PAMELIA TEWKSBURY’S COURTSHIP.
In a certain section of Central New York the contour of the hills forms a remarkable resemblance to a huge pitcher, and by this name the region has long been known.
A few years since my husband and I, with a young son, took a delightful outing through that locality. Having our own horses and carriage, we made a very leisurely journey, aiming always for a comfortable resting place at night, and bearing away with us each morning a hamper containing luncheon for ourselves and a bag of oats for the ponies. Thus equipped, we traversed the distance to our next lodging according to our daily whim; picnicking at noon, in true gypsy fashion, beneath some pine trees, or beside a rippling stream; turning from coffee and sandwiches to a delicious course of “Humorous Sketches,” or a siesta upon pine boughs.
Many comical adventures had we. It was difficult to convince the country people, who often stopped to chat with us, that this was recreation. They invariably demanded a legitimate reason for such unusual proceedings, and more than one inquiring visitor searched the light vehicle for some wares that he had “made sure” we were peddling.
Genuine offers of hospitality were not wanting, and many a pedestrian found a seat in the comfortable little carriage.
It so happened one morning that my husband was somewhat bewildered by the conjunction of several roads, and seeing in advance of us a sturdy figure moving forward at a good pace we hurried to overtake it. At the sound of approaching wheels, and the words “My friend, can thee tell me just where Pitcher lies?” a genial countenance was turned toward us.
“Wal, I reckon, this here,” indicating the abrupt hills just before us, “is the handle. What part be ye looking fer?”
He had a ruddy face, very grizzly as to beard, and when he removed his weather-worn hat his smooth, bald crown, with a fringe of white curls, seemed an unfit accompaniment for the twinkling eyes of deep blue—such eyes as one sometimes sees in babies, wholly undimmed by care or tears.
“Why, I really don’t know,” laughed my husband; “I was directed to Hosmer’s Inn.”