A bright thought came to us here. How pleasant it would be to look in upon our friends at Lake Memphremagog. Newport did not look far away on our map, but remembering those swampy, corduroy roads in northern Vermont, with stump-land for scenery, we decided we would drive the twenty miles to St. Johnsbury and then go by rail forty-five miles to Newport. It proved a very wise decision, for heavy rains had washed the roads, and the corduroy must have been impassable. Moreover, when we got to Newport we found for once our plans were frustrated, for no boats had been running for two weeks, as the water was so high they could not land anywhere on the lake. News travels slowly in northern Vermont. We had made many inquiries at Littleton and St. Johnsbury, and were told the boats were running twice a day. We spent the night at the Memphremagog House, and gazed by moonlight towards Georgeville, twenty miles into Canada, where we had expected to spend the evening with our friends, and thought of those “best laid plans.”
A pleasure we did not expect came to us, however, on that little side trip. Just as we stepped on the car at St. Johnsbury we were startled by a “Hulloa, Auntie F.!” We turned and saw two veritable tramps, with beaming faces. Who would have mistrusted they were college boys in high standing, as they stood there, with caps pushed back, and tents, knapsacks, spiders, canteens, and who knows what not, strapped on their backs? We “four tramps” took possession of the rear of the car and talked over the family news, for they had left home that morning, and we had been driving a week. They were full of plans for tramping and camping through Canada, and quite likely some of you may have read their interesting letters telling of their experiences via Montreal to New Brunswick. They camped at Newport that night and called on us at the Memphremagog House the next morning.
We were prompted to go to the post office before leaving Newport and got a letter which it seemed must have been projected by occult means, for how otherwise could one have reached there so soon? That is always a pleasure, and we took the train for St. Johnsbury, quite content, all things considered, with an outing of ninety miles by rail. Later in the season an office boy in a hotel in New Hampshire asked if he had not seen us somewhere in northern Vermont. We told him we had been there. “Well,” he said, “I thought you looked natural, and that I saw you there canvassing for Bibles!”
We began our journey a week before by driving to Lunenburg, Mass., and about three hours after parting with our two tramps at Newport, we began it over again at St. Johnsbury, turning Jerry towards Lunenburg, Vt. We thought we would try our chances next in northern New Hampshire. We had driven perhaps half the twenty miles to Lunenburg, when another of those ominous clouds appeared, and just at the right time we came to a large barn on a farm, but no house was within a mile. At one end of the barn facing the road was an open shed, with places to tie several horses, and a large sign-board, “Public Shelter Shed.” At one side was a fine water trough and another sign, “Nice Spring Water—Drink Hearty.” The customary broken goblet was close at hand. Several children were there, with quantities of wild strawberries. They sat on the grass with their lunch, and after taking ours we added some cultivated strawberries to their pails, and they started on the run for the little station nearly a mile away. We hope they were safely under cover before the shower came. As we waited there, while the thunder, lightning and rain held high carnival, we sent winged thoughts of gratitude to the thoughtful man to whom we were indebted for shelter.
Having been delayed by the shower, and finding Lunenburg so attractive, we stopped there for the night instead of crossing the Connecticut to Lancaster, N. H. Several years ago we explored Dixville Notch, a little south of Connecticut Lake in northern New Hampshire, and have ever since talked of going again to get some of that lovely moss for Christmas cards. We shall never forget the lovely drive along the Connecticut, after leaving the White Mountains many miles behind us. Then we drove on the New Hampshire side and looked over into Vermont. As we were now in Vermont we drove up on that side and looked across into New Hampshire. A new railroad had taken the old road by the river in many places, and the new road was cut high above, which gave us some fine views. At one time we saw showers before us and back of us and only a stray drop fell where we were.
We drove twenty-eight miles that day, and spent the night at North Stratford. We slept very well, notwithstanding the cars almost grazed our room as they rounded the corner.
The next morning we were off, with our eyes on the alert for the first glimpse of “The Nirvana.” At Littleton we got a copy of “Among the Clouds,” and were much interested in the description and picture of a wonderfully fine hotel, fifteen hundred feet above the level of the sea, at Colebrook, which was to open soon. We concluded we were not fitted to enter Nirvana, for the terms were to be from $4 to $7 a day, but we could look up to it as we passed by.
Long before we reached Colebrook we saw its towers and gables resting against the sky, and from the old hotel in Colebrook, which had been much improved since we were there, it looked just above our heads. There is a fine drive completed to the top of the bluff; but while waiting for dinner we strolled up the short path through the woods, hardly five minutes’ walk. We found the house really “open,” for money had given out when it was but a skeleton; but we reveled in the possibilities of “The Nirvana.” We climbed ladders, and saw it in embryo, lest we might not be admitted when in its perfected state. Every room commanded most beautiful views. From one window we looked along the Mohawk River to Dixville Notch, following the ten miles’ drive we were to have that afternoon.
A good dinner awaited us, when we came down to the hotel, and as we drove along the Mohawk Valley, after Jerry’s rest, we turned back many times for another glimpse of the beautiful outline against the sky.
Once in Dixville Notch, all else is forgotten in the stillness and beauty. The hotel was undergoing repairs, and many attractions were assuming form under the guiding hand of the landlady. We waited for a bed to be set up in a room radiant in freshly tinted walls and Japanese matting, and immediately fell into the spirit of repairs with the two or three guests, who were continually lending a hand. The house is supplied with water from a brook which comes tumbling down the mountain just back of the house. You cannot imagine anything more fascinating than the rustic camps that have been built by regular patrons of this secluded spot, at a little distance apart quite a way up the glen, with little bridges spanning the rocky stream. Hammocks and camp couches with real springs, were suggestive of a miniature Nirvana, which is more easily attained than Nirvana on the Heights.