being inclined to join in the festivities of the bicyclists at Saco. Jerry made easy work of the nearly forty miles, perhaps owing to the three miles’ brisk trot on Wells Beach. Just as we left the beach, came the dense fog which hung along the coast for days, but we soon drove out of it into the bright sunshine, and realized, more fully than ever before, that the sun is always shining beyond the clouds. We dined and made a call in Kennebunk, but had to send our thoughts to our hospitable friend a mile away, and pass by the port rather than overtask Jerry.

Biddeford and Saco were alive with preparations for the Fourth. We got our letters, our first word from home, and gladly turned towards Ferry Beach.

Bay View was spick and span, and Mrs. Manson, the efficient hostess, welcomed us, and gave us her best room. We are almost sure a woman should reign supreme in a hotel as well as in a home. Who would want a man for a housekeeper! There was a homelike look from the bright carpeted office, with a work-basket and sewing-chair, to the easy nook in the upper hall, with the tastefully arranged plants behind the lace draperies.

How we slept, after a two-miles’ walk on the beach! Not a cannon, cracker, bell or tin horn, and the morning was like an old-fashioned Sunday. After dinner the children had a few torpedoes and crackers, so we knew our peace was not owing to prohibition. We never knew a hotel where children seem to have so much liberty, which is never abused, as at Bay View. Is this, too, owing to a woman’s tact? In the evening we watched the fireworks at Old Orchard, two miles away, and wondered whether we should keep to the coast, or follow up the Kennebec to Augusta, and go home through the mountains.

We got all the information we could, and having rested on the Jewish Sabbath, we drove on Sunday nearly thirty miles, dining at Portland, and spending the night at Royal Rivers, a comfortable little hotel at Yarmouth. We got our only wetting on that Sunday afternoon in a spasmodic shower, but we think it cannot be considered a retribution in this enlightened age.

The next day’s drive took us through Brunswick to Bath. Here we were at three o’clock, Jerry too tired to go farther, time on our hands, and the Kennebec so alluring! Our letters had not come, and how could we order them forwarded, when we did not know where we were going? We must wait. We shall always feel indebted to that bright girl in the post office, who told us we could go down to Popham Beach for the night, as the Boston boat stopped there daily, leaving Bath at six o’clock. A night away from our phaeton involves quite a little planning and repacking, and where could we do it? We could leave Jerry at a good stable very near the boat landing, but there was no hotel in the vicinity. We had an hour or two, and decided we would see Bath, and when we came across a rural back street we would repack in the phaeton. Bath is more of a city than we hoped, and despairing of finding an uninhabited back street, after we had driven on and up, in and out, without success, we stopped under a tree in a triangular space, and went to work regardless of the few passers-by. Very soon big bags, little bags, shawl cases and writing-tablet were all ready, some to be taken, others left; and we retraced with some difficulty our crooked ways. We bade Jerry good night at the stable, and then had a most delightful sail of an hour and a half down the Kennebec to Popham Beach.

Really, the Boston papers had not exaggerated the charms of that summer resort, and we were glad we were there, even when we learned the morning boat left at quarter to seven, instead of eight or nine as we were told in Bath. There was no time to be lost, and we hardly did justice to the very delicate fish supper, in our haste to skip down the rocky path to the beach, where we must have walked two or three miles back and forth, not returning until it was quite dark.