14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

While reading our letters we noticed our horse rested one foot, and as we drove away from the post office, she was a little lame. We had eleven miles of hilly driving before us, and as the lameness increased in the first half mile, we returned to a blacksmith, remembering Charlie and the sand under his shoe, which came near spoiling one journey. Again sand was the trouble, which was remedied by the blacksmith, and once more we started for Munsonville and Granite Lake, for a glimpse of friends from New York, Canada and Texas.

The welcome at Mrs. Guillow’s cottage in the village was cordial, as was promised last year, when we were there at both the beginning and end of our journey. Again we brought a rainy day, and wrote all the morning, as there was not time between showers to drive to our friend’s new studio and cottage, but after dinner we decided to walk the mile and a half round the lake, through the woods, and risk the rain. We surprised our friends as much as we can surprise any one who knows of our wanderings.

After we had enjoyed the lake views from the broad piazza, a fire was built on the hearth for good cheer, in the huge room which was reception-room, dining-room and library, all in one, with couches here and there, bookcases galore, and altogether such a room as we never before saw, but a fulfilment of Thoreau’s description of an ideal living-room in one of his poems. A broad stairway led from this room to the floor above, where every room was airy and delightful, and the floor above this has no end of possibilities. The studio is a small, attractive building by itself.

We started to walk back the other way, making a circuit of the lake, but had not gone far, when a driver with an empty carriage asked us to ride. In the evening two young friends, who were away at a ball game in the afternoon, rowed across to see us.

Never lovelier morning dawned than that first Sunday in July. We should have enjoyed hearing another good Fourth of July sermon by Mr. Radoslavoff as we did last year, but we had already stayed over a day, and must improve this rare morning for the “awful hills” everybody told us were on our way north. So with more promises of hospitality from Mrs. Guillow, an invitation to leave our horse with her neighbor opposite any time, and pleasant words from friends of the students who are attracted to this growing Summer School of Music, we retraced three miles of the lovely Keene road, then up we went, and up some more, then down and up again. We walked the steepest pitches, and the day ended at Bellows Falls as beautiful as it began. We were now in Vermont. Fifth state in ten days!

From Bellows Falls to Rutland by rail is not to be spurned, but by the hilly highways, it is a joy forever. We always anticipate that superb bit of driving through Cavendish Gorge before we reach Ludlow, where once more we enjoyed the comforts of the old Ludlow House, spick and span this time. Then came another perfect day for crossing Mt. Holly of the Green Mountain range, and we chose the rough short cut over the mountain, ignoring the smooth roundabout way for automobiles. Miles of wayside, and whole fields, were radiant with yellow buttercups, white daisies, orange tassel-flower, red and white clover, and ferns. The views are beyond description. We stopped on the summit to give our horse water, and never can resist pumping even if the tub is full. A woman seeing us came from the house bringing a glass, and we made a new wayside acquaintance; and still another when we camped by a brook at the foot, and got milk for our lunch.

We reached Rutland at four o’clock, just as demonstrations for the Fourth were beginning, and once in our room at The Berwick, with three large windows front, we could have fancied we were at Newport, New Hampshire, where we were last year the night before the Fourth. The program of entertainment was fully equal; nothing was missing but the bonfire of barrels. We watched the street panorama until ten o’clock, then examined the fire rope, but concluded a fire was necessary to make one know how to use it, packed our things ready for quick action, and slept serenely.

We waited until the early morning firing was over before we ordered our horse, and then found by some mistake she had had an extra feed of oats, which was quite unnecessary, for the crackers, common and cannon, furnished sufficient stimulus. Clouds were heavy, the wind strong, air cool, and we thought the list of prophecies for that week might be at hand all at once. Singularly, none of them came to pass on the dates given!

When at Bellows Falls, something prompted us to write our Fair Haven friends we were on the way, which we rarely do. Had we not, we would have been disappointed, for we found the house closed. A note pinned on the door, however, we were sure was for us. They were at the Country Club, Bomoseen Lake, for a few days, and asked us to join them there. We first called on the cousin from New York State, whose address was given, and whom we had not seen in many years. She gave us direction for the four miles’ beautiful drive to the lake, and as we followed its lovely shores to the Country Club, we recalled how many times we had read on the trolley posts from Rutland, “Go to Bomoseen.” We say to all who have the chance, “Go to Bomoseen.”

All the Fair Haven cousins were there, the “Michigan Subscriber” too, and for another surprise, our cousin, the story-writer, who had just finished a book. After a row on the lake, we returned to the Country Club piazza over the bluff, to enjoy the exquisite views of the hills on the opposite shore—mountains, we called them—until we were called to the tempting supper served by the caretaker and presiding genius of the culinary department. He was unceasing in his attention, even to the lemonade served at a late hour, after the fireworks were over, and the literary works compared, as we watched the lake by moonlight from the piazza, or sat by the open fire. Vermont was now represented on our list.