Strange as it may seem to those unused to such aimless wanderings, we went on and on, facing north at every fresh start, and gathering a bright bunch of golden-rod for our carriage each morning, as we walked up the long, sandy hills (no wraps needed now), and winding about such queer, forlorn roads, with fields of burnt stumps and disagreeable marshes on either side, our map “annex” and infallible guide, the Passumpsic, assuring us we were not lost, until one bright morning we drove into Newport, and a “trip by rail” had not even been mentioned.
As we drove leisurely along the main street, taking our first look at Lake Memphremagog, a friend from Boston stepped off the piazza of the hotel and recognized us, as he paused to allow our carriage to pass. When recovered from his surprise, that we had strayed so far from home, he told us he was on his way to meet his family, and pitch his tents on the shores of the lake about twenty miles from Newport, and suggested we should drive to Georgeville, and visit their camp. Now we realized the convenience of having no plans to change, and went directly to inquire about the roads, and secure oats for Charlie, lest we should find none on our way. People generally go by boat, but we were assured we should find good roads. Having learned by experience that “good roads” in Vermont take one up and down such hills as in Massachusetts we should drive many miles to avoid, we asked more particularly about the hills. “Oh! yes, a little hilly, but a good road.” So with minute directions for the lake-shore route, we left our friend to the mercy of the waters, while we traveled by land. We never knew when we crossed the Derby line, for we were absorbed in watching for a turn which would take us near the lake, but we learned after a while that our “lake-shore road” was a mile inland. “A little mite hilly”! We went up and down such hills as we never saw but in dreams, leading our good Charlie, who picked his way very cautiously. At the top of a high hill we found a house, and a little Canadian girl said we could stop there, if we could take care of our horse; she assisted us in unharnessing and arranging a place for Charlie and his oats. We declined kind invitations to go into the house, and spread our blanket under a tree, where we had a fine view of Owl’s Head. Our little friend brought us milk and fruit, and after our lunch we wrote for an hour, then resumed our driving, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the worst hills were yet before us. We met men leading their horses, which encouraged us to feel that our precaution was not feminine timidity. The last hill reminded us of our drive over Hoosac Mountain. We left Newport at 10 A. M., and at 6 P. M. we arrived at the Camperdown House in Georgeville, a quaint Canadian village, feeling as if we had driven or walked one hundred miles, rather than twenty.
We were cordially received at this most homelike of places, and a room was ready for us. Our windows opened on the piazza, which was shaded by a row of cut spruce trees that were replaced by fresh ones occasionally. After supper we strolled down to the boat landing and took a survey of the lake and fine shore scenery. We have not time or space to tell you all we enjoyed while there. We spent the days in “camp” and the nights at the Camperdown, going back and forth in a row-boat, the Nymph, our friend’s steam yacht, or driven at breakneck speed by one of the party who considered those perpendicular hills “good roads.”
Only those who have tried it know the charms of camping. From the time the one whose turn it is goes over the pastures to get the cream for breakfast, until the last one is served to cocoa at night, there is something to do, and that which is work at home becomes pastime on the borders of a lovely lake, with fresh air and good company. We fish with great interest when a dinner depends on our success; then, while the potatoes are boiling is just the time for bathing, after which, the table spread under the overarching trees looks very inviting. When all have helped to clear away and “do up” the dishes, then comes a time to separate for an hour—some to write, some to sleep, and others to read Spanish, English, prose or poetry, according to taste and ability. As the afternoon wears away, some one proposes a sunset row, and so the time too quickly flies. Rainy days have a charm of their own, and all the sympathy for “those people in camp” is wasted.
We shall not soon forget our trip to Magog in the Nymph. There were eight of us that afternoon, and we had a delightful sail. We left the gentlemen to find supplies of wood for our return trip (sometimes we helped saw and carry), while we ladies went shopping. We found a little store where tools, groceries, dry goods, jewelry and confectionery were kept; they had no axe, the only thing we wanted, so we bought lace pins at five cents a pair. The clerk quietly asked if we were going to have a thunder storm, which startled us, and we lost no time in getting back to the boat. Clouds gather rapidly on Lake Memphremagog, and our three hours’ sail looked long. We kept the steam up, and talked about everything but a shower until dark, when we were quiet, and observed, with only casual comment, the clouds which grew blacker and blacker, hiding the stars, and occasionally obscuring a light-house. We watched eagerly for the light we had left on the “Point” to guide us into our little harbor, but the wind had blown it out. One of the party took a row-boat (we had two with us) and went in search of our landing; the rising wind drowned the calls back and forth, but after a few anxious moments, a welcome light glimmered on the shore, and soon we heard the splashing of the oars. It was with difficulty the boat was guided to the Nymph, and just as the last boat-load was leaving her to go ashore, the storm burst in sudden fury over our heads. We rushed to the tents and gave up rowing or riding to the Camperdown that night. After securing the boats, the gentlemen, came in dripping, but quite ready for the lunch prepared by quick hands. We talked it all over as we sipped our cocoa, then separated, and soon were lulled to rest by the pattering of the rain on the canvas, and the distant rumbling thunder.
The next day was Sunday, and we enjoyed every hour of it. At the time appointed we assembled for service. The preacher sat with rubber boots on, and the audience, small but appreciative, were in hammocks and cosy corners. The sermon was good, and the singing, which was congregational, was well sustained. The day was not long enough, for it was our last in camp, and we looked back wishfully as we started off on our last row. We reached the Camperdown just as the sun was setting in gorgeous splendor. Supper was waiting for the “prodigals,” and after we had given an account of ourselves, we went to our room to plan for the morrow.
We decided to go to Newport by water, and, as if to favor our decision, the morning dawned perfect. It had been hazy and yellow for several days, but the veil was lifted. Our friends rowed over to see us aboard the Lady of the Lake, especially Charlie, who objects to water. We sat in the bow, fanned by the soft breezes, recalling just such a day on Lake George, while poor Charlie was frightened and stamping furiously beneath us, evidently thinking some effort on his part was necessary to effect an escape.
As we stood on the wharf at Newport an official-looking person came to us and asked if that was our carriage. We looked inquiringly, and said “Yes.”
“Have you anything you did not carry from the States?”
We now recognized our inquisitor, and answered so promptly, “Oh! no,” that we quite forgot the pins we bought at Magog. Charlie was quite excited, and we allowed him to be led to the stable, while we went to the Memphremagog House for dinner. We wanted to go to Willoughby Lake that afternoon, but we did not anticipate this when we pieced our map, and were now obliged to go in search of a new one. We went first for our mail, which was fresh to us, though a week old, and ordered the letters expected at night returned to St. Johnsbury. We found a little advertising map, then started on seemingly a new journey. Charlie had fared as well as we in Canada, and our twenty miles’ drive was easily accomplished. The glorious sunset and moonrise on Lake Willoughby was a fitting close to the day begun on Lake Memphremagog.