Thirty miles, via Tamworth and Madison, stopping at Silver Lake House for dinner, brought us to Moultonboro. The hotel was closed, and we will pass lightly over the accommodations (?) and experiences of that night, assuring you we were ready for an early departure, to meet the nine o’clock boat at Centre Harbor for a sail through the lovely Winnipiseogee, to Alton Bay. This was Jerry’s treat, as well as ours. He is a good sailor. The courteous captain looked out for his comfort and for our pleasure, calling our attention to all points of interest. We dined at Alton Bay and then Jerry was fresh for a brisk drive of eighteen miles to Rochester, where we found pleasant quarters for Sunday, fifty-three miles away from Moultonboro.
The mountains were now well behind us, and we turned our thoughts towards Old Ocean, only thirty miles away. We spent a night at Dover, calling on friends, and camped one noon in Greenland, an ideal farming town. We tied Jerry to a fence by the roadside, and we took the liberty to enjoy the shade of a tree the other side of the fence. As we were taking our lunch, we heard a slight noise, and turned just in time to see Jerry in mid air, leaping the bars. He believed in equal rights, and having obtained them at the expense of so much effort, we let him stay with us. A guilty conscience needs no accuser, and when we saw an elderly woman guarded by two young people, coming down the road, we were sure they were after trespassers, and went out to meet them. They probably fancied Jerry running riot in their mowing, but we had kept him with us under the tree, where the grass had not flourished. When we told them how he came there, they were much interested, and we had a very pleasant chat on his and our own exploits.
We got as near the ocean as possible, by spending the night at Boar’s Head, enjoying the evening with a friend we found there; we divided our attention between the ocean and the stars.
“Of course they will go to Boston,” had been quoted in a letter from home. Well, why not? What could be more charming than a drive along the North Shore from Boar’s Head to Boston? We could see our friends in Newburyport and spend a night in Gloucester, and take again that superb drive through Magnolia, Manchester-by-the-Sea and Beverly Farms, to Salem. And so we did, and from Salem we drove to Swampscott, spending a night most delightfully at the Lincoln House. The heat had been intense, but here it was so cool we put on our jackets and walked the piazza briskly to get warm.
What led us to brave the heat on Crescent Beach the next day we cannot imagine, but to our regret we found ourselves there, watching the whirling horses, and the rollicking bathers, while Jerry had his mid-day rest. A hot drive in the afternoon, with a call in Maplewood on our way to Boston, finished up the day begun so cool at Swampscott.
It was too warm to linger in a city, and we turned towards home, making several calls on the way. We did not follow the old turnpike, but digressed; and found a new place for the last night of our journey. We found old friends in the new place, however; one, a prominent preacher, was in a hammock under an apple tree, with a ponderous book—his definition of Nirvana quite likely.
The small old-fashioned hotel had been modernized and made attractive by colored service and “course” dinners. We were interested to learn that the town has no Queen Anne houses, no telegraph, no telephone, no fire department, no doctor, no minister, and no money-order office within four miles. We will not break faith with the friends who confided all this to us by giving the name of the remarkable place, only sixteen miles from Boston, for they like it just as it is.
We took our last dinner at the Lancaster House, and recognized in the proprietor the quaint old man who kept the hotel in Goffstown, N. H., when we were there several years ago, and who did so much for our comfort. More pleasant meetings with friends, and then we drove to Leominster via Spec Pond, and had a row in the “G. W.” A sunset drive over Rice Hill, which has a charm of its own, that even Mount Washington cannot rival, was a fitting close to our truly delightful journey.
Another six hundred and fifty miles to be added to the several thousands we have driven up and down New England, with now and then a turn in New York State and Canada!