14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

We had at last to stop thinking of the dear old phaeton and adjust ourselves to the nice new buggy, for it required an entire change in packing arrangements. Things would not place themselves in the buggy, as they did in the phaeton from long habit. Bags must be found to fit the “box,” and the wrench, oil and twine had to be put into what one might call an emergency bag—a Corning is so different from a phaeton. We made some half-curtains to use in rainy weather, which take up much less room than the “sides,” and do not shut out the view. By the time we were ready for our journey we almost wondered how we ever got along without a place for bags, things seemed so compact and out of the way.

Why anyone should have mistrusted we were going farther than Spec Pond or Fitchburg when we drove up to the post office on the afternoon of June thirtieth we cannot imagine; but a reporter did, and seized the opportunity to interview us. We did not wish to leave town with the ill-will of anyone, and responded civilly to his many queries, but the entire information gained made a very brief item. Now, if we had told him we were going to Pepperell we should have falsified ourselves at the outset. We did think of spending the first night there, but a bridge up and a big thunder-cloud turned our course towards Townsend, and we reached the hotel just in time to escape a heavy shower. It cleared away, and after supper we drove on to Brookline, N. H., and were farther on our way, if our way lay north, than if we had gone to Pepperell.

It is a pretty drive of twenty-four miles from Brookline to Goffstown through Amherst, where we stopped for dinner. At Goffstown the landlord was not in, and even bells called forth no response, so we drove off to view the town. A second bold effort was more successful and brought to light the landlord, who had turned carpenter and was building a new kitchen.

Twenty-eight miles the next day, through Concord, where we always spend a pleasant hour with friends, took us to Shaker Village, on the top of a hill, where we spent Sunday. When you have made one visit to the Canterbury Shakers you will not wonder that we have been there four times. It is a restful place, away from the world of turmoil, and the sisters are pleasant hostesses. They are free to investigate in any direction, and we talked of Theosophy and all the advanced ideas of today. Sunday morning a sister brought in several books for us to look over, and we lent her one, which she liked so much we left it with her, taking some Shaker pamphlets in exchange at her suggestion.

We deemed it a special favor to be invited to attend meeting, as their services are not open to the public. If we had not such a long journey to tell you about, we would like to tell you of that meeting, which interested us very much.

Last year we hurried along the coast to reach Old Orchard before the Fourth of July, as Jerry sometimes objects to fire crackers. This time we had fixed upon Weirs as a celebrating point, and after dinner with the Shakers, we started off for the eighteen miles’ drive. We had not driven an hour before a fearfully ominous cloud loomed up, which grew blacker and blacker, and very ugly looking. We sped through the street of Belmont, and barely got inside the little hotel when the rain fell in sheets, and the lightning flashed in all directions. We watched the storm until the rain fell moderately, and the thunder rumbled in the distance, and then called for Jerry, for night would overtake us surely if we delayed longer. We drove briskly to Laconia, and then came a hard pull over roads repaired with sods. The sun was just setting when we surveyed Lake Winnipiseogee from the top of the hill which leads down to the Weirs, and the clock struck eight as we entered the dining-room of the Lakeside House.

Here we were entirely at home, and spent the morning of the Fourth strolling about to see the improvements and our friends, in their lovely new cottage by the lake. Everything seemed quiet by three o’clock, and after a consultation with Landlord Weeks, we decided the time had come for us to go to Squam Lake, which we had passed by so many times. Hundreds of people were enjoying that perfect day at Weirs, but they had forgotten all else for the time, and were crowded on the shore to see a man walk on the water. Jerry was not annoyed by a single cracker. The drive was very lovely, and the sunset views from the piazzas of the Asquam House, high above the lake, were not surpassed in all our journey.

Our “way” evidently lay through the mountains, and we took a lingering look at Squam in the morning, and then were off for Plymouth. We forgot to tell you that we made a cricket for the new buggy, which was a great luxury, but we were not satisfied with the covering. At Plymouth we got a pretty piece of carpeting, and after our lunch by the wayside, near Livermore’s Falls, we took the tacks and hammer from the “emergency bag,” and upholstered it. The result was a great success.

Now we were ready for the Pemigewasset Valley for the sixth time. It is a drive one can never weary of, for it is never twice alike. We found a new place for the night at North Woodstock. The house stood high above the street and commanded one of the finest views of the Franconia Mountains we have seen. We could just distinguish the Flume House, five miles away, where we met friends as we drove through the Notch the next morning.

We are always interested in the excursionists we meet “doing” the Notch, with its Flume, Pool and Basin, for the first time. We left the carriage to have a good look at the Old Man of the Mountain. We hope nothing will happen to the jagged rocks that make up that wonderful profile. We climbed Bald Mountain for the first time, taking our lunch on the way. Jerry had his dinner later at the Profile House farm. We spent the night at Littleton.