14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

The moon was in full glory that night, and the morning dawned fair for the Notch drive. As Jerry was brought to the door, our hostess asked if we would take a few circulars. The few proved fifty, and thereafter we enclosed one in every letter. We have still a few left. We heartily assent to all the good that is said of Dixville. Yes, we found more of that moss, so lovely for Christmas cards. We walked most of the two miles through the Notch looking for it.

We took dinner at a large three-story hotel in the wilderness kept mainly for the “river drivers,” whom we were much interested to hear about. The Androscoggin is full of logs, and river-driving in the spring must be quite lively. We somehow missed the interpretation of the guideboards, and pulled up a hill two and a half miles long on the wrong road that hot afternoon. We were obliged to retrace our steps and take the turn just the other side of the hotel where we dined. Then came the well remembered fourteen miles along the Androscoggin, through the woods, and a night at “Chandler’s,” one of the half-dozen houses to be seen on the plain as we emerged from the woods.

Great improvements had been made since we were there seven years ago. That was the place where we had a room on the first floor, without a lock on window or door, and a “transient” in the room adjoining. Now the two rooms were one, with a curtained arch between, and the front room furnished as a parlor, with a piano. We reveled in our royal apartments in this wild, river-driving country, and did not mind much the smudge on the piazza to keep the black flies away. We delayed starting away as long as we could in the morning.

Mrs. Chandler gave us lunch for ourselves and Jerry, and we looked for a wayside camp; but not even the shady side of a rock could we find, and it was very hot. It was getting late for Jerry, and in despair of doing better, we asked permission to drive into a barn. We were just unharnessing, when the owner drove in with his milk wagon, and insisted on helping us, and was so urgent, that after taking our lunch in the carriage, we went into the sitting-room, where we could be “more comfortable.” He came in and rocked the baby, while his wife prepared dinner, and when left to ourselves, we went out on the piazza, which was like a conservatory. After their dinner, the man and his wife brought out chairs, and we had quite a little visit. We had something to talk about, for a boy who began his career very humbly near us, was a high school teacher in that vicinity, and much esteemed as a citizen. We were interested to hear of him.

Jerry fared as well as we did, and was fresh for the drive to Gorham, where we received and answered our mail, watching a ball game at the same time from our window.

The next morning was a bright one for our drive through Pinkham Notch. We passed the Glen House too early for dinner, but had been told there was a little place beyond where we could get something for ourselves and Jerry, and visit Crystal Cascade. While waiting we came to a barn, which looked inviting for Jerry, but our chance seemed small, when we glanced into the open door of a tiny board cottage, where sat a thin, pale woman with a wee baby, and a book. A little girl of daft appearance, in a slow drawling tone, assured us that was the only place, and spoke to her mother, who had not seemed to notice us. She said her husband had gone to pilot a party to the Ravine, and she had nothing but cookies in the house, but we could put Jerry in the barn and find the oats, and she would make us hot biscuit. We did not wish to trouble her so much, and asked if she could give us milk with the cookies? It proved a delicious lunch. Such cookies and such milk! We were charmed with the “campish” air of the room. The baby had been put to sleep in a hammock, swung across one corner. Behind a door we espied a bookcase well-filled, and spoke of it. The thin, pale woman brightened up, full of interest, and said the books belonged to the little girl who had just said to us, in that same drawling tone, “I—like—to—play—ball—better—than—any—thing—else.” We were amazed to learn of her passion for books, which had prompted the mountain visitors to give them to her. A favorite book was “John Halifax.” Our attention was attracted to another case containing a full set of Chambers’s Encyclopædia. She said some thought the “Brittany” was the best, but she liked that. In a closet were two more shelves of books—all good books, too. Milk, cookies, a hammock and books! Another Nirvana, to be sure.

We skipped up the path to Crystal Cascade, and there alone, a half-mile from the cottage, sat a woman on a rock overlooking the cascade, with her knitting and a book. Nirvana again? Her party had gone on to the Ravine.

Two miles farther down the Notch we left the carriage and ran along the walk, and up and down the flights of steps to take a look at Glen Ellis Falls. All these side attractions of Pinkham Notch we missed when we drove through on our September mountain trip, in deep mud and heavy mist.

Jackson was at its best this time. We watched the twilight sky from the piazza of a friend’s studio on the grounds of Gray’s Inn, and spent a delightful hour in the morning with the beauties of nature brought indoors by her skilful hand. It was an ideal studio, with its little garden in front, and vine-covered porch.

We passed most of the day in Jackson, driving to North Conway in the latter part of the afternoon. To shorten the drive of the next day, we drove two miles beyond the town and stopped at Moat Mountain House, a favorite place for lovers of fine scenery. Mt. Washington was particularly fine from our window.