We Discover New England 
 
THE BATTLE MONUMENT, OLD BENNINGTON 
 
We Discover 
 
 New England 
 
 By Louise Closser Hale 
 
 Drawings by Walter Hale 
 
 New York: Dodd, Mead 
 & Company Publishers 1915 
 
■hi 17 
 
 Copyright, 1915, bt 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 Copyright, 1915, by 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 CI, A 4 1 6 3 3 8 
 
 ICl/ II Ibjb 
 
Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAOK 
 
 I "PLENTY OF ROOM IN THE BACK" ... 1 
 II THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY ... 8 
 
 III ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 28 
 
 IV AMONG THE HILLS AND COLONIAL TRADI- 
 
 TIONS 45 
 
 V I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS AND THE ILLUS- 
 TRATOR DISCOVERS A JOKE .... 73 
 
 VI CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 101 
 
 VII SCENERY EVERYWHERE, ESPECIALLY "WITH 
 
 THE TOP DOWN" 132 
 
 VIII ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD WITH THE 
 
 WHITE MOUNTAINS ON AHEAD . . . .155 
 
 IX MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 180 
 
 X LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 200 
 
 XI DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST . . . .222 
 
 XII THE NORTH SHORE AND THE BREECHES 
 
 BIBLE 242 
 
 XIII AMONG THE PURITANS 262 
 
 XIV A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN . . .281 
 
Illustrations 
 
 THE BATTLE MONUMENT, OLD BENNINGTON Frontispiece 
 
 PACING 
 PAaE 
 
 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 14, 
 
 THE SUNKEN POOL, WESTCHESTER COUNTY . . 32 
 
 A COUNTRY HOUSE AT LENOX 54 
 
 THE CHURCH THROUGH THE TREES, WILLIAMS- 
 TOWN 68 
 
 THE MILL POND, SOUTH SHAFTESBURY .... 84 
 
 A GARDEN AT CORNISH 116 
 
 FROM THE HOTEL ROOF GARDEN, BURLINGTON . 150 
 THE ROAD TO THE EAST THROUGH THE WINOOSKI 
 
 VALLEY, VERMONT 164 
 
 THE OLD TOWN OF ST. JOHNSBURY 174 
 
 CRAWFORD NOTCH 186 
 
 POLAND SPRING 212 
 
 THE LONGFELLOW HOME, PORTLAND . . . .218 
 
 NEARING PORTSMOUTH HARBOR 230 
 
 A DOORWAY, NEWBURYPORT 238 
 
 DRYING OUT SAIL, GLOUCESTER 250 
 
 PARK STREET, BOSTON 260 
 
 THE COURT HOUSE AT TAUNTON 268 
 
 A BIT OF THE SHORE LINE AT NEWPORT . . .278 
 CENTER CHURCH, NEW HAVEN GREEN . . . .302 
 THE ROYAL JAMES INN, NORWALK 310 
 
 MAP OF THE ROUTE FROM NEW YORK THROUGH 
 THE BERKSHIRES TO LAKE CHAMPLAIN, EAST 
 TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS AND DOWN THE 
 COAST FROM PORTLAND TO THE SOUND ... 1 
 
We Discover New England 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 *' Plenty of Boom in the Bach'* 
 
 Preparations for a motor trip go through three 
 l^hases: the packing of too little, of too much, and 
 just enough. 
 
 In those days prior to the start — those ecstatic 
 days of picking routes and poring over maps on 
 the dining-room table (the air heavy with " look 
 out, you're tearing it," or " fold it in its creases ") 
 — the man of the party asks the woman of it, 
 severely, just how much baggage she must carry. 
 
 And he is pleased when she tells him, proving 
 her effort to confine herself to essentials. Some- 
 times a dress rehearsal is held and everything goes 
 into the automobile trunk with room to spare. "Of 
 course," she says to him after he has praised her, 
 " I must have a bag for bottles on the outside." 
 
 He grants that, for he must have a suitcase — 
 and there is the chauffeur's bag. But they com- 
 fort themselves that there is plenty of room in 
 the back. 
 
 " Plenty of room in the back " has rhythm to 
 it, which is advantageous if one were to set it 
 
"PLENTY OF ROOM IN THE BACK" 
 
 to music and make a pathetic song of it, but dan- 
 gerous to keep running through one's head when 
 the packing begins. 
 
 It is amazing how quicldy an automobile trunk 
 fills up when it was comparatively empty at the 
 dress rehearsal. But then, in our case, the shoes 
 had been forgotten. I could stop talking about 
 motoring right here and fill the rest of the book 
 with what I think of shoes, if my publisher would 
 permit. 
 
 Shoes are as hard as the heart of a coquette. 
 They are harder, for in time the coquette's heart 
 will become worn and pliable — like a beefsteak 
 beaten into tenderness. But no matter how old and 
 worn a shoe may become, it never gives in an inch. 
 
 I argued with the Illustrator's shoes as I was 
 endeavoring to poke them into crevasses better 
 fitted to hold a shaving brush. They were so 
 ancient that they were not valuable to him, they 
 were already trembling on the brink of being 
 given to the elevator boy, and I told them, unless 
 they made some concession and " let in " a little, 
 they could not make the trip through New Eng- 
 land with us. Still they did not let in a lift of 
 the heel. 
 
 Even so, I think I could have crowded them 
 
 down had not W at the last moment, while 
 
 my back was turned, throAvn in something hastily. 
 
"PLENTY OF ROOM IN THE BACK" 
 
 Something that made a louder noise than he had 
 expected, for I turned back and discovered that 
 the few corners left, which I have reserved for 
 evening gowns, were replete with golf balls. 
 
 And whatever I have said about the grievous 
 footgear goes double in reference to those white 
 implacable marbles. Not content with the refusal 
 to compress, the golf balls refuse also to remain 
 in any fixed place. They creep up shirt sleeves 
 and roll out of trousers and pop at you from 
 handkerchief cases without ever crying " fore," or 
 exhibiting any sportsmanlike propensities. 
 
 I remember once sending a large rubber plant 
 to the florist's for the summer, and receiving, 
 when the autumn came, a small miserable affair 
 which the man claimed was mine. And when I 
 exclaimed over the condition of the plant, I recall 
 his contention that it was a rubber plant, and very 
 apt to shrink. But golf balls will not do this, 
 and it is an everlasting wonder to me that they 
 are selected for their extreme elasticity. 
 
 Since there was " plenty of room in the back," 
 however, we managed to get all the starched 
 clothes into the trunk, and such parti-coloured gar- 
 ments as might occasion comment if we hung 
 them over the brass rail originally designed for 
 lugs. 
 
 And at last the tremulous morning arrived 
 
"PLENTY OF ROOM IN THE BACK" 
 
 when we were to make the start. The car was 
 before the door, the trunk sat upon and strapped, 
 and mysterious creatin-es began going down in 
 the elevator — creatures of action, although there 
 was no evidence of legs or heads, only two arms 
 encircling masses of coats and sweaters and rugs, 
 while they bumped along on the floor two bags 
 of golf clubs. When the woolly procession 
 reached the pavement, the arms relaxed, gar- 
 ments were shed upon the grass plot, and the 
 faces of the cook, the Illustrator, and myself once 
 more saw the light of day. 
 
 Our chauffeur, a dressy young man, had added 
 his suitcase to the impedimenta — a very large 
 suitcase — and was caught in the act of tying a 
 second bag to the tool chest with odd pieces of 
 string. He admitted that it was his other hat, 
 and at this commendable effort to make a good 
 appearance I offered him a place in the circular 
 hatbox, which was strapped into the tires on the 
 other side the auto. 
 
 Both W and I had extra headgear, I gen- 
 erously sharing the box with him, for it had been 
 a present to me with the understanding that it 
 was for my hats — and my hats alone. 
 
 Since it was my hatbox, it was unreasonable 
 in him to make objections to inserting the chauf- 
 feur's derby. And when I finally overcame his 
 
"PLENTY OF ROOM IN THE BACK" 
 
 prejudices he urged me to take a trip on the 
 elevator while he opened the box himself. And 
 this so aroused my suspicions that I was quite 
 prepared for what I discovered twisted among our 
 millinery. 
 
 They were inner-tubes, many of them, tubes 
 that had refused to go under the seat, and had 
 been given this place of honour probably when I 
 was masked by the coats and rugs. The chauf- 
 feur had assisted him gladly in this overt act, 
 but was now extremely anxious to get the tubes 
 out, so that they would not crush his derby. 
 
 He was about to suggest that there was Plenty 
 of Room in the Back for the tires, but the words 
 froze in his throat as his eyes fell upon that com- 
 modious quarter, where we were to harbour such 
 things as would not go in the trunk. 
 
 The elevator and telephone attendants had been 
 engaged upon throwing in the bags and wraps 
 while we were not looking (unmindful of loud, 
 persistent ringing at their posts of duty), and 
 their task completed, we saw no evidence of back 
 seat, or any space between, or any brass rail. 
 
 Only a mountain of fuzzy things, a few um- 
 brella heads, and the gleam of leather bags met 
 our gaze. On the top of the mountain perched 
 my typewriter, and this I immediately seized. It 
 was plain to all assembled that there was no use 
 
 -e-5 •+- 
 
" PLENTY OF ROOM IN THE BACK " 
 
 in the typewriter going along if I couldn't go. 
 And it was just as plain that I couldn't go if 
 all these wraj^s were to take the trip. 
 
 W was very fond of some of his coats, and 
 
 he might have given them preference had it not 
 been necessary for me to accomj^any him in order 
 to write tliis book. (Although, as he is saying 
 now, looking over my shoulder, if I am going to 
 spend so much time on ourselves and so little 
 on the route and the historical interest along the 
 way no one will want the book anyway. 
 And I have had to promise him to begin shortly 
 to speak of these things.) But I must confess 
 that he behaved very handsomely about the dis- 
 carding of his effects. 
 
 Stimulated by his unselfishness, I too raked 
 out a scarlet coat, a foot muff, a lace parasol, a 
 fur stole — everything, indeed, but my warm 
 sweater, a raincoat, the jacket of my suit, and 
 the duster I was wearing. The Illustrator was 
 correspondingly sacrificial, and for a summer's 
 trip, even through the White Mountains, we 
 found this quite sufficient. 
 
 It would seem that we were about to start. 
 On our previous motoring experiences, limited — 
 if one can use the word — to traversing Europe, 
 there was a formula of inquiry that prefaced each 
 day's run: 
 
 -4-6"*- 
 
" PLENTY OF ROOM IN THE BACK " 
 
 *' Have you got the Baedeker? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Have you got the dictionary?'* 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Got the international pass?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "The Letter of Credit?" 
 
 "Oh, ijes." 
 
 " Well then, we'll go on." 
 
 To-day, as a matter of habit, he again paused 
 before letting in the clutch. But he had need of 
 no such anxious preface to our run. And, quite 
 unexpectedly, we found the hush of the moment a 
 thrilling one. For the first time we were going 
 into our own country. Going into it " for better 
 or worse," like a marriage ceremony. With 
 something of the shyness of a bride and groom 
 walking down the church aisle, we left the altar 
 of our home — and swept into the unknown. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 The Washington Irving Country 
 
 There are two ways of getting out of New York 
 into New England, and whichever road you 
 choose, friends will say you had better have 
 taken the other. 
 
 That is the worst of friends. They combat 
 you at every turn, and because they are friends 
 you have to call their efforts kindly when they 
 are purely officious. They will also tell you what 
 to do after you have started, the best roads, the 
 best hotels, and, if they are New Yorkers, the 
 quickest way of getting back to the city. It is 
 amazing how a man will pick a bad road and 
 declare it is good for the reason that he has gone 
 over it. One would think his automobile was a 
 steam-roller. 
 
 One is not a prey to friends alone in the pick- 
 ing of a tour. Every hotel brochure in every part 
 of the country can choose for you a succession 
 of good roads that, by some curious circumstance, 
 lead directly to the hotel advertised. 
 
 You can take either one of the two ways of 
 getting out of New York, you can go miles in 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 tlie opposite direction from the hotel, yet there 
 are maps in the brochure to prove that you can 
 cross country, jump stone fences, ford brooks, 
 and, with the greatest ease, end in that hostelry 
 for the night. Indeed, there is no other place on 
 the map where one can stop. It is amazing to 
 unfold a large crackling piece of paper dotted with 
 towns, and find all roads leading, like a spider's 
 web, to the single hotel which our vast country 
 affords. I know of one fat spider (i.e., hotel 
 proprietor) who can produce no way of either 
 going or coming from New England save past 
 his house. 
 
 I would advise laying aside the pamphlets 
 issued by a single hostelry, or a combination of 
 them. Rather, decide upon what you want to 
 see, buy road maps, compiled by the automobile 
 associations, be guided by their advice as to your 
 stopping-places, or, better, motor till you are 
 tired, and take your chance at the inn. Auto- 
 mobiling, remember, is a sport, and we are short 
 sports if we do not take long chances. 
 
 We chose our route for the reason that it 
 comprised as great a diversity of scenery as one 
 could find in any clime, and all of it compressed 
 in a much smaller area than any other country 
 could offer. It should make a particular appeal 
 to the automobilists, for it can be done quickly. 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 as a purely motoring stunt, or slowly, as a sum- 
 mer vacation. 
 
 In ten days, or less or more, one can enjoy 
 the mighty Hudson, sweep through the fashion- 
 able Berkshire hills, peep into the lives of the 
 Vermont and New Hampshire farmers, fish on 
 Lake Champlain, trace his finger on the snow 
 caps of the White Mountains, drink the waters 
 of Poland Spring, rough it in the Maine woods, 
 enjoy the magnificent living of the North Shore 
 residents of Massachusetts, and brush the cob- 
 webs out of his brain in Boston. From here he 
 can leave cards at Newport, visit the haven of 
 all yachts, New London, and return through the 
 lovely placid country of Connecticut. As the 
 English would now say, having adopted our slang 
 as we relinquish it, this is some trip. 
 
 Then there is the historical interest. The Illus- 
 trator was very keen to polish up on history. He 
 has several Colonial Dames in his family, and at 
 various reunions he has sat apart while the glories 
 of his ancestors were sung. He was strong on 
 foreign events. 
 
 " He knew the great uncle of Moses, 
 And the dates of the Wars of the Roses/' 
 
 But he dared not express himself freely concern- 
 ing the battle of Valley Forge in the fear of 
 
 -j-10-<- 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 confusing it with that of Bull Run. And he felt 
 that motoring, and possibly golfing, over a beau- 
 tiful country was as pleasant an arrangement 
 for one acquiring historical knowledge as could 
 be devised. 
 
 The American schoolboys have the advantage 
 over those of Europe, for the reason that the 
 history of our country is more limited, owing 
 to its youth. Only the other day an English 
 woman was commenting upon the Tricentenary 
 celebration of New York City. She said London 
 paid no attention to its birthdays. But London 
 is like a woman with too many years to encourage 
 confession. 
 
 Yet it is something to muse upon, is it not, that 
 history began with Adam and Eve, and the very 
 rock upon which our New York apartment sits 
 has been the scene of a panorama of events 
 which would be worth the agony of committing, 
 had the historians, in the days of the dino- 
 saur, safeguarded their records in Carnegie 
 libraries. 
 
 Happily for the small American boy he can 
 hammer 1492 into his brain, and hop with glad 
 free grace from that date to the early part of 
 the seventeenth century when the Pilgrim Fathers, 
 aided by the French, Spanish, and Dutch Set- 
 tlers, began pressing the Indians westward, and 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 lajang the cornerstone, all unwittinglj^ of the 
 Wool worth Building. 
 
 The Illustrator did not expect history to be- 
 gin as soon as it did. He hoped to get as far 
 as Yonkers, perhaps, enjoying the run along 
 the river with no strain on his intellect beyond 
 telling the chauffeur, who knew it already, that 
 the glorified cheese-box, at the head of Riverside 
 Drive, was Grant's Tomb. 
 
 But I surprised him before we had left Fifth 
 Avenue by the suggestion that we turn into the 
 Park to stop at McGowan's Pass Tavern for edu- 
 cational purposes. 
 
 One does not, as a rule, stop there for that 
 reason. Yet the Tavern, originally built in 1750, 
 was a famous inn, and a favourite resort for fox 
 hunters after a meet. JNIore than that, it was as 
 good a place for definitelj^ beginning a tour as 
 we could find. The old Post Road ran through 
 the Pass, and there was a great tooting of horns 
 when stagecoaches and hunters met. The toot- 
 ing continues to this day, but the honk is not 
 the same, and any confusion in the traffic is regu- 
 lated by a beautiful blue cop, who could tell you 
 all the wrongs of Ireland, but would not recog- 
 nise a Revolutionary uniform if George Wash- 
 ington himself climbed the steps of the Tavern to 
 order a bowl of punch. 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 Yet authority compensates for a lack of imagi- 
 nation. A policeman always fills me with awe, 
 and I am pleased, but surprised, when I find 
 under his proud buttons that a warm heart is 
 beating. We were just sweeping out of the 
 Park at the Hundred and Tenth Street gate, 
 the roadway quite full of vehicles, when the 
 majestic hand of One of the Finest was hastily 
 lifted. 
 
 In response there was such a jamming down 
 of brakes that all the cars were slanted, heads 
 were stuck out of limousines, and necks craned 
 from tonneaus to see what lord of creation was 
 about to cross the wa5\ It was only a squirrel, 
 a little grey squirrel hopping over while mil- 
 lionaires awaited its leisure. 
 
 Every one laughed and was happy. The 
 driver behind us, who had nearly run into our 
 car, not being timely with his brakes, hoped he 
 had not hurt our lamp. And we, in turn, prayed 
 we had not scratched his mud-guard. And there 
 sprung into our hearts a fellowship for the other 
 fellows in the road which was more valuable for 
 an extended tour than all the maps of Yankee- 
 dom. 
 
 We followed the river drive for its beauty, turn- 
 ing into Broadway only when Lafayette Boule- 
 vard, arguing that we had seen enough of the Pali- 
 
 -?-13-!- 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 sades, took us willy-nilly back to the direct route. 
 Yet there is one more divergence, for at Two Hun- 
 dred and Thirtieth Street, if one wishes, one can 
 turn from Broadway again and strike the River- 
 dale road, which leads straight to Yonkers. 
 
 Now that we were on Broadway we clung to 
 it rather tremulously, as it stood for the city 
 which we were quitting. Not that we had left 
 but the heart of it, for its long extended arms are 
 growing like a schoolgirl's. The development of 
 a town is ever of interest. When it is booming 
 the suburbs are on the aggressive. They are 
 eating up the country with pert little houses, and 
 the fields creep back in fear. Let the boom burst 
 and watch the earth reclaim its lost ground. The 
 houses of the suburbs lose their colour — their grip. 
 Weeds grow in the roadways, and the whole town 
 takes on the air of a poor old woman with shrink- 
 ing petticoats. 
 
 There is nothing shrinking about New York. 
 I should think that it would be Albany which 
 would feel some apprehension. The metropolis 
 is a natural foe to the open country and behaves 
 so badly to the trees in our parks that the leaves 
 never turn red — simply gasp and fall. 
 
 Van Cortlandt Park deceives us into thinking 
 that we are out in the open, and we say good-bye 
 to the underground, which is very wonderfully 
 

 
 <^c 
 
 
 
 
 
 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 running over our heads. But, oh, dear no! New 
 York will not leave us yet. INIore prosperous 
 apartment houses spring up, fencing in small 
 dilapidated farmhouses, which peep out between 
 the interstices with a squeezed look of pain. 
 
 I told the Illustrator that Broadway, before it 
 developed into the Albany Post Road, had been 
 an Indian trail. As I spoke a young blood in 
 a high-powered car cut across us without apology, 
 
 and at this W said it was an Indian trail 
 
 still. We only hoped he would continue in his 
 speed as far as Yonkers, which is a staid town 
 with a stern policeman. 
 
 The policeman, while severe, is polite, as he 
 should be in Yonkers, for the word is a corrup- 
 tion of Yonk-Herr, which me^ns Young Gentle- 
 man. We drew alongside him to ask where was 
 
 the Philipse Manor House. Rather, while W 
 
 was asking where it was, I was poking him in 
 the back and insisting that we need not ask, as 
 we had passed it a hundred times. The officer 
 did not confuse us with directions, as he admitted 
 he had never heard of it, although he had a feel- 
 ing that it was not far. Indeed, it was not far, 
 it was just behind him, fooling the young Irish- 
 man completely under the name of the Town 
 Hall. 
 
 We got out to examine the Hall, for we felt 
 -^ 15 -?- 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 that if there was anything in Yonkers beyond 
 hospitable friends whom we have visited from 
 time to time it was well to know about it. I 
 did not learn until a call at the library for further 
 researches that one of the largest books in the 
 world has been written about Yonkers. I did not 
 read it all, but I learned that the cry of the 
 Indian tribe, who often came up from New York, 
 was, 
 
 "Wouch, Wouch, Ha, Ha, Hach, Wouch." 
 
 This interested me, for it was not spelled in 
 any way like the sound that we, as children, play- 
 ing Indians, managed to produce by patting our 
 hands against our mouth. And I was whispering 
 the battle-cry earnestly as I sat in the quiet read- 
 ing-room, when a card was handed to me by an 
 attendant civilly requesting my silence. 
 
 I hastened away in embarrassment, for I must 
 have been very ridiculous with a large respectable 
 book of Yonkers before me, aspirating, " Wouch, 
 Wouch, Ha, Ha, Hach, Wouch," as though I 
 were at college. 
 
 Nor have I yet found a corner in New York 
 sufficiently noisy to cover up any further practice 
 of the yell. The nearest approach to complete 
 noise is a subway station with two locals and two 
 expresses passing at once. But even then I was 
 
TPIE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 not successful, for a kindly old lady interpreted 
 my first " Wouch " as ouch, and asked if she 
 could help me. 
 
 As I said several paragraphs back, we got out 
 to view the old manor and to look at the soldiers' 
 monument in front of it. It is astonishing how 
 much time we spend staring at monuments when 
 we are travelling, and how indifferent we are to 
 those that grow at our doorstep. With a few 
 exceptions I would advise one good look at the 
 first soldiers' monument and let that serve for the 
 rest of the trip. 
 
 This one, like many of the others, consisted 
 of figures carrying guns and mattlasses, eager to 
 mow down Yonkers at a moment's notice, while, 
 underneath, ran an earnest plea for peace. Ah, 
 well! This complete armament, with the uncon- 
 scious irony of tender mottos beneath, is not in- 
 consistent with the year 1914. 
 
 We peeped through the windows of the Town 
 Hall and were confounded by an array of sewing 
 machines about the walls. The rooms were locked 
 at the time and there was no one about to tell 
 us how the machines happened to be there. I 
 am not sure that I want to know, for as it stands 
 now in my mind, the Town Council is composed 
 of able women busily making over laws and re- 
 ducing rents by sewing them up. 
 
 -?-17-!- 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 W said this was ridiculous, and he hoped 
 
 I would not " put it in," but he was not in the 
 best of humour, for I had refused to be photo- 
 graphed standing on the Manor House porch, as 
 though it belonged to me, and he thought I was 
 very disobliging. I knew that I would never 
 permit the film to exist for any length of time, for 
 I did not like my hat, and while he contended 
 that it was his camera, I retorted that it was my 
 face. 
 
 This camera subject is not matter extraneous 
 to a motor trip. No automobile is complete with- 
 out one, and the hour may come when the photo- 
 graphic apparatus accompanies every car pur- 
 chased. I have known a party to go round the 
 world with no other evident purpose than that 
 of choosing a varied background to be photo- 
 graphed against. " Here I am," said one strip- 
 ling, " and here is Napoleon's Tomb." 
 
 But we must get on, for we are now striking 
 stretches of wide lawn, and the joy of the road is 
 beginning to permeate us. Not the joy of getting 
 anywhere, but the pure happiness of swift motion. 
 It is the region of great estates, where one can 
 breathe deeply without the fear of anything but the 
 most old-fashioned of country germs entering the 
 lungs. These stately country places are not un- 
 friendly in appearance, although earnest notices are 
 
 -hl8-i~ 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 tacked over the gatewaj'^s that the grounds are not 
 open to automobilists. One fears that the manners 
 of the travelling motor are not always of the best. 
 Yet the owners are in sympathy with the travel- 
 lers on the road, for along one stretch the tele- 
 graph poles are stained a soft green to tone in 
 with the trees and carry out nature's colour 
 scheme. 
 
 Some of the mansions of Hastings, Dobbs 
 Ferry , Tarrytown, and beyond are given over 
 to private schools. I remember reading their 
 pamphlets, when I was a girl in the West, and 
 feeling the impressiveness of going to an abode 
 of learning in the heart of Washington Irving's 
 country. What would the fashionable schools 
 have done without that estimable writer! 
 
 I have noticed of late that they do not parade 
 him as they once did, but this is a mistake if the 
 pamphlets are calculated to touch the Middle 
 West. Washington Irving is still read in In- 
 dianapolis, Ind., and Granada, Spain. We prefer 
 the legend of Sleepy Hollow in the Hoosier State, 
 but Spain is true to the Alhamhra, and a copy 
 decorates every Spanish parlour table, like the 
 plush-covered photograph album. 
 
 A little north of Tarrytown lies the region of 
 Sleepy Hollow, although I have heard this com- 
 bated by a very fashionable and young man, who 
 
 -i-19-»- 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 said Sleej^y Hollow was a golf club and high on 
 a hill. 
 
 This was the region of Ichabod Crane, who 
 ** tarried " to teach the young idea how to shoot. 
 I can remember Irving's Sketch-Book but 
 vaguely, although it should be re-read before 
 going into this part of the country. But I have 
 always felt toward Ichabod, with his long arms 
 dangling from his short sleeves, a joassionate pity. 
 There was a tragic year, as a child, when I shot 
 beyond my clothes in every direction, and I know 
 how it feels for hands to dangle miles from a 
 friendly cuff. 
 
 The bridge of the headless horseman has been 
 done over in neat grey stone by Mr. Rockefeller. 
 It had grown very shaky, due no doubt to the 
 ghostly rider crossing it every night " faster than 
 a trot." Still I wish Mr. Rockefeller hadn't. 
 On the slope on the right of the bridge is a 
 
 cemetery, where Irving lies buried. W 
 
 wished to take a photograph of this gentle acre, 
 but being nearsighted, first snapped the monu- 
 ment works next door. And if any sketch appears 
 in this work of the lovely old cemetery it is only 
 fair to warn the reader of his original ins])ira- 
 tion. 
 
 On the left of the bridge another manor house 
 rises charmingly from a fair acre. Like the one 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 at Tarrytown it was also built by the Philipse 
 family in the seventeenth century. I had to learn 
 at dinner the other night from a fine old gentle- 
 man, who came of Dutch stock, that these 
 Philipses were the nouveaux riches of this locality, 
 buying their way into society and upholding the 
 Crown when the United States made its fight for 
 freedom. 
 
 As a result of this their lands were confiscated, 
 and the name Philipse hid its shame by degrees 
 of corruption into just plain Philips — with whom 
 you probably have acquaintance, and who do not 
 know till this day that they are traitors. 
 
 The proprietor of the Florence Inn, in Tarry- 
 town, where we stopped for luncheon, believed 
 that the manor by the headless horseman's bridge 
 would be the best proposition for a roadhouse in 
 the vicinity. W and I, being the most tem- 
 peramental and inept business couple in the world, 
 thought we had better buy a license and open the 
 establishment that afternoon. Our enthusiasm 
 cooled after we had paid for our luncheon, feeling 
 that there would not be enough money left for a 
 manor house and a trip to New England. 
 
 So we passed hurriedly on over the County 
 House road, which leads directly out of the right 
 from Tarrytown, with the great Kensico Dam 
 ahead of us, as our next prospective investment. 
 
 -i-21-«- 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 One cannot mistake the County House road, 
 for it is indeed Over the Hills to the Poorhouse. 
 The hills are poorer than the House, however, 
 which is as shining as a Dutch doorknob. Di- 
 rectly across is a corner fenced off from a farm- 
 yard, making a triangular piece which faces two 
 roads. There is the inspiring sign above it, 
 " Horses Broke to Automobiles." The small 
 space was crowded with bored-looking colts pay- 
 ing no attention to us and prancing only when a 
 strange-looking thing, once known as a surrey, 
 came along. 
 
 I have observed that chickens are not as foolish 
 over approaching motors as they once were, and 
 sometimes stay on the same side of the street; 
 dogs are certainly wiser, and I see no reason 
 why colts cannot be bred, in time, with a full 
 consciousness that the automobile is a friend to 
 relieve them of cruel labour, and not a snorting 
 monster seeking to devour. 
 
 The Illustrator, when I leaned over and ex- 
 pounded this, said it was foolish, and he hoped 
 we would reach the Kensico Dam before it was 
 too late to photograph. I think he planned for 
 me to be standing by it with a small trowel in my 
 hand. But I was very firm about this, and he 
 sketched the bridge instead. 
 
 The Kensico Dam is to Westchester County 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 what Gatum Dam is to Panama. To me it 
 appeared quite as enormous and very awful — in 
 the real sense of the word. 
 
 Possibly this was because we ran down under- 
 neath into that hollow which will some day be 
 a reservoir. It is a great lonesome tract of 
 country, but sparsely occupied now by home- 
 steaders, who are clinging as long as they can to 
 the condemned property. But the houses have 
 an unstable air, and the sketch was so long in the 
 making that I grew timorous myself. What if 
 the waters should come tumbling in, and we could 
 never go upon our trip. How unfortunate it 
 would be to our friends in New York if, by the 
 long arm of circumstance, we should be forced 
 through their water-pipes some morning and 
 spoil their morning bath. 
 
 I was glad to return to the fine highway, 
 where, aided by plentiful sign-posts and some in- 
 quiries, we struck the Armonk road, which leads 
 to Old Bedford. Here again we found great 
 estates, with gently rounded hills for a vista, in 
 place of the stretch of the Hudson. It is a 
 sinuous way and one must drive carefully. I can 
 imagine the upsets the stagecoaches of old were 
 subject to, when they went bumping over the 
 ruts that have now given place to fine macadam. 
 
 Old Bedford was the first stopping-place for 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 the night of the stagecoaches headed for Vermont. 
 This is thirty-eight miles from New York and a 
 fair run for horses over roads either good or 
 
 poor. A connection of W 's, by the name of 
 
 Vandervoort, owned this line of " Flying Char- 
 iots," and out of respect for his memory his de- 
 scendant hoped to find an old tavern on the 
 village green, where he could descend as did the 
 passengers, and drink to his memory. 
 
 It was a thin excuse to my mind and I was 
 glad the exclusiveness of Old Bedford's summer 
 residents has discouraged hotels. There was only 
 a humble place which would have been known as 
 an Ordinary in coaching days, but as we were 
 to spend the night with friends not far from the 
 scene, it would be as well not to be discovered 
 wiping one's mouth while issuing from a pub. 
 
 Our run for the day was not much greater than 
 the stagecoaches', but they started at dawn, and 
 owing to the struggle with superfluous garments, 
 it was nearly noon when we left. Indeed, the 
 readers, who motor, will find that our mileage 
 would be more limited than theirs — partly the 
 result of making sketches and of endeavouring 
 to force me into being photographed in an un- 
 becoming hat. 
 
 This visiting of the county folk en auto is as 
 near a revival of the days before the steam and 
 
 -f-24-e- 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 rail as we can institute. And the roads of West- 
 chester County near the tea-hour are flashing with 
 cars, all intent upon getting to other homes than 
 their own. Like ours, baggage-laden motors twist 
 around the lakes on the Cross River road, and 
 endeavour to pick out from a distance the especial 
 roof which is to afford a hospitable shelter for 
 the night. 
 
 One cannot always tell a host by his house 
 tree. Having picked a wrong one we rolled up 
 a wide driveway and were before the house ere 
 the mistake was made plain. The butler, who 
 came out to greet us, was also in a state of con- 
 fusion, as his family were expecting guests, and 
 made forcible efforts to carry off my typewriter 
 under the impression that it was a jewel-box. 
 
 He said we were expected and we doubtless 
 would have gained our bedrooms had not a 
 hostess, strange to us, happened to stray in from 
 the tennis court. 
 
 In this — to me — very pleasant fashion of leav- 
 ing guests to themselves, there is no particular 
 
 reason why W and I could not have remained 
 
 deceived and deceptive until we rustled down to 
 dinner, like polite burglars. There are the possi- 
 bilities of a play in this, and I shall go no 
 further for the benefit of others. 
 
 With typewriter restored, we tried another hill, 
 -J- 25 -J- 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 which possessed more staying qualities. The dogs, 
 the host, and the children were about, the trunk 
 was dusted and brought upstairs, and our chauf- 
 feur, having firmly removed his dress hat, passed 
 out of vision until the morning. 
 
 I often wonder if the chauffeur of America 
 does not find his position trying. He is neither 
 flesh nor fowl, nor good red herring. He is 
 superior to the maids and men servants, yet, by 
 education — for we should have no other standards 
 in our country — he is inferior to his employers. 
 Therefore, if he cannot sit at his master's mental 
 table he is uneasy at his material one. 
 
 To depart from this figure of speech there are 
 many occasions upon motoring wanderings when 
 there is only one table for all of us to sit at. 
 And at such a long board we have made many 
 a pleasant meal, for the accommodating spirit is 
 a good travelling asset. Conventions I take it 
 should be but Conveniences, and we are always 
 doing the " Right thing," when we are doing 
 the simplest. 
 
 I remember a night spent in a small inn in the 
 Pyrenees. At the long table with us were a 
 French nobleman and family, with their chauffeur, 
 footman, and a lady's-maid. And I know nothing 
 more charming than the fashion in which the old 
 marquis would explain now and then, in the 
 
THE WASHINGTON IRVING COUNTRY 
 
 French tongue, to his employees, that which we 
 were discussing in English. 
 
 Motoring is the blue blood of travelling. Blue 
 blood is true democracy. Ergo: motoring is 
 democracy — see to it. 
 
 We were talking of our duties to humanity 
 during the evening until we became guiltily con- 
 scious that the servants would as soon as not turn 
 out the lights and go to bed. It is so easy to 
 make rules for good conduct and so difficult to 
 follow them. 
 
 The moon was full, and from my bedroom I 
 could see a sunken pool below me, with a leafy 
 tree reflected in its still depths. Beyond, the 
 gentle hills rose into the sky. It would seem a 
 very comfortable place to spend a summer vaca- 
 tion, as our host had suggested. But between 
 the hills and sunken pool, at the foot of the 
 sloping garden, lay a white sinuous invitation to 
 go on. It was a luring stretch of macadam, and 
 I leaned far out, that my eyes might follow the 
 road — the road — the road! 
 
 27 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 On to the Berkshires 
 
 The Illustrator has ever been stern regarding 
 the morning start: it should not be too early. 
 Never caring for worms, the story of the bird's 
 reward leaves him cold. 
 
 Once upon a time, in Sicily, where I was tour- 
 ing alone with an intrepid lady, we took our 
 coffee at three in the morning, that we might 
 make the run from Taormina to Palermo in a 
 day. And I remember the breaking of that day 
 over the sea, of the first rose on the snows of 
 Mount ^tna, of the dignity of the old Greek 
 Amphitheatre in the isolation of the hour, of the 
 cries of the fishermen coming in with their boats. 
 It seems to me now, if I had missed it I would 
 have lost, forever, the great meaning of life. 
 
 I have often spoken of this to W , in the 
 
 hope of stimulating him into earlier rising. He 
 is adamant — although gallant. He declares he 
 would rather have me tell of it than to have en- 
 joyed the experience himself. He admires my 
 eloquence. He fears that if he arose at 3 a.m., 
 to take a morning spin, he would miss some of 
 
 -J- 28 -J- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 those glowing features which I have so nobly- 
 depicted. As the result, our coffee trays continue 
 to come in at nine, and when we are quite ready 
 we go on. 
 
 I was awakened this next morning by a curious 
 sound, which I could liken only to large bull- 
 frogs jumping into a pond, with their croak 
 eliminated. It happened at irregular intervals, 
 yet was so persistent that I made a sleepy way to 
 the window to study the phenomena. 
 
 The bull-frogs were an extraordinary size — ■ 
 for frogs — but mere pigmies as human beings. 
 They were the four children of our host plung- 
 ing in and out of the pool with a lack of vocalisa- 
 tion, out of respect for their sleeping elders, 
 which could have been accomplished only by 
 severe training. 
 
 I had never believed it possible before to drop 
 into a body of water larger than a bathtub with- 
 out a shriek, either of pleasure or misery, and, as 
 there were bathing suits in the guest rooms, I 
 shortlj^ found out for myself that it could not be 
 done by those out of their " teens." 
 
 My cries soon brought out the grown-ups of the 
 household in self-defence, and there was so much 
 high diving and drowning and rescuing that 
 
 we all made as late a breakfast as W could 
 
 desire. 
 
 -J- 29 -J- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 After this came packing up, and " descending 
 the baggage," as the French put it, and forgetting 
 the hatbox, and going back for it, so that it was 
 aknost noon of an intensely hot day before we con- 
 tinued over the new state road in the direction of 
 the Berkshires. 
 
 Westchester County is very proud of this per- 
 fect strip of going, as the entire state will be when 
 it is completed. It cost twenty thousand dollars 
 a mile, and the richest man in the county will 
 speak of this with bated breath. He ought to — 
 he is taxed for it. 
 
 The optimist will travel over the road in com- 
 plete enjoyment, but I found myself dwelling 
 pessimistically on the possible bumps that will 
 some day (after the fashion of our country) mar 
 its beautiful surface. Bumps that will be un- 
 heeded until they become ruts — and motoring 
 horrors. It is as sad to reflect upon as the face 
 of a lovely woman indented by time. 
 
 We were still among the lakes and reservoirs 
 and the babbling brooks that, before evening, 
 would be quenching the thirst of the roasting 
 New Yorkers. When we are in the country, suf- 
 fering a great deal from the heat, it is a cooling 
 thought that those left in the cities are worse off 
 than we are. At least we declare that they must 
 be worse off, very often — as we wipe our fore- 
 
 -j-30-f- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 heads — and very loud. We say we are glad we 
 are not in town to-day — whew! 
 
 We passed Golden's Bridge, Croton Falls, and 
 stopped at Brewster for lunch because it was the 
 lunch-hour. In Europe we can be fed at any 
 time we open our mouths like baby birds, and 
 give evidence of money in our purse, but over 
 here we eat when the proprietor says it is time 
 to eat. 
 
 This was our first stop at a real country inn, 
 for the roadhouses about New York do not — as 
 the children say — count. And I was not so 
 curious as to what we would find on the table as 
 to the manner of our reception. In France we 
 tumble out of our car, and exchange glad greet- 
 ings with the inn-keeper, his wife, and the per- 
 sonnel, as though we had, all of us, only lived 
 for this hour. But here in America we do not 
 look upon courtesy as one of the essentials to a 
 possible business. Or at least that was my im- 
 pression. I am inclined now to think that I was 
 wrong and to thank the motor for a revival of hos- 
 pitable manners. Like the post-chaise of old, we 
 come directly to the door, toot the horn instead of 
 crack the whip, and receive a welcome in accord 
 with the stateliness of the arrival. 
 
 The proprietor at Brewster answered my for- 
 eign greeting with an equal amount of enthusiasm. 
 
 -^31^- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 Although the hotel was simple he conducted me 
 to a dressing-room painted white, where, as the 
 darky said, were all the means of " refreshing 
 up." The automobile tourist has demanded and 
 received this accommodation. With a reckless 
 splendour, the comb and brush were not chained 
 even, and the roller-towel had given place to 
 clean little dabs of linen. 
 
 The lunch, too, was clean, and better than it 
 would have been ten years ago under the same 
 management, the dessert offering satisfactory 
 
 evidence to W that we were in or near the 
 
 pie belt. 
 
 The long tables have gone, but the conversa- 
 tion was general. The young woman who served 
 us, as usual, knowing nothing at all about the 
 place in which she lived, but deferring, in a loud 
 voice, to a regular boarder at the other end of 
 the room, regarding telegraph offices, and the 
 hour of outgoing mail. 
 
 I suppose when a waitress concentrates on a 
 list of edibles in bird bathtubs, there is little room 
 left in her mind for general information. 
 
 Soon we quitted Brewster — detained for an 
 instant by the clerk — although we had paid for 
 our luncheon we had not registered. There are 
 no incriminating registers in Europe. 'Tis a gay 
 land. 
 
THE SUNKEN POOL, WESTCHESTER COUNTY 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 The S.H.D. Patrol was going down the street, 
 and it is my regret that I shall never know what 
 the S.H.D. Patrol really means. To the eyes of 
 the uninitiated it was a small wagon bravely 
 placarded, with a driver sweeping the road. In 
 the pursuance of his duty, he threw a shovelful 
 of dust in our eyes as we passed him. 
 
 Our direction was Pawling. A few encourag- 
 ing sign-posts kept us to the path, although at 
 every cross-road we were met by fingers of fate 
 pointing us to Patterson. It is strange how a 
 town of which you have never heard before 
 suddenly appears upon the sign, continues for 
 miles to urge you to see it, and with a last finger 
 indicating a road which you refuse to take, dis- 
 appears out of your life forever. 
 
 The plea to go to Patterson was discontinued 
 before we reached Pawling, but at the latter place 
 we found so little to interest us that we regret 
 now our lack of deviation from the straight road. 
 
 It was not until my descent upon the public 
 library that I found the town to be worthy of a 
 chronicle as thick as that of Yonkers. Wash- 
 ington, that most agile of great men, slept there, 
 and a whipping-post still stands, which was used 
 for military punishment. This mode of pro- 
 cedure was one hundred lashes for various of- 
 fences, only fifty administered at once. My heart 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 warmed toward Washington at this, but upon 
 reading along, I discovered that the second fifty 
 were laid on as soon as the first stripes festered. 
 
 They had also, in the community of Pawling, a 
 custom in the eighteenth century, known as Put- 
 ting Out the Poor. This did not mean out of 
 their misery, but selling them to the Dutch set- 
 tlers as slaves, where, with as little food and cloth- 
 ing as could be managed, they proved that they 
 could work if work was only given them. 
 
 For a village that is fashionable in the summer, 
 and doubtless has a thriving charity organisation, 
 I find little to recommend in it, and if I was of 
 another nationality, where the poorest form of 
 wit is generally accepted, I might suggest that the 
 present name is a corruption of Appall — but let 
 us go on. 
 
 Go on — for beyond Pawling a thriller was re- 
 served for us. It was a red arrow on a white 
 ground, pointing in the direction we would like 
 to go. " To the Berkshires " read the sign be- 
 neath. It was a recurrent arrow indicating the 
 way whenever we grew uncertain. At times we 
 would find such a bad bit of going that we 
 thought we must be off the main road, but the 
 arrow cheerfully signified: "Press On, I know 
 the road is rotten, but at the other end are the 
 Berkshires! " 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 We passed a vast preparatory school for boys 
 along this way, although I do not know what 
 they were to be prepared for beyond a good time. 
 A private golf course was in process of con- 
 struction for them, and the main building sug- 
 gested marble baths incased in Tudor architecture. 
 The Illustrator, to show his disapproval, stopped 
 to make a sketch, and I asked a road-mender 
 what he thought of such mansions for young 
 men. The road-mender opined it was a mistake. 
 That the boys came from just good plain families, 
 with a bath every Saturday night, and returned to 
 their homes too set up to do any sort of work 
 that wasn't on a banjo. 
 
 I agreed with the road-mender. We had had 
 two days of motoring past just such extravagant 
 inducements to have an education, but I had not 
 been able to put my objection into any such 
 terse form as now expressed by my new friend. 
 I fear we shall never meet again. 
 
 We had missed the county stone between West- 
 chester and Dutchess Counties, but we had long 
 known we were in the latter province by a cer- 
 tain businesslike quality of the farms. They had 
 a self-supporting air that all of the Westchester 
 country places, no matter what statistics are 
 shown, cannot acquire. And the barns are painted 
 red. They are not white barns nor grey, nor 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 boulder to match the house, nor stucco to go with 
 the garage. They are red because it is a service- 
 able colour, and they are large because the har- 
 vests are plentiful. 
 
 The farms all have or were having, or are tak- 
 ing measurements for having, a cylindrical tower 
 at one end of the barn. To be fair to our West- 
 chester host he had one also, but I did not ask 
 what it was, for at the time it did not occur to 
 me that I would see more of these towers before 
 the journey was over than we felt bumps in the 
 road — and that is saying a good deal. 
 
 A New England farm without a tower is as 
 low in the social scale as a garden without a per- 
 gola, and I besought W to stop long enough 
 
 for me to find out their use. He demurred, for 
 it was cool going and hot stopping, but I was 
 insistent. And I must say here that the auto- 
 mobilist in America must make the most of the 
 joys of conversation, en route, to atone for the 
 loss of historic chateaux, walled towns, and mag- 
 nificent churches, which are his rich portion in 
 Europe. 
 
 There may be something snobbish in the ex- 
 pression of " Studying the Peoj)le " as one jour- 
 neys along. Do not let that thought distress you, 
 for the countryman you are accosting is also 
 studying you. The outcome of these wayside 
 
 -i-36-i- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 chats do not, one will observe, result in a chuckle 
 or a dropping of the eyelids when the ships have 
 spoke each other and passed on; rather is there 
 engendered a broader understanding, which comes 
 to us in the broadening of our acquaintance. 
 
 The hermit may be wise, but he would be 
 wiser did he extend his visiting list. 
 
 We are a conscious people in America and 
 we must begin to talk quickly, or we will lose the 
 courage to ask so much as the route. We sit 
 up in our proud carriages with all the appear- 
 ance of being prim and forbidding when we are 
 only shy! 
 
 It was Barrie who wrote of a young man at a 
 dinner party abandoning the first topic that came 
 into his mind as being too slight to crystallise 
 into speech. This weakened him — each succeed- 
 ing idea growing more and more valueless. As 
 the result he did not speak at all beyond asking 
 a lady if she cared for the salt. She misunder- 
 stood him and thought he asked for it, so he 
 used it when it was passed and there the conversa- 
 tion ended. 
 
 What I found out about towers was a strict 
 utilitarian reason for these architectural addi- 
 tions. It seems that the day of the husking-bee 
 is over, and that corn and stalks now disappear 
 into the cylinder to be chopped up into fodder. 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 Dutchess County is a great cattle country. 
 Black and white cows fit in nicely with the land- 
 scape, but show a disinclination to be photo- 
 graphed, with which I thoroughly sympathise. 
 
 At South Dover, along the stream that once 
 fed an old mill (" Grain and Wheat Ground and 
 Sold " on the swinging sign) , we found many of 
 them engaged in forming a composition dear to 
 a painter's eye, yet whisking their tails busily 
 to prevent a snapshot. There were also two goats 
 in the meadow by the stream, and while this is 
 of no imi^ortance, I wish to put it down in 
 writing, I have never yet seen a goat drink. 
 
 W would not remain to watch if they ever 
 
 did drink, and we lurched on through Dover 
 Plains until the stern sign of Detour warned us 
 that the way beyond was under reconstruction, 
 and, while promising well for the future, was 
 doubtless dreary for present travelling. 
 
 There was a country inn at this juncture with 
 a written invitation on a board to " Rest Awhile," 
 and we would have done so had we known of the 
 hitherto undeveloped quarry over which we jour- 
 neyed before we again struck into the highway. 
 
 The rocks of New England were now begin- 
 ning to manifest themselves in the fields, gleaming 
 through the herbage in white patches " like snow 
 upon the desert's face " — a poor comparison con- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 sideriiig their endurance — and we had already 
 passed a prosperous working quarry. It made 
 one feel sorry for the man who has endeavoured 
 to wrest a living from the top of the earth when 
 he could gain so much more by digging down. 
 
 The undeveloped stone industry under the 
 country lane, which we now followed, made itself 
 known by catching at our dust-pan, swung low 
 for European travel, and tearing it away from us. 
 The sun was still hot, and we were glad our 
 chauffeur was a young man, both strong and 
 amiable. The pause gave me an opportunity to 
 discuss the crops with a farmer nearby. Or I 
 attempted to discuss them, he dismissing the sub- 
 jest to talk frivolously of a wedding back on the 
 main road, which we would miss if we didn't get 
 started soon. 
 
 He said it was the biggest event of the year, 
 and all his family was there in a black Ford. He 
 said I couldn't fail to pick it out as it had been 
 washed that morning. With his eager assistance 
 we managed to get away, rounding into the state 
 road, exactly at the scene of the festivity. 
 
 The bride and groom were leaiing. At least 
 a large motor, hung with shoes, ornamented by 
 white bows, and displaying a placard on the 
 radiator of " Just Married " bore down upon us. 
 
 We could not pick a bride from the several 
 -f-39-e- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 girls in bright frocks within, nor could we under- 
 stand the roars of laughter from the guests gath- 
 ered on the lawn waving them farewell. Marry- 
 ing is fairly humorous, but at least a tear is 
 expected at the hour of departure. I was anxious 
 
 to know about this, but W said we had not 
 
 been invited to the wedding and it was impossible 
 to stop, and in this wrangling fashion we went 
 on to Amenia. 
 
 Ah, but Amenia knew! Just as I dislike 
 Pawling, in equal proportion do I love Amenia. 
 Two garages were there in fierce rivalry. If we 
 had chosen the first no doubt something delightful 
 would have happened, but selecting the one 
 further on we met the cousin of the bridegroom. 
 He had just come from the wedding in a motor 
 as high-powered as could be found in those parts, 
 and in it he had slipped the bride and groom, 
 rushing them to the railway station. The brides- 
 maids were left to follow in the rigged-up auto- 
 mobile, and he didn't believe the town would ever 
 get over laughing at it. 
 
 I did like that cousin! And I liked the young 
 man who pumped the gasoline into our tank. He 
 had driven a car once all the way from Havre 
 to Florence (why he stopped driving it in Flor- 
 ence was too delicate a question to put to him) 
 and he couldn't see an earthly reason why we 
 
 -»- 40 -i- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 in America shouldn't repair one-half of the road 
 at a time and leave the other free to traffic, " as 
 they done in Urop." 
 
 " I hold us in contempt," he added. 
 
 He also held the corner druggist in contempt. 
 I had bought a charming post-card of a fine 
 old house, and had asked the druggist if he knew 
 where it was. But he didn't know — he had never 
 seen it. And I went back, hotfoot, to the Euro- 
 pean traveller, who took a look at the card and 
 splashed a quantity of gasoline all over us. 
 
 " Sees it every day of his life," said the live 
 young man of the chemist. " It's down by the 
 depot. No git up and git to him, that's the 
 trouble. Keeps his windows dressed in Scott's 
 Emulsion in the summertime." 
 
 During the few minutes that we were in 
 Amenia there was also a dog fight. 
 
 The way of the red arrow was now growing 
 compelling. A fine road invited a swift whirring 
 of wheels until we reached Millerton. Here we 
 turned to the right to the road to Lakeville, hav- 
 ing been advised by a courteous gentleman, driv- 
 ing up in the Night Lunch wagon, to hold to 
 the left at the ore mines. 
 
 We could not fail to recognise them, he said, 
 although I don't know why, as I am not familiar 
 with ore mines. And yet we did, judging, rather, 
 
 -i-41 -i- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 by the miserable ungarnished miners' cottages, 
 which sagged up and down the street. A miner's 
 abode is ever unlovely. It must be that any 
 place above ground is bright and beautiful to 
 him. 
 
 We were now in Connecticut, as a big stone 
 along the way announced. A boundary line never 
 fails to be exciting. Whether it marks a country 
 or a state, the slijjping over from one territory 
 to another gives one the sensation of fresh ad- 
 venture, a sloughing off of the old skin of exist- 
 ence, rendering us shining and ready for new 
 conflicts. 
 
 Lakeville rose from a mist, a charming town 
 with good hotels, where the motorist who leaves 
 New York early could easily spend his first 
 night, if he had any " git up and git to him." 
 
 A small boy was lighting the lamps before the 
 old Farnam Tavern of 1795. He had a way of 
 shinnying up the post and sliding down again 
 that was not as suitable to the swinging sign of 
 the inn as would have been the older method of 
 the lamplighter hurrying through the street with 
 his flaring torch. Other times — other customs. 
 
 We hurried on, for we were so near the Berk- 
 shires that we felt the tantalisation of the mo- 
 ment. Promptly at Salisbury the red arrow left 
 us, substituting, laconically, " The Berkshires," as 
 
 -i- 42-2- 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 though it had done the best it could for us and 
 we must now find our own way about. 
 
 This is not difficult, for the highroad is as broad 
 as the path that leads to destruction, quite as 
 pleasing in its features, and much less direful at 
 the journey's end. We traversed but a corner of 
 
 Connecticut, and W said we need not watch 
 
 for the boundary stone as we could tell by the 
 excellence of the roadbed when we were in Massa- 
 chusetts. 
 
 This speech was practically jolted out of him 
 coincident with our crossing the state line. And 
 he sighed, as though one could have too much 
 humour, when I asked if the excellence lay in 
 beneficial results to the liver or the car. 
 
 The ruts were not enduring, however, the run 
 through South Egremont to Great Barrington 
 being accomplished swiftly if in a rather teetery 
 fashion. We were travelling toward the end of 
 the summer, and no motor should complain bit- 
 terly over the damage his own kind has effected. 
 
 Even if you do not find the road perfect you 
 must not tell this to the hotel clerk at Great 
 Barrington. He will reply that about a million 
 people have stopped in the hotel this season and 
 he hadn't had a complaint before. 
 
 I suspended mj^ pen in the air as I was about 
 to register. I asked him if he had ever heard of 
 
ON TO THE BERKSHIRES 
 
 the Texas hotel guest who found fault that the 
 roller-towel was not clean. " Not clean, huh? " 
 answered the proprietor. " Well, you're the first 
 one to kick and it's hung there for three weeks." 
 The hotel clerk said he had heard it often. 
 
 44 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 Among the Hills and Colonial Traditions 
 
 Great Barrington was historical ground — even 
 before we passed the night there. I am not sure 
 that historical ground is especially attractive to 
 me unless it is, as well, beautiful ground. But 
 Great Barrington comprises open plumbing with 
 charming views, and is so modern, yet modest, in 
 its old worldliness that — in our comfort — we were 
 glad to grant it a prominent place in the history 
 of the Revolution. 
 
 The inhabitants were the first to offer armed 
 resistance to the authority of King George. 
 Eight months before the battle of Lexington 
 the holding of court by the crown judges was 
 successfully prevented. 
 
 This is easily written down now, and in a few 
 lines. But one pauses to think of the courage 
 , of those men to withstand the awful majesty of a 
 sovereign whom they had long served. What 
 sentiment was it within their hearts that filled 
 them with a belief that they could win against 
 such odds! 
 
 I once saw a body of striking tailors pass be- 
 -j-45-f- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 fore the workshop of their rich employer. He 
 was looking at them from the window — and laugh- 
 ing. He seemed so easily secure against them, and 
 they so poor in their armament against him. 
 Yet they won their strike. It must be that right 
 is might, and the consciousness of right is a 
 weapon in itself, which makes little of standing 
 armies, and welds caution into courage. 
 
 An earlier Civil War than the one which devas- 
 tated our country in the decade of 1860 held 
 many of its scenes of diminutive battle in this 
 neighbourhood. I am giving space to it because 
 I never knew what Shays's Rebellion really was 
 until a rain of small volumes fell about me in my 
 little corner of the library. 
 
 That an Irishman began it goes with the title. 
 Not content to have conquered their foes, a 
 party of disgruntled men, under Daniel Shays, 
 became, in 1786, intent upon conquering each 
 other. 
 
 They were not without grievance. Our govern- 
 ment at that time paid the soldiers in notes, 
 which had no value when the soldier, in turn, was 
 obliged to pay his debts. Yet was the soldier 
 punished if he could not fulfil his obligations. 
 
 For this, Shays decided to attack court houses, 
 judges and sheriffs, and any who took sides 
 against him — and with the government. It is 
 
 -f- 46-J- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 noteworthy that the opposing factions drove to 
 battle in sleighs. This is a far cry from motor 
 busses of the present day, if more liiimorous, yet 
 with the exception of the chariots at the time of 
 the Caesars, I know no other instance of so 
 comfortable a method of warfare. This means 
 of transportation was so similar in outline that 
 those on Shays's side wore sprigs of hemlock in 
 their hats, while the government, quite lacking 
 humour, sported the white feather. 
 
 The conflict is too insignificant, with the pass- 
 ing of time, to treat now with any great serious- 
 ness. It was war of a kind, even to a swift 
 retreat when the rebels mistook a log for a cannon. 
 For a sleighing party in retreat may be humorous 
 only in retrospect. 
 
 Reading further, I gathered another important 
 item, for in this age of slang it may be of in- 
 terest to chronicle that the word " Mutt " is not 
 of recent origin. There was one INIoses Orcutt, 
 familiarly known as " Mutt," whose performance 
 in battle defined the character which we now see 
 in the funny pages. He was a heroic man, and in 
 the process of one conflict got out of his sleigh, 
 placed his hat, powder-horn, and gun upon the 
 ground, bared his bosom, and profanely called 
 upon Shays's men to fire upon the body of Moses. 
 
 To his surprise, they did this, nothing deterred 
 -+• 47 -<- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 by the Biblical significance of the name, and 
 Mutt was a long time getting over it. 
 
 Great Barrington also was the first of the 
 towns in Berkshire County to go to jail — not 
 en masse, but represented by the landlord of an 
 inn. The first indictment ever found by the 
 grand jury of the county was against one Root, 
 who did " wittingly and wilfully suffer and per- 
 mit singing, fiddling, and dancing in his dwelling- 
 house, there being a tavern there, or public house." 
 
 For this he was fined ten shillings, which he 
 paid, feeling that the festivity was worth the 
 money. And ever since then the landlords of the 
 town, encouraged by his illustrious example, have 
 kept their houses ringing with music and good 
 cheer. 
 
 One of the descendants no doubt, George F. 
 Root, lived not far from the town. And he, too, 
 must have caught the musical infection, giving to 
 the world that cure for weary feet: "Tramp, 
 Tramp, Tramp, the Boys Are Marching." If 
 one must leave a tavern enlivened by fiddling, it 
 is good to continue to the tune of a martial strain. 
 
 There are other noises now in Great Barring- 
 ton. When the music ceases the locomotives, di- 
 rectly back of the Inn take up the cry, and we 
 warn those who spend the night in that most 
 excellent hostelry to demand rooms in front. 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 The proprietor, when questioned as to his choice 
 of location for a resting-place, shook his head 
 in bewilderment. " Who would have thought," 
 said the old gentleman, " that Great Barrington 
 could ever support busy freight yards? Branches 
 of bananas are the cause of that noise, the 
 grapefruit for breakfast, the fresh fish, the lamb 
 chops." 
 
 We felt very guilty — we had eaten all those 
 things, which, like an inverted indigestion, occa- 
 sioned us distress before their consumption. 
 
 The only advantage of rooms at the back is the 
 opportunity of staring out at William Cullen 
 Bryant's old home when the freight trains are 
 too impelling for slumber. It has been moved 
 back on the lot to make room for the hotel, and 
 the clerks of the menage now sleep there — if they 
 can. 
 
 I wondered if Bryant could have written 
 Thanatopsis in such a din. Perhaps, extolling as 
 he did, in many a verse, the beauties of Death, 
 he had a poet's premonition of a night spent in 
 the little house. The phrase of a child's composi- 
 tion recurred to me as I reflected upon these 
 things: "A sort of sadness kind of shone in 
 Bryant's poems." Yes, he probably experienced, 
 mentally, the freight cars. 
 
 But au revoir Barrington and bon jour Stock- 
 -+• 49 -«- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 bridge. There were no green-aproned porters, as 
 in Europe, to descend the baggage and strap it 
 on the car. But the bell-boys accomplished this 
 with celerity, and as in the older countrj^, they 
 lined up for the tips. Even the chambermaid ap- 
 peared, although she did not line up. She sat in 
 an elegant chair within the door. But, there! 
 She herself admitted that she had " opened with 
 the hotel and expected to close with it," and such 
 constancy is worthy of a throne. 
 
 The morning was divine and the road good. 
 The graceful red arrow again appeared, con- 
 fining itself to towns rather than a general lo- 
 cality, and pointed us across the bridge and up a 
 bit of climb, once known as the Three Mile Hill 
 road. It has changed since the Indians made a 
 trail of it, and later, Major Talcott, in 1676, 
 beat it into a wider course for his little army, 
 pursuing the followers of King Philip. It must 
 have been still imperfect when General Burgoyne, 
 as a prisoner of war, rode over it to Boston, 
 and one can imagine it a mire of mud from the 
 tramping of the armies of 1812 and the Civil 
 War. 
 
 When one considers the history of a road, 
 especially in this country, which has had no 
 foundation stone of the Romans for a bed, we 
 should be lenient with chance ruts. Think of 
 
 -i-50H- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 the fortitude of our forbears! They marched 
 that we might ride. 
 
 The approach to Stockbridge is so dehghtful 
 that the motorist fears the town will of necessity 
 be a disappointment, under the adage that all 
 good things come to an end. But the end is not 
 Stockbridge. The streets grow ever wider and 
 better and cleaner, and, to judge by the mass 
 of evidence, more historical. 
 
 Here culture was applied at an earlier date 
 than any to which Boston can lay claim, for, in 
 1736, John Sargent taught the Indians their 
 letters and certain industries. His gentle influ- 
 ence and sympathy were so pervading that the 
 Stockbridge citizen admits, on a shaft of stone 
 erected in the ancient Indian burial-ground, that 
 " These were the friends of our fathers." 
 
 I, for one, do not know of another such admis- 
 sion in all the broad countrj^ which we have 
 gradually wrested from these savages, who might 
 not have been so savage, after all, had John 
 Sargents been scattered through the land. 
 
 David Dudley Field, illustrious son of his 
 illustrious father, has erected a clock-tower on 
 the site of the schoolhouse. The passing of time 
 is not more clearly shown on its dial than the 
 town itself. Yet it is gently fashionable. On the 
 wide piazzas of the Red Lion Hotel, women were 
 
 -i- 51 -#- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 knitting helmets and bands and socks of grey wool 
 for the men in the present war. There was an 
 air of helpfulness about the place. 
 
 There was even advancement in the modern 
 schoolhouse windows, which were levelled to the 
 vision of the children wriggling behind wooden 
 desks withip. The little faces were looking out 
 as we passed. The high casements of my youth 
 encouraged closer attention to one's studies, I 
 imagine, but excluded philosophising on the pass- 
 ing show. And one must begin his philosophy 
 early in life to accept, without protest, the show 
 which passes him by. 
 
 There are two roads to Lenox. We took the 
 one by way of Lee, on the theory that the longest 
 way round creates a fine appetite. The only 
 things to recommend Lee are the estates outside 
 of it and the beauty of the Congregational Church 
 spire from a distance. Since it is impossible to 
 find the spire after you have entered the town, I 
 felt that its slender, far-away charm might be fitly 
 termed an aspiration! Or I should feel that 
 
 way, save that W contends if I try to pun 
 
 it will make the reader ill. Upon argument, how- 
 ever, he has allowed me to leave this in, under 
 the plea that it will be useful as a charade. 
 
 It is a dangerous town — at least on Sundays, 
 for a notice at the railway crossing announces that 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 the gates will not be operated on the Sabbath. 
 This either to discourage driving to church or to 
 give the gateman a chance to go. 
 
 We were deterred by a passing train, and, true 
 to my belief in making conversation when I could, 
 I asked the keeper of the gates if he did go to 
 church. He said no, he always hung around the 
 tracks just the same, he kind of liked to see the 
 trains go by full of people. There was a phi- 
 losopher full of years, who could watch the pass- 
 ing show without bitterness. 
 
 There was one household in Lee who watched 
 us pass with real enthusiasm. We made the 
 wrong turn going toward Lenox, and in our 
 effort to retrace our steps, in a narrow way, had 
 run up the carriage drive of the residence as far 
 as the circle before the kitchen. Our arrival 
 created hideous consternation, for the entire 
 family were in the backyard peeling peaches for 
 " perserves." I never saw such a hasty casting 
 off of aprons when they thought unexpected 
 guests had come, or such a glad resuming of them 
 when it was made plain that we were as anxious 
 to leave as they were to have us. 
 
 Formality grows to a Yankee's back as does a 
 shell to a turtle. He may be any kind of a dare- 
 devil, but the deviltry goes on under a grim 
 exterior. 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 The approach to Lenox was along another 
 splendid avenue. One can find the names of all 
 the great show places through this district by- 
 asking for a list at any hotel desk. I shall not 
 weary the reader with a recital of them, for fear 
 that he is an anarchist. I very nearly became 
 an anarchist along the way myself. 
 
 There was one insufferably beautiful place be- 
 fore whose gateway we chanced to stop to search 
 for my typewriter. The poor creature had shrunk 
 out of sight, fearing its appearance might suggest 
 that we had sometliing to do with trade. And as 
 we brought it fearlessly to light, a man on horse- 
 back came out of this gateway, looked at us with 
 suspicion, and called attention to a sign by osten- 
 tatiously straightening it. " Positively no admit- 
 tance except for guests," it read. Then, with a 
 last glare, he rode on before I could tell him that 
 it must be very uncomfortable to be a guest in his 
 house, and that I was going to put him in a 
 book. 
 
 The Illustrator grew so distressed over this 
 pretentious approach to Lenox, that he changed 
 his hat shortly afterwards, and I think the chauf- 
 feur would have enjoyed wearing his derby had 
 he been encouraged. 
 
 What annoys me is that grass grows greener 
 and flowers bloom more freely for those whose 
 
 -*- 54 -«- 
 

 
 5r^-^^^\ 
 
 A COUNTRY HOUSE AT LENOX 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 lawn mowers are of the best and whose garden- 
 ers are not limited to the efforts of the family. 
 But they cannot rob us of the delight that these 
 visions afford us, nor can their eyesight, dulled 
 by continual beauty, be as keen. It is only by 
 drinking poor wine, now and then, that one can 
 fully enjoy the richest vintages. 
 
 Lenox, though a proud city, is too fine an aris- 
 tocrat to make the modest traveller uncomfort- 
 able by its wealth. And the hotels show an 
 eagerness to serve you, which is a pleasant com- 
 bination of old-time manners and new-time thrift. 
 The Curtis Hotel rests in the town, but we went 
 beyond to the Aspinwall, which lies on a hill, 
 and commands — I believe, now that the trip is 
 over — the most lovely view of any of the chain 
 of fine hostelries. 
 
 The position from the rear of the Aspinwall 
 would suggest that we were at a great height. 
 The " high places " affect the observer differently. 
 An opulent gentleman, both financially and phys- 
 ically, who had descended from a great motor 
 coincident with us, regarded the valley below 
 with such a glistening eye that I thought he was 
 really affected by the beauty of the scene. 
 
 He spoke: " Shows how good our car can 
 climb," was his comment. 
 
 Far below was the golf course, and it is only 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 fair to warn husbands playing over this ground 
 that certain anxious wives watch them from the 
 terrace through field-glasses. I do not think 
 that a Lenox husband would ever do the wrong 
 thing — whatever that is — but it is a mistake to 
 have your wife know you have lost three balls 
 and the game, when you are shortly coming in to 
 luncheon to tell her you have won. 
 
 They were gathering for the midday meal as 
 we were solemnly registering. At this hotel you 
 do not have to pay for your luncheon before you 
 eat it, although, farther along, we found equally 
 proud houses which took it in advance. But reg- 
 ister you 7nust. The Illustrator was trying to 
 extract some historical and literary information 
 from the clerk, in the endeavour to prove that 
 we were an intellectual couple and not bent 
 upon frivolity. But he was a very present-day 
 young man, limiting his knowledge to his busi- 
 ness — which is enough for any one in life. 
 
 We knew that Nathaniel Hawthorne once 
 lived here, and that having inhabited the House of 
 the Seven Gables, in Salem, he came to Lenox to 
 write about it. We did not know that his little 
 red cottage had burned down when we asked for 
 the Hawthorne House — and the clerk did not 
 know it had ever existed. 
 
 "Hawthorne House?" he repeated skeptically. 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 " Never heard of it. What is it — a Blue Book 
 hotel?" 
 
 The guests dribbled into the dining-room, and 
 the occupation of eating was temj)ered by a hum 
 of voices. We Americans are of two kinds. We 
 either talk too loud or too low, particularly in 
 public places. It betrays a self-consciousness that, 
 I suppose, only the centuries will overcome. An 
 European family will sit down in public without 
 feeling the necessity of putting a mute on the 
 voice and retiring as though behind a pall. They 
 are not noisy or gay — they do not toot on tin 
 horns — but they say what they wish without low- 
 ering the tone to that painful depth which we 
 mistake for a cultured note. Let us be brave — 
 and ourselves, for nothing can be better than that. 
 
 It was a charming hotel, with an arrangement 
 of flowers throughout the rooms that would make 
 a Japanese blush. I tried to find out who did 
 them, and was pleased when the dressing-room 
 attendant said she fixed hers. They were all 
 the mauves of all the flowers in the garden. She 
 said she " just felt that way to-day." We are 
 all temperamental after our fashion. 
 
 There is a clock in an old Lenox church given 
 by that most temperamental of actresses, Fanny 
 Kemble. A guidebook dismisses her swiftly as 
 " a talented young woman," as though to keep 
 
 ■H-57-<- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 her profession a secret. But so few actors have 
 ever left a legacy to the people more enduring 
 than the transient memory of their art, and so 
 few churches would be willing to accept an offer- 
 ing from that class known in Delaware as " vaga- 
 bonds," that it is fair both to the player and the 
 place to make a little excursion up a little hill. 
 
 Fanny Kemble lived many years in Lenox 
 after her retirement — in 1850, I think — and is 
 one of those rare cases of English actresses who 
 spend the money they make in this country. I 
 am not sure but her form of gift is as persistent 
 a plea not to be forgotten as any loftier monu- 
 ment. The pendulum swings with all the rhythm 
 of her tragedy, and the tick-tock of the hands 
 is as constant as the rippling laughter of her 
 comedy. 
 
 We were some time getting away from Lenox 
 influences, the wealth of the neighbourhood 
 dwindling off into a recognition of it by an effort 
 of the poorer population to " make " out of it. 
 Farmhouses offer for sale anytliing from them- 
 selves to red apples. The windows of the settin'- 
 room are dressed with jars of candy, or, as a con- 
 cession to the sins of the day, with packages of 
 cigarettes and smoking tobacco. One ambitious 
 effort to please every taste displays the sign: 
 " Groceries, Cigars, Ice Cream, Grain, and 
 
 -j-58-f- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 Feed," and, further along, one finds an old tavern 
 sign with a new tail offering: " Entertainment for 
 man, beast, and automobile." 
 
 These poor farms are in juxtaposition with lands 
 bought up by city folk, and if ghosts still walk 
 they must haunt, not the shabby homes of the 
 natives, but these newer estates. Bitter ghosts of 
 farmers who, with a small capital, struggled for 
 a generation or two to make their acres pro- 
 ductive, and now witness the lands blossoming 
 like the rose under a cultivation that is not limited 
 to mean farming implements. 
 
 The heartache of these rocky pastures! The 
 backache of these stone fences, which we so much 
 admire! They have all been built with rocks from 
 the soil, and still the land is sown with them. 
 One wonders why so unproductive fields are 
 fenced in at all. But they say that a surface may 
 be free one year from them, and the following 
 season work their way up from a lower stratum, as 
 though some giant of ancient times had sown the 
 dragon's teeth. 
 
 I never see an old farmhouse with but one 
 " lean-to " that I do not feel the pathos of a 
 lost endeavour. First, the main part of the house 
 was built, full of hope, and \\dth faith that riches 
 would grow with the family. Every farmhouse 
 of pretension must have a wing on either side for 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 balance — but these things must come in time. 
 After a while one wing is added, and there in 
 many instances the additions cease while the 
 mortgage rolls on. The old house and the 
 " lean-to " age together. The children go their 
 ways, each year they think that the following 
 year will leave enough above the interest for 
 fresh paint, but there is no such thing on a New 
 England farm as " losing interest." 
 
 When you see a house like this, get out and 
 buy an apple. But if you bought all the apples 
 that your trunk and hatbox and the brass rail 
 could hold you would have left no impression on 
 the output last summer. Most of the New Eng- 
 land fruit goes to Europe and there was no ex- 
 porting of it this year. So has the war made 
 itself felt in every cranny of our existence. 
 
 As we rolled along our very delightful way 
 there were orchards on every side of us, in the 
 front yards and at the back stoops, and " apple- 
 trees over our heads did grow," like old Crummies 
 in the story-book. Many of the trees do not bear 
 fruit, and one wonders if they all bore every year 
 what they would do with their harvests. New 
 England would probably become a hard-cider 
 drinking community, like Normandy and Brit- 
 tany. 
 
 A motor should never encourage hard cider. It 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 fills a man without an automobile with a hatred 
 of the man who has one. We were sympathet- 
 ically watching a Pardon in a Brittany church- 
 yard one year. It was very touching — the sim- 
 plicity of the country people with their brave 
 costumes and long candles following the statue 
 of St. Anne, and chanting as decorously as they 
 could, considering the hard cider, and we made 
 our way back to our car sombrely — to find the 
 tires slashed! It was the work, no doubt, of 
 some peasant with velvet strings to his hat, who 
 was at the moment engaged in securing his " Par- 
 don." 
 
 Hard cider is not unknown. There is a copy 
 of an agreement between the earliest of the white 
 men and the Indians for a portion of the land 
 through which we were now travelling — a portion 
 equal to a county, one might add — in which the 
 newcomers agreed to pay the redskins four hun- 
 dred sixty pounds, three barrels of " syder," and 
 thirty quarts of rum. It appears that the early 
 dealings were not unlike those of the government 
 reservations of to-day. 
 
 The approach along the way leading into Pitts- 
 field is uninspired. The town is lovelier in the cen- 
 tre than on its outskirts, like a plain old lady with 
 a heart of gold. It is a sedate village, with mag- 
 nificent elms lining its great main avenue, which 
 
 -?-61-i- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 constitutes a park. I am uneasy as to the age 
 of elms or I could say that they gave pleasant 
 shade to Lafayette when he visited Pittsfield, that 
 fighting Parson Allen, who was the minister of 
 the old Congregational Church here, led his men 
 under their arch of boughs, to the battle of Ben- 
 nington in August, 1777. Let us hope for all the 
 shade our imagination can give them, for it is a 
 " long, long way " to Bennington, and they did 
 not go in chariots or sleighs or motors. 
 
 Surely both Oliver Wendell Holmes and Long- 
 fellow enjoyed their beauty, and the Longfellow 
 House, on East Street, still contains " The Old 
 Clock on the Stairs," still ticking away: "For- 
 ever — never. Never — forever." Upon investiga- 
 tion I find that the verse runs: 
 
 *' Somewhat hack from the village street 
 Stands the old-fashioned country seat. 
 Across its ancient portico 
 Tall poplar trees their shadows throw — '''' 
 
 Mercy, and I thought they were elms! 
 
 Pittsfield is so correct in appearance that I 
 hesitate to record one occurrence which the elms, 
 
 or whatever they are, witnessed — if W 's story 
 
 is true. A lioness, which had broken from its 
 cage in a show nearby, made a Httle promenade 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 through the town to the surprise and terror of alL 
 Her keepers followed discreetly behind waving 
 silently to the passerby for a track to be cleared. 
 The animal was very savage, so goes the story, 
 and they were at their wit's end to know how to 
 get it back before Pittsfield blood was shed. 
 
 But the keepers had not counted on the village 
 drunkard. He came out of a saloon, just by the 
 Wendell Hotel, and encountered the lioness head 
 on. The terrified guests, looking from the win- 
 dows, felt as did the keepers, that the village 
 drunkard would now go to meet his Maker. 
 
 But he did not. He took a look at the beast, 
 slapped her in the face, and advised her, in 
 Yankee dialect, to go on home. And this the 
 fierce creature did, very much alarmed. 
 
 The tale has a moral of some sort, although 
 the Illustrator was hazy about this, and as it was 
 the best he could do toward enlightening me his- 
 torically about the place, we motored on in dig- 
 nified silence. 
 
 We left for Williamstown over a road marked 
 " Passable but Unsafe," which we took, as it would 
 seem there was no alternative. Later, we found 
 that we could have taken an excellent road by 
 North Adams, which would have been better 
 going. 
 
 Still, had we gone that way, we would have 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 missed Lake Pontoosiic and our conversation 
 with the old lady who had been fishing all day 
 and declared she hadn't caught a single punkin'- 
 seed. It was a curious thing to be fishing for 
 with her garden full of the genuine article, but 
 she was a curious old lady. At least she gave 
 us a thought — or perhaps any one will give us 
 a thought if we are sufficiently receptive. 
 
 " 'Tain't that I need the punkin'-seed for sup- 
 per," she said. 
 
 " Then why do you want to catch them? " we 
 asked. 
 
 " I don't know," she answered. '* Jest to come 
 out ahead, I guess. Why do you want to win 
 at cards when j^ou ain't playin' for a prize? I 
 guess just all life is a race, and we'd set down 
 and die if we didn't feel it was nice to beat." 
 
 We moralised on this and felt kindly toward 
 another motorist, who expressed a desire for a 
 friendly brush. We passed and repassed each 
 other at times, not that there was any laurel 
 wreath for the victor, but that we were following 
 one of life's principles. The daredevils of the 
 road may be only a little more full of the joy 
 of existence than are we. 
 
 Before reaching Pittsfield we had quitted the 
 valley of the Housatonic (" The River Beyond the 
 Mountains " is the charming meaning of the 
 
 -4-64*-*- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 word), and were now approaching the Taconie 
 Range of the Berkshires through the valley of 
 the Hoosac. It is a rich farming country with 
 an air of money, not in the bank perhaps, but at 
 least in the stocking under the mattress. 
 
 The farmhouses are scattered, yet the inhabi- 
 tants along the way are held together by an in- 
 novation that has come but recently to our coun- 
 try, and does much to keep the lonely farmer's 
 wife in touch with the world. 
 
 This is only the little tin box of the rural free 
 delivery. All along we saw women standing in 
 their front yards, with their faces in but one 
 direction, and presently we spied the postman's 
 wagon jolting along with letters and papers for 
 the waiting ones. He did not look like a proud 
 person, but he could well have been, for his pass- 
 ing was the event of the day. And his grey 
 clothes could better have been the rosy garments 
 of wonderful adventure. 
 
 The husbands of these women can vary their 
 existence bj^ making laws for the automobilist. 
 We were continually urged by sign-posts not to 
 go over fifteen miles an hour, and they offered 
 a further inducement bej^ond a fine to limit our- 
 selves to that modest pace by occasional ruts con- 
 cealed in dust. 
 
 With less modesty than the pursued postman. 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 they style themselves Selectmen, and as a band 
 of the anointed urged us at every turn to " Sound 
 Klaxon — Board of Selectmen." 
 
 This was difficult for us to do as we have no 
 Klaxon, and we had not the vocal chords of a 
 certain retired prima donna, who makes a horn 
 of her own voice, and puts to shame any mechani- 
 cal device. Still we sounded as well as we could, 
 and it is wise to do this. A city chauffeur is 
 not always a good country driver. While exer- 
 cising every care on the corners in New York, 
 he moves swiftly around hills, as though by no 
 possible chance could another motor be passing 
 along that road. It is not pleasant to be dumped 
 out on a lonely way with a consciousness that 
 you will have to wait until the postman comes 
 along, and that, even then, not being stamped, 
 he may refuse to carry you. 
 
 We reached Williamstown at the tea-hour, 
 although it seemed to me very much later in the 
 afternoon, for the continual change of scene has 
 a way of lengthening the day, which is confus- 
 ing to simple minds. 
 
 It was not too late for the Illustrator to make 
 a sketch, and this he did, presenting to your vision 
 a church which is entirely new, yet clinging so 
 firmly to its Colonial style, that the architect is 
 to be commended for his restraint. It appears to 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 be a great temptation to over-elaborate a modern 
 building in the Georgian style. One column too 
 wide, one pediment too florid, one wreath too 
 many. 
 
 It was the Italian, Palladio, in the eighteenth 
 century, who first accommodated the old Greek 
 style to dwelling-houses. He lived in Venice, 
 and built, for the Venetian noblemen, country 
 houses on terra firma, along a foolish little river 
 called the Brenta. We were much amazed when, 
 by chance, we motored out from Padua and dis- 
 covered this district. Save for their dilapidation 
 these abodes of the mighty bore the air of Long 
 Island. 
 
 The architects of the English Georges adapted 
 his innovation to the English landscape perfectly, 
 and we, before we became a republic, also used it. 
 So in our country it is Colonial, but the wise 
 man, who is conscious of its Greek extraction, 
 should keep his house as plain as possible. 
 
 There are no white frame churches in Eng- 
 land, and they do not miss what they do not know: 
 the beauty of the shadow of green trees upon the 
 glistening surface. Some do not worship within 
 the tabernacle, but surely he can find religion 
 in the outside of these slender-spired habitations 
 of the Lord. 
 
 We stopped at the Greylock Hotel for tea. 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 At least I stopped while W worked, and 
 
 upon ordering it I was told that in ten minutes 
 tea would be served in the hotel anyway. There 
 is no arguing with Yankee ways ; it is less arduous 
 to accept them. I sat myself down to await de- 
 velopments which were, as time passed, a tea serv- 
 ice, a cheery kettle, a table of biscuits, and an 
 interested maid. (I could spend a great deal of 
 time on a maid who is interested.) Guests began 
 to drop into the hall, the cups went round, and 
 before I knew it I was saying, " Two lumps, 
 please," and conversing with a clergyman. 
 
 The clergyman asked me if I had sons in the 
 college, and while this was trying, for I have ever 
 (falsely) considered myself a youngish woman, 
 I was charmed with the unaffected simplicity of 
 the hotel that served tea for nothing and provided 
 me with an acquaintance. 
 
 More than that, I admired the way the minister 
 took his tea, for I think they are the only class 
 of Americans who drink it without effort, and 
 run no risk of slopping. I told him I had no 
 sons, but I knew a prominent playwright whose 
 son was there, and the lady next me had that in 
 her face which would suggest: " Is she an actress? 
 No. Such an old sweater. With her husband? 
 Oh, he is sketching. Well, artists are pleasant, 
 still one can't be too careful." 
 
 -i-es-i- 
 
THE CHURCH THROUGH J HE TREES, \VH JJ AMSTOWX 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 Later she thawed, and I left, hking her. It 
 is remarkable how like the New Englander is to 
 the Briton. First one feels they are not to be 
 endured, then one finds they are absolutely sound 
 and simple. 
 
 The minister regretted that the mist blotted out 
 Greylock, which is not only a hotel but a moun- 
 tain. Indeed, it is the noblest peak of the Berk- 
 shires, and we were politely wondered at for not 
 making an ascent, as it is but twelve miles from 
 Williamstown. 
 
 Williams College has extolled Greylock from 
 time to time in verse, and, with a certain shrewd- 
 ness, began, as early as 1790, to declare that they 
 would do honour once a year to the mountain. 
 To do honour in this or any other country means 
 to take a day off, and though I inquired, I could 
 not discover whether it was the students or the 
 professors who first instituted the holiday. 
 
 As we sat pleasantly rocking in our mission- 
 chairs, I learned also of the " Spectre of the 
 Brocken." It is a phenomenon occasioned by a 
 shadow of one or many individuals hugely magni- 
 fied upon a cloud. Just why this should be the 
 rich portion of Greylock, and not of all other 
 mountains, one can only put down to atmospheric 
 conditions. 
 
 In a small guidebook, which they brought out, 
 -e-69-«- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 giving one thousand, more or less, different ways 
 of making the ascent, there are such solemn asser- 
 tions of the truth of this spectre that I, for one, 
 am willing to admit it and be done. 
 
 At least it is democratic in the choice of those 
 it casts upon the gigantic screen. In 1907, as a 
 certain Mr. Webster was " bringing down the 
 summer piano," he suddenly discovered himself 
 and entire outfit, horses, wagon, and piano, photo- 
 graphed in enormous dimensions against the sky. 
 
 I brushed the crumbs out of my lap and edged 
 hastily away after this. It is bad enough to be 
 photographed at all — but in enormous dimen- 
 sions ! 
 
 Even so, it was hard to leave Williamstown, 
 full of tea for nothing and other attractions, and 
 I advise any one else to stay over. The Uni- 
 versity buildings are very good, and delightful 
 boys, who are probably taking summer courses for 
 dilatory habits, mooned in and out of the fra- 
 ternity houses across from the Inn. Ephraim 
 Williams, a hero of the French and Indian wars, 
 founded the town; and the college for the per- 
 petuation of his name and the advancement of 
 knowledge was established in 1750. 
 
 There is also a claim that Williamstown was 
 the birthplace of foreign missions, and a stone, 
 rather subtly called the Haystack ^lonmnent, gives 
 
 -r 70 -t- 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 you, on its surface, further data. All this is not 
 as terrifying as it sounds, only — bring your flask 
 along for Williamstown. 
 
 Only fourteen miles ahead lay Bennington, the 
 country opening into broad stretches of farm- 
 land as we emerged from the Hoosac Valley. We 
 missed any definite marking between the Massa- 
 chusetts and Vermont state line, but we could not 
 mistake we were in Vermont, approaching Ben- 
 nington, by a glimpse from a distance of the 
 great monument. 
 
 This is one of the " Soldiers and Sailors " that 
 we must stop to see. But we must do more than 
 that: we must find the Walloomsac Inn. When 
 one starts the day's run in the morning the wish 
 to go on forever is all possessing, but, toward 
 nightfall, one finds this vigorous desire departing. 
 The mists of evening can be likened, in heavy 
 heads, to nothing more than pillows. A water- 
 fall is figuratively emptying itself into a por- 
 celain tub; and the first light from a farmhouse 
 suggests the comfort of four enveloping walls. 
 
 We did not need to enter the heart of the town. 
 The Illustrator drew up alongside a very pretty 
 young woman and asked the way. The impres- 
 sion he might have created was destroyed by a 
 prominent yawn from me — which distracted her 
 attention. But she pointed the way, and in a 
 
COLONIAL TRADITIONS 
 
 minute we were before the old-fashioned hostelry. 
 
 The landlord was at the desk, rather sternly 
 courteous, possibly because I laughed when he 
 retailed the prices. Our living was modest 
 enough. But it seems out of proportion to pay 
 but two dollars and fifty cents for a room, bath, 
 light, attendance, and two excellent meals, when 
 our poor motor-car must disgorge a dollar for 
 spending one night in a dull stable, with not a 
 mouthful of good cheer. 
 
 The luggage was bumped upstairs and we 
 found ourselves in a suite so tremendous that we 
 could very easily have accommodated the auto- 
 mobile if we could have taken it in without at- 
 tracting attention. 
 
 It was too good to be true for the money, and, 
 
 as W said, something must be the matter 
 
 with it. It turned out to be the bath, and I 
 mildly approached the clerk as we went down 
 to supper. 
 
 " The hot water won't run," I said firmly. 
 
 "Won't run or won't run hot?" he asked. 
 
 " Won't do either," I answered. 
 
 " This house was built in 1776," said the clerk. 
 
 I do not know whether it was an apology or 
 a boast, but, as in Great Barrington, the reply 
 at the desk " held me." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 I Meet Sojne Innkeepers and the Illustrator 
 Discovers a Joke 
 
 It rained in the night — rain on a tin roof. The 
 sound was tantalising, for one would stay awake 
 to enjoy it, j^et was lulled to sleep by the music 
 of the patter. 
 
 The Illustrator was not so sentimentally af- 
 fected. I heard him sigh heavily as he grew 
 aware of this descent from the heavens. His 
 voice floated out from the darkness of his room: 
 "There! I knew it would rain if I had that 
 car washed! " 
 
 By leaving off my hair-net I managed to get 
 down to breakfast before the stern dining-room 
 doors were closed. W is always let in grudg- 
 ingly after the bars are up, by pleading that his 
 breakfast is ordered. 
 
 While touring in America, I noticed that the 
 size of the first meal increased from the European 
 coffee and crescent roll to fruit, cereal, eggs and — 
 gi'iddle-cakes. It was the prospect of griddle- 
 cakes that got my travelling companion down- 
 stairs shortly after the closing hour. 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 Cakes are the breakfast specialty of every hotel 
 in New England, and they are accompanied by 
 Vermont maj)le syrup, running the whole gamut 
 of colour, from the deep shade of New Orleans 
 molasses to a palish tinge, like moonshine whiskey. 
 I interviewed a number of waitresses on this di- 
 versity of colour and only one of them had any 
 theory beyond that " it comes that way." Three 
 days later a gloomy girl in glasses said, in defence 
 of the paler syrup, that she " 'sposed trees had as 
 much right to be anemic as folks." It was not 
 a pleasant thought — this drinking up the life- 
 blood of invalid maples — and we put sugar, made 
 from healthy beets, on our cakes that morning. 
 
 Breakfast is never a grouchy meal to the 
 motorist. The maps are distributed among the 
 bird bathtubs, and if one does not like his present 
 environment, he can fix his eye on a black line, 
 leading directly from the hotel which he knows 
 he will soon be taking. He knows, too, that it 
 will not be a black line on the face of the green 
 earth, but a white highway, bordered by flowers, 
 sprinkled with chickens, and conducting him 
 through a lovely landscape to other hostelries 
 where he may again play the game of chance. 
 
 Although guests stay through the summer in 
 these hotels, and settled white-haired ladies live 
 the year round in some of them, the feehng — to 
 
 -J- 74 ^- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 the motorist at least — is that all are in transit. 
 Conscious of this, we pass the biscuits to table 
 companions politely, for no better reason than 
 that we may be wanting gasoline, or some such 
 commodity of them further along the route. 
 
 At our table, which chanced to be a long one, 
 there were several sprightly ladies whom we 
 had seen at the hotel the day before. The 
 woman who owned the car was paying her 
 lengthy bill at the desk as we had approached to 
 register ( !) for luncheon, and she was saying, 
 with what might be called manly courage, that a 
 charge for telephone to summon her car from 
 their garage was a " bit thick," and she didn't 
 intend to stand for it. 
 
 I hung about long enough to find out that the 
 ten cents was removed from the main sum, and 
 saw her leave with her friends, two men on 
 the box, and an engine as long as a four-in- 
 hand. 
 
 It was pleasant to see how she accommodated 
 herself to the simplicity of this Inn. Like all 
 philosophers who travel far (the phrase is un- 
 necessary, for all who travel far become philoso- 
 phers), there was none of that cheap belittling of 
 modest customs which was once thought to consti- 
 tute wit. 
 
 Indeed, I think we are all growing out of the 
 -+- 75 -J- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 boarding-house form of badinage. Food is not as 
 humorous as it once was. Possibly the gravity 
 of paying for the most inconsequential steak in 
 these days makes a direct appeal to our esteem. 
 It is a solemn matter. 
 
 There were other women guests spending the 
 summer in Bennington who were going off to a 
 " circle," from ten to one, to knit socks for the 
 Belgians. This was the real spirit for this famous 
 Revolutionary town. Only one of them lacked 
 the enthusiasm of citizen ess Molly Stark by de- 
 claring that three hours of knitting was too much 
 for her. " Her knitting," said a small lady, in a 
 small voice, after she had quitted the room, " is 
 too much for a Belgian as well." 
 
 Bennington is so full of historical spots that 
 one need but look out of his bedroom window 
 to sightsee. He can even confine himself to his 
 room. The Walloomsac Inn was built, as I was 
 told the night before, in 1776, by Captain Elijah 
 Dewey, who was not a captain for being an inn- 
 keeper, but for distinguishing himself in «very 
 war to which his long legs could carry him. 
 
 While there was much assembling of officers in 
 this hostelry, it was the Green Mountain Tavern, 
 a little farther along, which saw many of the 
 incidents of the Revolution. Not content with 
 being the first Vermont state house, it was the 
 
 -H-76-?- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 general headquarters of Ethan Allen. Here, 
 after the battle of Lexington, he mustered the 
 Green INIountain Boys for the taking of Ticon- 
 deroga; here, with drawn sword, he sent flying 
 Benedict Arnold, who had been sent to take com- 
 mand of this regiment; here he made his plans for 
 the battle of Bennington. And here so many 
 bowls of punch were drunk, to judge by an old 
 bill carefully preserved, that I was in a frenzy 
 to get out and see the place. I beg that my 
 enthusiasm will not arouse you, for, after all this, 
 I discovered that the building had had the bad 
 taste to burn down a year before I was born. 
 
 In the midst of the country's disorders the 
 landlord of this tavern had placed a stuffed cata- 
 mount over his door, and while it may not have 
 been put there as an emblem of Ethan Allen, 
 from what we gather of this vigorous warrior 
 it was not unfitting. 
 
 Now a bronze catamount is erected on the site, 
 serving, with Yankee thrift, the purpose of com- 
 memorating the tavern and Ethan Allen, and 
 snarling pointedly, as well, toward the Brecken- 
 ridge farm, which New York state and New 
 Hampshire each claimed. It was on this farm 
 that Allen and his famous Boys dispersed the 
 New York sheriff and a posse of seven hundred 
 men, who had come to take possession of the 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 land. This successful effort made Breckenridge 
 farm practically the birthplace of Vermont, for 
 the state then was but part of the New Hamp- 
 shire grants. And it arrived at its final name of 
 Vermont after a period of existence as New 
 Connecticut. 
 
 It is interesting to read of the continual inter- 
 necine strife among the states to claim lands as 
 their own, and to discourage rather than encour- 
 age the development of new states, while at the 
 same time they were in unison against a foreign 
 controlling power. It may be some satisfaction 
 to New York that the battle of Bennington was, 
 after all, four miles from the town near its own 
 village of Hoosick. But neither New York state, 
 nor any other state nor country, for that mat- 
 ter, can claim as lofty a shaft of stone erected to 
 the memory of a battle. 
 
 If one is pressed for time and the engine sings 
 purringly, let the motorist by all means see the 
 monument. It commemorates a battle of three 
 days, raw boys against a trained foreign leader 
 with Indian allies. At one time it would seem 
 that they might fail, but Captain Seth Warner 
 roused the tired men into greater zeal by announc- 
 ing that they would soon have reinforcements, and 
 to fight on until their arrival. The dramatic 
 imagination of the leader was sufficient. The 
 
 -f-78-e- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 British withdrew, and Seth Warner was become 
 a hero from a well-placed lie. 
 
 Even if one does not stop for all the tablets 
 that a growing appreciation of heroic events is 
 placing in position, he cannot but feel the vigour 
 of the town that has ever been contending for the 
 right. After the French and Indian War and 
 the Revolution, came the struggle to free the 
 slaves. William Lloyd Garrison established his 
 first anti-slavery newspaper here in 1828, and 
 years later, in the cellars of some of these old 
 houses now standing, slaves were hidden by day, 
 and sent a Godspeed by night toward Canada. 
 The town is making an industrial fight at i^resent, 
 to vie with other manufacturing centres, and this, 
 in times of peace, is surely as fit a means of 
 righteous advancement as any other form of de- 
 velopment. 
 
 We were loath to leave Bennington. Indeed, 
 we found ourselves quitting each charming old 
 town with a regret that was only equalled by a 
 desire to see more charming old towns. Besides, 
 the day was coquettish, blue sky to tease you 
 along and grey clouds, like fat policemen, hover- 
 ing about, as much as to say, " Dance in the sun- 
 shine when you can, we are apt to ' close up ' this 
 nonsense." 
 
 As we turned out of the new town toward 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 Manchester we passed a soldiers' home, fittingly 
 located here. One old fellow was walking feebly 
 along the road. Both the chauffeur and the 
 Illustrator saluted him, but he did not reply, and 
 I felt that the Grand Army of the Republic was 
 getting old, indeed, when it found no joy in the 
 return of a courtesy. 
 
 We stopped at the ancient covered bridge 
 
 across the Walloomsac River for W to make 
 
 a sketch. He went about it full of revolutionary 
 zeal, and I assisted him over a stone fence and 
 handed him his materials. It was one of his 
 arguments when we first tremulously discussed 
 buying a car that it would be a great saving of 
 expense. On pinning him down the saving was in 
 a sketching stool and occasional pennies for the 
 borrowing of a chair, for, he contended, he would 
 never have to get out of the machine at all. 
 
 But compositions in nature must be wooed by 
 sitting in damp alleys or wet fields or dirty farm- 
 yards — anywhere in fact that a motor cannot go. 
 In this case he leaped from rock to rock in the 
 river, seeking the best vantage points, each leap 
 followed by a contortion of the body in the effort 
 to recover his balance, which would have been 
 funny except that our artist could both see and 
 hear me. 
 
 Having explored the river he returned to the 
 -J- 80 -J- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 less dangerous spot which he had first selected — 
 the usual course of procedure — and went to work. 
 It was very quiet. I could hear our little clock 
 tick, and the click of golf balls on the course 
 across the road. The tumbling of the river but 
 added to the peace, or as some one else has more 
 beautifully put it: " The noises that go to make 
 up the great silence." 
 
 After a while W spoke, in fragments, and, 
 
 to a stranger, after the fashion of a madman. 
 " Well— don't," he said. A pause. "I'll give 
 you five more minutes." Another pause. Our 
 young driver looked at me inquiringly. I shook 
 my head. " Oh, come on " — ^impatiently from 
 the artist. 
 
 I watched the road and called to him. " It will 
 be here soon." 
 
 "Do you see it?" excitedly from him. 
 
 " It's coming — here it is." 
 
 And the sun, creeping down the road, shone 
 upon the Illustrator's subject. With hasty 
 strokes he put in the lights and shadows, which 
 he had been waiting to get. 
 
 " Got him, doggone him, but he was sickly," 
 and the Illustrator climbed back into the car. 
 
 The sun has always been at variance with him, 
 and in England, owing to his tenacity of purpose, 
 I have often despaired of motoring beyond the 
 
 ,-?-81-J- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 first sketch. And it is particularly annoying after 
 putting in weak high lights, as it were, to find 
 one's self in a white heat of sunshine a little 
 further on. 
 
 A little further on the sun was shining so beau- 
 tifully on a house that I begged for a photograph, 
 and in this way we stopped and talked to Ruby, 
 who was skipping a roj)e, and said the house of 
 sunshine was hers. 
 
 Ruby was a little girl, with an old-fashioned 
 blond pig-tail, who was uncertain about her last 
 name. Her father worked in a mill whose wheels 
 were turned by the water in front of her own 
 doorstep. She had a father, but no last name, she 
 contended, and we were much embarrassed by the 
 social problem presented. 
 
 However, she was in those tender years when 
 all conventions were but phrases learned in books 
 and used at random. She accepted chocolates 
 at our hands, and when gently prodded into a 
 fitting reply for these benefits, hopped in the mud 
 and said, " You're welcome." Possibly she recog- 
 nised that we were the real benefactors, follow- 
 ing the j)rinciple that it is more blessed to give 
 than to receive. 
 
 As she expressed a desire to dance before the 
 wheels, when we made ready to go we took her 
 into the car with us and gave her a little ride, 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 as the only sure avoidance of running over her. 
 Her mother, who was hanging out clothes in the 
 yard, waved to us complacently as we, in the 
 evident process of kidnapping, went by. It is 
 astonishing how a woman with a baby in one arm 
 and a handbag in the other will trust any stranger 
 with carrying the child while she suspiciously 
 holds on to the bag. 
 
 I expressed this to W , and the chauffeur, 
 
 who is ordinarily a silent young man, burst into 
 a story, which, as part of a motor trip, although 
 no part of a motor, shall be recorded. It was 
 about his aunt and dog, both of whom lived in a 
 New York flat, and the dog " died on her." She 
 was fond of the animal and would not consign it 
 to the gutter. So she laid it out in a neat box and 
 prepared for a trip to Staten Island where friends 
 would give it a Christian burial. 
 
 It was a heavy dog, and she had other parcels, 
 and when a kindly man at the ferry gates offered 
 to relieve her, she, without explanation, granted 
 him the large trim coffin. She never saw him 
 again, or, rather, she saw but his coat tails as he 
 flew across Battery Park with his stolen valu- 
 ables. 
 
 " And everybody thought my aunt was crazy 
 the way she laughed," he concluded, leaving the 
 real denouement to oiu' own imagination. Which 
 
 -H-83-i- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 was very delicate of one who does not make an 
 income out of stories. 
 
 Wooing the sunshine became our principal occu- 
 pation that day, but the country was so de- 
 lightful that the Illustrator could not forbear 
 sketching, and as I discovered that the only way 
 to avoid being in a photograph was to take it I 
 carried the camera. 
 
 We stopped at four cross-roads because there 
 was a mill and a pond and ducks. I was some 
 time learning that the place was South Shafts- 
 bury, for I asked the name of a man driving by 
 in a wagon, and found that he was tongue-tied. 
 Still Thouth Thathbury was fascinating — bar- 
 ring the sun and the ducks. The sun would shine 
 on the Illustrator but not on his subject, and 
 while I photographed him a number of times in 
 a strong high light, and told him so, he replied, 
 rather savagely, that he could not sketch him- 
 self, and if he did a cloud would burst all over 
 him. 
 
 The ducks, when it came time to be drawn, 
 swam under the bridge and had to be pebbled 
 into position. A pretty girl, of about sixteen, 
 crossed the bridge carrying her father's dinner. 
 She was the miller's daughter and very good at 
 pebbling. She said ducks were " kind of un- 
 ruly," and laughed pleasantly; her hair blew 
 
-— — ^■ " ■ ■^ ' <r ' -^ Jf^' '^ 2i 
 
 
 
 THE MILL POXD, SOUTH SHAP^TESBURY 
 
 ~^gg'°r?san.- 
 
 J 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 about, and she was so altogether what a miller's 
 daughter ought to be that I found our young 
 chauffeur making frantic efforts to get out his 
 derby before she had passed on. 
 
 Her pretty friendliness drove me into the mill 
 to see what nice kind of father she possessed. He 
 was a gentle little man with spectacles, who would 
 have better fitted a high stool in a banking office, 
 except that in New England even the road- 
 menders have a certain mental air about them, 
 and I put this down to a longer American pedi- 
 gree than the rest of our country can boast. 
 
 I told him that I was from Indiana and that 
 my grandfather had a flour mill, too. " Did it 
 run by steam?" he asked. I was obliged to 
 admit that it did. " Mine goes by the water- 
 power and the old wheel still," he answered. He 
 looked about the small granary peacefully. 
 " Time has passed me by, I guess." 
 
 There was no bitterness in his voice. No man 
 is a failure who does not lament it. 
 
 I told him that the artist did not pass him by 
 and nodded toward the Illustrator. At which 
 he smiled in rather an embarrassed way, and in 
 the silence offered me some wheat that had come 
 from Indiana. This I accepted, solemnly putting 
 it into my mouth, and I grew very young again, 
 as I made my way to the car munching the ker- 
 
 -J-85-e- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 nels into a paste, as I had done in my grand- 
 father's mill a good many years ago. 
 
 My grandfather and I used to drive home in 
 a sort of phaeton that had a little seat in front 
 which folded up, making itself small and low 
 against the dashboard. I thought of him as wfe 
 whirled on in the automobile. He died before 
 even the electric trams were installed, but he took 
 my mother many miles to see the first train go 
 through their part of the countrj^ " It's not 
 going to stop here," she tells me he said. And 
 I began wishing passionately that he could be 
 enjoying the motor trip with us up to Man- 
 chester. 
 
 An old farmer, looking as did James A. Heme 
 in Shore Acres ^ jogged by, bowing to us, a custom 
 that is dying out since the road has become more 
 generally peopled. But they all spoke to my 
 grandfather when we drove out in the sort of 
 phaeton to see the early wheat, and it got into 
 my head, along with the sunshine, and the wind, 
 and scudding clouds, that he was really sitting 
 alongside of me commanding the old-time recog- 
 nition. 
 
 Soon after we met a lad driving a road scraper, 
 who cursed us so long and loud for startling his 
 horses that I think the old, old gentleman by my 
 side was frightened away. At all events we be- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 ciinie very material and hungry, and speeded up 
 for Manchester. 
 
 The Automohile Club of Vermont, who, no 
 doubt, employed the youth who cursed us, has 
 sign-posted the roads ably, and it was near 
 Arhngton that we found a warning of a railway 
 crossing ahead, such as we had seen only in 
 France. It is a large painted sign of a white 
 picket fence, which is excellent to the traveller 
 whose pace is rapid. That is, it is excellent if the 
 motorist knows what the white picket fence stands 
 for. But one soon learns these symbols, and 
 after nine years' experience, I can almost tell 
 which way the road will curve when we are con- 
 fronted by a large " S " and a small black dot 
 representing the automobile. 
 
 Beyond Arhngton (which has the pleasant in- 
 novation of oil-lamps bracketed to the elms in its 
 one wide street) we stopped again, for the sun 
 was shining and there were Alderney cows on the 
 safe side of a stone fence in a mood for having 
 their pictures taken. I had no sooner descended 
 with the camera, however, than I discovered on 
 my side the fence a young ram with an aspira- 
 tion to try, not his budding wings, but his budding 
 horns. This bucolic incident sent us on to fash- 
 ionable Manchester in a spirit ready for the re- 
 sumption of genteel life. 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 The town had been prefaced by advertisements 
 urging us to buy Dutchess trousers on one board 
 and twin beds on another. Our chauffeur, under 
 the impression that the title Duchess was spelled 
 with a " t " became wildly anti-suffragette over 
 the sign. He said Plymouth Rock was a good 
 enough name for trousers, but to call them after 
 a lady was an insult both to the lady and the 
 wearing apparel. He, for one, would never wear 
 them. 
 
 We thought the urging of a motoring party by 
 a shopkeeper to buy twin beds and carry them 
 along with the rest of the impedimenta was quite 
 as foolish, and our perplexity was not ironed out 
 until we reached the outskirts of the village. 
 Here we discovered that it was an inn so elabo- 
 rately airing its equipment. And a very sad- 
 looking inn it was in spite of its appealing 
 furnishings. 
 
 We passed the famous Ekwanok Country Club 
 on our right before arriving at the Equinox 
 House. Here the National Amateur Golf Cham- 
 pionship was played in July over a course as 
 perfect as one can find in America. Indeed, this 
 country club appears to be the raison d'etre of 
 Manchester and the hotel. The Equinox Moun- 
 tains on our left and the Green Mountains on the 
 right may have had something to do with the 
 
 -i-88-<- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 success of Manchester some years back, but one 
 feels that the beauties of climate and landscape 
 are, at present, subsidiary to the value of the 
 clicking ball. 
 
 The hotel is like a vast club in itself. A call 
 board in the hallway is plastered with announce- 
 ments of coming events and records of past con- 
 tests; sporting prints adorn the wall, and I could 
 find no stationery at the desks in the writing- 
 room, but an unlimited number of score-cards. 
 
 The rooms were very pleasant. A selection of 
 furniture can be harmonious yet not limited to 
 any one period. One cannot see this more charm- 
 ingly exemplified than in the present instance. 
 Outside it was perfectly uniform, its succession of 
 white temples added to the old building as re- 
 quirements demanded, but inside was a medley 
 of past and present with none of the air of an 
 auction-room. 
 
 The men and women were in outing clothes, but 
 there was the same controlled enthusiasm among 
 them that we found in all of the hotels. It 
 was rather a relief to hear one husband ask his 
 wife if she had packed up everything. 
 
 " I have, cross-patch," she answered. 
 
 " Bet you left out something," he growled. 
 But he had lost his morning game of golf. 
 
 We left just as the orchestra had set in play- 
 -f-89-<- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 ing — for one is spared eating to ragtime — and we 
 motored away to the tune of " He Wouldn't 
 Believe Me." Neither " he " nor any one else 
 would believe that, after the turn of the road 
 at Manchester Depot, we were still within a 
 stone's throw of luxury. It is this sudden plung- 
 ing into what appears to be unexplored country, 
 after one has enjoyed every comfort known to 
 hotel science, that makes motoring in America so 
 distinct from that in any other land. It is hard 
 to find a more satisfactory combination. Rugged 
 scenery and a soft bed at the end of the day 
 should reach both stoic and epicurean. 
 
 We crossed the Green Mountains with Cornish 
 for our destination — provided we were not too 
 highly entertained en route — over the Peru Turn- 
 pike. A turnpike originally meant a road on 
 which a toll-gate is established, and the custom 
 is still maintained over the Peru Mountain. The 
 collection was made by a man as ancient as the 
 sign on which was painted the tariff, both of them 
 disinclined to any innovation beyond an adden- 
 dum in irregular script at the bottom of the list 
 of taxable vehicles, to the effect that an auto- 
 mobile must pay fifty cents. 
 
 This was a " bit stiff " for a road not worth a 
 dime, yet not out of proportion to other charges, 
 for a " pleasure sleigh," drawn by two horses, 
 
 -J- 90-+- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 commanded twenty cents, and one can imagine 
 nothing less wearing to the road than a pleasure 
 sleigh. 
 
 For the honour of Vermont we were glad to 
 learn that this pass over the mountains was owned 
 by a private concern. Years back they had se- 
 cured a franchise as enduring as an endless chain, 
 and had so far defeated the legislature from tak- 
 ing over the road, and the care of it, by the state. 
 There were men at work improving the way as 
 we bumped along, wearing red flannel shirts, like 
 individual danger-signals, each hiding his shame 
 of the roadbed behind a fierce moustache. I 
 caught the eye of one as it was uneasily shifting 
 from one rut to another. "Ideal tour, eh?" I 
 questioned. " I get you," he answered. 
 
 We have a flippant friend who has evolved a 
 creed out of mental science, pure-food talks, and 
 the current urgings to better ourselves. It re- 
 curred to me as we went over this pass: "Look 
 up, not down; look out, not in; chew your food; 
 lend a hand." 
 
 One need follow only the first mandate to feel 
 that this five miles of poor going is worth the 
 effort. When we looked up all difficulties ceased, 
 for nothing could be more lovely than the woods 
 through which we were passing or the views of 
 rolling mountains that tlie cleared spaces dis- 
 
 -e-91-+- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 closed. It was from these hills that Ethan Allen 
 drew those wondrous " Boys," stern as the rock- 
 ribbed land in their purpose, rich as the forest 
 growth in their strength, yet with a surface equip- 
 ment as poor as the road which we traversed. 
 Come to think of it — and now that we are over 
 the mountain — I shouldn't have that road any 
 different. 
 
 As though we were not appreciating the land- 
 scape sufficiently, a clean new sign suddenly an- 
 nounced: " Go slow, you are approaching " 
 
 leaving us in delicious doubt until we had rounded 
 the next curve and found that this was but the first 
 installment of a series. " Some of the grandest 
 scenery on earth — " continued the eulogy, until 
 it ended up in a fifth placard advising us to stop 
 at the Bromley House, Peru. 
 
 We did this, attracted by a large stuffed bear 
 outside the hotel, with our affections held by an 
 English sheep dog and a collie who, in the friend- 
 liest fashion, leaped upon and knocked me down. 
 
 There was a well, with a sweep, in the yard — 
 something that our chauffeur had never seen 
 before and who begged for an explanation of the 
 long pole with the bucket on the end. It occurred 
 to me of the number of things which we will have 
 to explain to the young people who are now 
 toddling about. The wells themselves will soon 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 be obsolete, many kinds of wagons and private 
 carriages, and street-cars, with horses, are already 
 being defined to the youngster of the alert West- 
 ern town. It is only New York City which 
 sports a small car drawn by a meagre horse with 
 the glorious sign of " Metropolitan." 
 
 The proprietor of the Bromley Inn came 
 vaguely down to greet us. His face had been 
 recently cut and scarred, and it was evident that 
 he was suffering under some mental and physi- 
 cal depression. As a result of this it was diffi- 
 cut to find his vulnerable point. The geniahty 
 of a Boniface seemed to be entirely lacking. He 
 has on the exterior wall of his home a large fire- 
 place of cobblestones, and although this was a 
 novelty he was indifferent to our praise of it. 
 Preferably we would not have praised it, as it 
 seems rather foolish to heat all creation when, by 
 going around on the other side the wall, one could 
 be more comfortable with less expense for fuel. 
 
 Nor did he grow warm to our mild enthusiasm 
 over the stuffed bear. It was not until I, feeling 
 that it was time for the truth, admitted rather 
 tartly that I hated to see wild animals stuffed 
 and set up for people to stare at that he thawed 
 at all. He said he didn't like it either, and as far 
 as he was concerned he would rather have a live 
 bear for a companion than a live man. 
 
 -J- 93-*- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 He walked down the road with us toward a 
 large paddock, where he had brought up some 
 deer. They came running to greet him, and 
 leaped in the air like little lambkins at play. 
 The dogs were very jealous, and all the animals 
 vied with each other for his favour. He owned 
 large tracts of virgin forests about here, virgin 
 forests, he emphasised, and there was a glow in 
 the words that set the imagination tingling. For- 
 ests where man had never trod! And if we ever 
 had time to come back and stay with him, he 
 would take us there. 
 
 " The animals live as they should, and as long 
 as I can hold on to that property they are going 
 to continue that way. A bear up in my woods," 
 he concluded, " doesn't know what a shot means." 
 
 We shook hands at parting and he broke 
 through his wall of Yankee reserve to ask that 
 we pardon any stiffness we might find in his 
 manner. " I had a bad fire last week," he said, 
 as though ashamed of his emotion. " My ances- 
 tral home burned down. I like old things and 
 I'm sort of lonely still. You come back in the 
 spring. The spring makes everything all right." 
 
 Ah! the cry of us all. How we count upon rec- 
 reation to stir the sluggish blood in our hearts. 
 
 We learned more of our old gentleman at our 
 next stopping-place. We need not have stopped, 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 we knew that we could never get to our friends in 
 Cornish that night if we continued puttering 
 along the way. But puttering is one of the joys 
 of the motorist. For years I looked from car- 
 windows, looked regretfully as we whirled past 
 old farmhouses which deserved a second glance, 
 past hrooks that one should sit by, woods one 
 should enter for a while, but the relentless wheels 
 carried us on until we had arrived at some dull 
 wooden station which no one wished to see, bear- 
 ing on the front the name of a muddy town which 
 no one wished to visit. 
 
 In revenge for these years we now stop when- 
 ever we wish, and at Rowell's Inn, near Simons- 
 ville, we flung ourselves out and rushed upon Mr. 
 Rowell. There is a tumbling brook within sound 
 of the bedrooms in this spotless inn, there are 
 mountains at the back, with a good road for good 
 cheer in front, and there is Mrs. Rowell in the 
 kitchen, famous for her cooking, and jNIr. Row- 
 ell on the front porch to tell us all about it. 
 
 He asked immediately of the melancholy old 
 gentleman whom we had just left and if his 
 scars had healed. It was then we learned that 
 he had risked his life trying to get his mother- 
 in-law out of his burning ancestral home. " He 
 is a hero," said Mr. Rowell. We thought it very 
 like the proprietor of Bromley's Inn to have said 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 nothing of this, rather permitting us to carry 
 away an impression of his taciturnity than any 
 more glowing attribute. 
 
 " And to do it for his mother-in-law," delicately 
 commented the Illustrator. All of which was 
 very unnecessary, as he has the best mother-in- 
 law in the world, but Mr. Rowell smiled indul- 
 gently and said he guessed the world would be 
 a good deal older than it is before the mother-in- 
 law joke grew stale. This quieted the Illustrator, 
 who wants to be the original discoverer of all 
 jokes. 
 
 We left the inn mad with regret, and we 
 advise such of those as have no waiting friends 
 in Cornish to spend the night there, or at least 
 to stay for a meal. With a little connivance the 
 traveller can avoid all the big hotels and find him- 
 self living most excellently in the country hos- 
 telries. That is, if he " loves the cows and chick- 
 ens," and is not too keen " to raise the dickens." 
 
 Such a trip as the one we had just made over the 
 Green Mountains deserves a lodge in the wilder- 
 ness at the end of the run. I would not urge it 
 should we make ourselves uncomfortable. Fresh 
 air is excellent, no doubt, yet I find those who 
 have been sniffing adulterated ozone ever since 
 their birth to be in the enjoyment of as good 
 health as those who have known only the Simon- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 pure article. But lodges in the wilderness like 
 Rowell's Inn have tiled bathrooms, running water, 
 spotless linen — on twin beds, and there is air 
 besides. 
 
 We departed from Simonsville, not knowing 
 we had entered it, so minute is the village, and in 
 this manner acquired and quitted minuter Lon- 
 donderry — on past scattered houses, each with 
 something to sell: sweet cider and soft drinks; 
 rag carpets and gasoline; home-made pies and 
 overalls. 
 
 There were sawmills along the route, and the 
 only one comestible not for sale was sawdust. 
 Stern placards at every mill absolutely forbade 
 us to buy sawdust. As time went on we grew 
 peevish over this, and felt the necessity for saw- 
 dust as we had never felt it before. We realised, 
 for the first time, the various uses we could have 
 made of a large sack of this commodity. If we 
 broke down we could sleep upon it; the chauffeur 
 said we could, at a pinch, extract some nourish- 
 ment from it. And I argued that, with the pur- 
 chase of a machine of several tons' pressure, we 
 could evolve this shifting valuable into trays, 
 toy dogs, Nubian boys, and, no doubt, hats and 
 gloves. 
 
 But there was nothing to do save to drive past 
 these lost opportunities as rapidly as possible, 
 
 -«-97h- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 concentrating on a sign which urged us to buy 
 our soda water at Dodge's. Dodge is an enter- 
 prising man, filhng the woods for miles with his 
 impassioned plea. The only trouble with Dodge 
 is his too early attack upon the automobilist. 
 Long before we reached his pharmacy our thirst 
 had so developed by the tempting advertisement 
 that we stopped at a soda fountain this side his 
 much-vaunted one, slaking our thirst and driving 
 past Dodge's without the expenditure of a dime. 
 
 At Chester we stopped for the cheapest gaso- 
 line on the trip. The boy who brought it out 
 said, between set teeth, that Chester was bound 
 everj'' auto would stop there if only for a minute, 
 and nothing stopped a rich man like cheap gaso- 
 line. It was an uncomfortable truth, but one 
 could not deny the enterprise of the village. 
 Even those who travel by rail were not forgotten. 
 In the shop from which our gasoline was pro- 
 cured was another sign indicating that mileage 
 could be " Bought, Sold, or Rented." 
 
 And this brought us up, with a bump, against 
 the railway once more. When one motors he 
 immediately forgets that there is any other way 
 of getting about, and after a day in the woods 
 is snobbishly surprised to hear that trains are 
 running at all. 
 
 In the growing dusk we picked our way toward 
 -e-98-H- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 Springfield, directed, or rather misdirected, by a 
 perfect fury of red arrows which, had they not 
 been nailed to trees, could have slaughtered a regi- 
 ment. It was this deadly insistent attack that set 
 me to wondering who put up the first arrow as 
 an emblem to point the way. 
 
 I leaned over and asked W this and, not 
 
 knowing, he pretended not to hear me. But 
 who did? Our imagination now embraces the 
 full meaning of that sharp little point. Nothing 
 could be more fitting. But who thought of it 
 first? I again prodded the Illustrator. " The 
 worst of it is," I said to him, " there isn't any, 
 way of finding out except to ask and ask and 
 ask." Still he did not answer, and I sat back 
 moodily. 
 
 We were approaching the mill town of Spring- 
 field, Vermont, in a thick darkness. We could 
 never get to Cornish, and, while not admitting it, 
 we were looking for the Adna Brown Hotel for 
 our resting-place. It w^as on our left and could 
 not be missed, and while it was not a tourist 
 hotel, a lanky boy came out promptly to take off 
 the baggage. I started briskly up the stairs to- 
 ward the desk, as it is ever my duty to look 
 after the rooms, but the Illustrator stoj)ped me. 
 He is a marvellous man — he always knows of 
 what I am thinking. 
 
 -^99^- 
 
I MEET SOME INNKEEPERS 
 
 " I absolutely forbid you," he said, " to ask 
 the clerk who put up the first arrow to point the 
 way. This is a travelling man's hotel and they'll 
 think we're crazy." 
 
 So I didn't — until morning. 
 
 100 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 Concerning Vermonters and their Ways 
 
 There are travelling Americans who have never 
 seen the inside of the hotel which depends upon 
 commercial men to keep it going. They know 
 the large houses of Florida, the huge structures 
 along the Northern beaches, the caravansaries in 
 New York, but they pass through life without 
 experiencing the soggy " comforters " of the 
 Middle West, the short sheets of the South, or — 
 anywhere — the overpowering odour of an aban- 
 doned cigar-stub which cannot be found. It is a 
 pity, for this traveller never fully knows the 
 world. 
 
 We dined recently at a table of New Yorkers 
 where not one of the women guests present had 
 ever entered the Subway save myself. I realised 
 that I should have very little to say to them, as 
 my main topics of conversation dealt with the 
 events that I witnessed while carrying on a mole- 
 like existence underground. 
 
 I was sorry for them, as I appreciated how 
 necessarily limited their experiences must be when 
 they must ever travel to and fro segregated in 
 
 -J-1014- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 a limousine, like a lonely wax figure in a show- 
 case. How can they possibly know how the 
 " other side " lives when they meet it only upon 
 platforms of charitable institutions. Even in the 
 excellent course of settlement work, of house-to- 
 house visiting, one endures but momentary dis- 
 comfort. But a trip in the Subway at the rush- 
 hour is a great leveller. We are a unit of misery, 
 save that some are sitting down and some are 
 standing. 
 
 But, more than this, what there is of humour 
 is also for the massed crowd. I shall never for- 
 get my gratitude to one shabby shopgirl talking 
 to another on the first day that I found myself 
 packed in with no room to raise my head or my 
 hand, and rather uncertain about the existence 
 of one of my feet. The desire came to me to 
 scream and to fight my way out, and I might 
 have done so but for the shopgirl. Her con- 
 versation was for me, or the next one, or all 
 of them who could hear. " My photos come out 
 all rigiit," she was saying, " but you should 'a' 
 seen Gertie's — taken readin' a book, if you please. 
 And her with a double chin." 
 
 This extolling of the seamy side of life may 
 
 lead one to believe that the Adna Brown comes 
 
 under the class of the hotels one misses by a 
 
 strictly conventional life. Yet it is not. It stands 
 
 -h 102 -J- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 as a pleasant warning that these conditions are 
 passing in America, that they have passed in 
 Springfield, Vermont, and that one must be up 
 and about it if he wishes to experience the full 
 value of the poet's verse: " Short sheets make the 
 night seem longer." 
 
 In every mill town where there is power you 
 will find your room blazing with light, and you 
 will find each year added private bathrooms, a 
 decorous array of towels, and an inclination on the 
 part of the chambermaid to let one sleep in the 
 morning without rattling the doorknob every five 
 minutes. 
 
 This is not due to the automobilist ; rather, to 
 the keen little men who arrive with huge packing 
 cases, lay out their wares on long tables, and, I 
 regret to say, leave the door open to stare out 
 as you pass in the hall. 
 
 It is the drummer, supposed to be composed 
 entirely of jokes, who is as vigorous in his de- 
 mands for long sheets as is the motorist for good 
 roads. His presence continues after we have 
 entered a room and he has quitted it, for now 
 we find a Bible in most of the hotels. " Placed 
 in this hotel by the Gideons," is the gold-lettered 
 explanation on the blat^k binding. 
 
 This is an oracular statement which occasioned 
 a prompt returning to the office-desk the first 
 -?-103-«- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 time I found such a volume. Whereas an ac- 
 quaintance of mine, under the impression that 
 they were left as an offering to the next guest, 
 carried off her first three copies, and has but 
 lately stilled her conscience by locating the head- 
 quarters of the Gideons, and sending them a 
 check. For this band, while wanderers in the 
 days of the Old Testament, are now an organised 
 body of travelling men, scattering stories and 
 Bibles and all the commodities of life through- 
 out the land. And since they possess a sense 
 of humour they do not, as did a certain church 
 house who made an effort to spread the gospel 
 in this fashion, chain the holy books to the dress- 
 ing-tables. 
 
 Enfin — ^let us thank the commercial men for 
 an excellent night in Springfield, I comfortably 
 in my room during the evening, and W mak- 
 ing short flights between his and the office, where 
 a number of mill-owners had chanced to drop in 
 and, hearing of our enterprise, urged us to go 
 over the city in the morning. We rebelled 
 against this, as we do against all effort toward 
 the improvement of our minds, and when morn- 
 ing came motored hastily away, the more hastily 
 as I had made the blunder of tipping one of the 
 hotel clerks under the impression that he was a 
 bell-boy. He had been industriously serving us 
 -8-104-«- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 in many ways, even to the carrying down of the 
 baggage, and it is to his credit that he did not 
 embarrass me by a refusal of the coin, but swept 
 it magnificently into the till for the general good 
 of the Adna Brown. 
 
 A bell-boy in a hotel of modest pretensions 
 once told me that he received seven dollars a week 
 from the manager and made twenty-five more out 
 of his tips. The hotel clerks average, I believe, 
 eighteen dollars weekly, and it speaks well for 
 the spirits which " never, never will be slaves " 
 that many bell-boys aspire to be clerks, but no 
 clerks are tempted, by monetary considerations, 
 to be bell-boys. The latter class in America are 
 purely in a transitional stage. Their present 
 servitude does not seem to bar them from a future 
 position when they will be the employers and 
 not the employed. 
 
 In spite of their alertness, however, I have 
 not found them a promising set of young men. 
 And I have talked with them of their ambitions 
 until the Illustrator has " ahemmed " at me 
 loudly. After a little practice one can make 
 successful deductions without interrogation. If 
 their hands are large they wish to become prize- 
 fighters; if inclined to stale jokes they are con- 
 templating the gay hfe of a drummer; and when 
 the hair on the head is long and wavy they expect 
 -J- 105 -a- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 to go on the stage. I did find one bright-faced 
 lad who was struggling for a college education, 
 but the reason for his efforts was to " put it all 
 over the gang," and while this may be a more 
 general aspiration among university men than is 
 admitted, it is not, let us hope, the spirit of an 
 embryo president. 
 
 At this point I have been gently reminded by 
 the man looking over my shoulder that our story 
 was primarily a motoring one, and any wide 
 divergence is not only a breach of style, but one 
 of faith to the man who might wish to know the 
 road to Cornish. 
 
 This brings me promptly back to the road, 
 which was a very good one out of Springfield, 
 with the sun shining on both the Illustrator 
 and myself — ^the unjust and the just — and our 
 chauffeur so elated that I hoped he might 
 be feeling, although a phlegmatic youth, the 
 jubilation of mere hving. But it was not 
 that — his deep satisfaction was occasioned by a 
 reduction in the garage bill for the night, as 
 the proprietor had inferred that the chauffeur 
 was hacking the car " because it looked so awful." 
 And while we endeavoured to beam back at him, 
 we were both entertaining the shame that a 
 parent must feel over a dirty baby. 
 
 We went on, feebly polishing the brass rail, 
 -J-106-J- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 and not crossing the two bridges when we reached 
 the Connecticut River, but on up the left bank, 
 which affords good going and few travellers. 
 There were skittish horses along the way, which 
 occasioned a gentle manipulation of the car and 
 a great deal of patience. We were reminded of 
 the questions put to a young chauffeur applying 
 for a license. 
 
 " What would you do if you met a frightened 
 horse?" severely asked that power that issues 
 licenses. 
 
 " Slow down the car," said the aspirant 
 promptly. 
 
 "And if still frightened?" 
 
 " Stop the car." 
 
 "And still frightened?" 
 
 " Stop the engine." 
 
 "And still frightened?" 
 
 " Get out and lead it past." 
 
 " And still " 
 
 "Oh, thunder! Take the car to pieces and 
 hide it in the grass." 
 
 This was told us in the desert of the Sahara, 
 as we were coaxing a caravan of camels past 
 our automobile, so I do not present it as a fresh 
 incident — it takes many repetitions before a story 
 reaches the Sahara. 
 
 With a like benevolent intention, we stopped 
 -f- 107 -^ 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 the car for a black dog, which held to an in- 
 clination to suicide by racing us under the wheels. 
 Life seemed uncommonly good to him after his 
 rescue, and he twisted himself gratefully when 
 we descended to sketch his ancestral mansion. 
 
 The owner of the black dog (the black dog's 
 name was Brownie) also lived in the house and 
 took me up to see his wife, who thought — out 
 loud, through the window — that she ought to 
 change her apron, but was induced to let it re- 
 main, clean and blue-checked. 
 
 She was wiry and grey-haired and cheery, and 
 we hippity-hopped together among her flower 
 beds. Many of the posies were planted in old 
 stone jars, which they had found in the house 
 when they took it, and " he " had painted a blue 
 design on the surface, for his father had been a 
 sea captain and he had always liked the Chinese 
 ginger- jars that he once brought home from a 
 cruise. She feared an early frost, as the nights 
 were so cool, and that her late roses might get 
 a nippin', and we deprecated the chill of life, 
 which must " bhght us all," as she put it. 
 
 I congratulated them upon having a stone 
 house in which to keep warm, and it was then 
 I learned that stone houses were not warm and 
 had an unfortunate, if industrious, way of stor- 
 ing up damp, and letting it out when the winter 
 r+- 108 H- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 fires began. The farmer was in a position to 
 know — they had had thirty years of it. The 
 property wasn't " quite clear " yet, he said, with 
 that tight-lipped New England dignity which 
 must tell the truth though it hurt him. 
 
 The pathos of thirty years of mortgage! And 
 to think that we ask for them at the bank as an 
 investment, and are disgruntled when they are 
 paid off. 
 
 The farmer had a niece in Indiana who was 
 married to a jeweller, but with his honest grey 
 eyes looking at me I could not say that I was 
 acquainted with them, although I should have 
 enjoyed doing so, that we might both exclaim, 
 "How small the world is!" I could truthfully 
 report that the crops had been excellent, for I 
 remembered a phrase in my mother's letter (who 
 writes me solemnly of the crops once a year) to 
 that effect. And he said, rather wistfully, that he 
 guessed they always were good out there. 
 
 I looked over his domain, the settled beauty 
 of the old house, the taste of the blue-painted 
 jars, the shimmering river, the stretch of the 
 Connecticut Valley, the hills prodding the sky- 
 line gently, and in all sincerity I thought him 
 better off than in the rich, flat world of the un- 
 imaginative Middle West. I said this, and he 
 asked me hesitatingly, as though he ought by 
 -h 109 -f- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 right to be talking of pumpkins, why so many 
 authors come from these parts — then. 
 
 So I expounded to him my theory: it was be- 
 cause the country was ugly, and li^^ng rather 
 mean, that the mind must create its own beauty 
 and the soul must imagine what is not there, 
 giving expression to its fancies by writing them 
 down rather than by experiencing them. 
 
 We were quite caught up in the clouds until 
 it came time to shake hands and say good-bye. 
 Shaking hands in America makes us conscious. 
 It is like going to the train to see people off — 
 there is nothing more to be said after the touch 
 of palms. Only the Arabs do this with enthu- 
 siasm, the adieux growing to a full crescendo 
 after the hand-shaking. It is their cocktail of 
 good-bye. 
 
 " There is no doubt about it," I said to 
 
 W , when we were on our way once more, 
 
 " I like these Vermont people." 
 
 Before he could reply our car slacked its pace 
 to ask a pedestrian if we were " right " for Wind- 
 sor. Yet we were not answered immediately, for 
 the eye of the one accosted lighted upon a friend 
 passing in a buggy, and he put us aside to 
 parley. 
 
 " Got a new buggy? " 
 
 " Yep," said the occupant of the buggy. 
 -^110^- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 "What you done with the old one?" 
 
 " Kep ' it." 
 
 "Want to trade it?" 
 
 " Nope." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " Getap." 
 
 Then we were advised of the route laconically. 
 
 " Like 'em still? " asked W of me. 
 
 " Yep," I answered stoutly. 
 
 At Windsor one must cross the river for 
 Cornish, thereby quitting Vermont and entering 
 New Hampshire. Our mapped-out itinerary 
 demanded this, but if we ever find ourselves with 
 leisure on our hands again, we will devote it to 
 the Connecticut Valley, from the source of the 
 stream far up on the Canadian line doAvn through 
 its three hundred sixty miles of sinuous beauty. 
 
 As Doctor Holmes says, " it loiters down like 
 a great lord," which, at this point of the river, is 
 a most perfect simile. A historian goes further, 
 recommending it for " the frequency and elegance 
 of its meanders," this praise being sustained by a 
 native along the way, who claims that it meanders 
 so utterly at one point that a man with a gim 
 can stand on the river-bank in New Hampshire, 
 fire across Vermont, and lodge his ball in New 
 Hampshire again. The solution of this can be 
 worked out only b}^ pen and pencil, lacking the 
 -i- 111 -J- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 gun and particular spot where the river so twists, 
 but it is no more perplexing than the antics of 
 the sun at Panama, which stubbornly sets in the 
 East. 
 
 I had been polishing up on the history of the 
 Connecticut Valley while rocking in my com- 
 fortable chair (secured for me by the insistent 
 drummers) back in Springfield, and as we went 
 on through the beaming sunlight I almost wished 
 that I hadn't read it. For this gentle length of 
 road over which we were " elegantly meander- 
 ing " was the trail of the Indians who drove their 
 captives from the settlement in lower Vermont, 
 New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Connecti- 
 cut — the trail on which they beat them, tortured 
 them, abandoned them to die, selling into slavery 
 to the Frenchmen of Canada such poor frag- 
 ments as endured. 
 
 Whole villages were at times rounded up like 
 cattle and started northward. Each Indian was 
 allotted one or more prizes, and while it was to 
 the interest of the warrior to keep the settlers 
 alive, at the end of every day's march such cap- 
 tives as gave evidence of flagging strength were 
 killed. And yet it was these savages, these crea- 
 tures of instinctive poetry, who called the river 
 The Smile of God. 
 
 I often reflect, without dawn of reason on 
 -?- 112 -f- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 the subject, upon the white man who gave the 
 first gun to the first Indian. Who began it — 
 what was the value of the bundle of furs that 
 he probably received in return? It is well known 
 that arrows were comparatively ineffectual 
 against guns — it would seem to be the one method 
 of safeguarding the white settlers — j^et the ex- 
 change of some commodity or other for muskets 
 must have become general, for even in the wars 
 of 1675 many of the red men possessed firearms. 
 
 The number of settlers killed during the early 
 wars is so small to us now, in this age of com- 
 plete annihilation of regiments, that I hesitate 
 to put it down. Yet, while the toll of dead dur- 
 ing the uprising of the Indians under the Mas- 
 sasoit, Philip, was but six hundred in all, that 
 represented one man out of every twenty living 
 in New England. And the expense of the war, 
 put down as half a million dollars, all but beg- 
 gared the community. 
 
 The Indians may have come down the river 
 in canoes, but one does not read of any such 
 comfortable transportation up the stream with 
 their prisoners — possibly for the reason that it 
 was up the stream, and there may have been a 
 stern resistance in the current of The Smile of 
 God. 
 
 Freight as mournful has rested upon the 
 
 -f-113H- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 bosom of its waters, mournful if one can apply 
 that word to effort unrecognised. Fourteen years 
 before Robert Fulton paddled his boat, the 
 Clermont, up the Hudson, under steam, Samuel 
 Morey set the Connecticut Valley gaping by a 
 small steamer of his own invention. 
 
 He had but one paddle-wheel at first, and his 
 speed was hardly that of a motor-boat. There 
 were some solemn conclaves among the capitalists 
 of the Valley over the advisability of financing 
 this young man toward further endeavour. And 
 it was decided if he could manage to attain a 
 maximum speed of eight miles an hour that the 
 queer craft might have possibilities which would 
 be worth developing. 
 
 Morey then added a wheel to the other side 
 of the boat, attained the eight miles, and was 
 deserted, for some reason or other, by his cau- 
 tious friends of high finance. The history in 
 which I found this story went a little further 
 than chroniclers of dry events generally do, and, 
 entering the realms of psychology, told the reader 
 that the inventor accepted his defeat with great 
 philosophy, sunk his boat, and lived to a genial 
 old age as a market gardener. 
 
 I was grateful for this denouement, as it was 
 the only optimistic note I could catch in all the 
 sad story of this peaceful farming country. Yet 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 to see the land itself, evolved from the wilderness 
 by a patience and fearlessness of which a quak- 
 ing motorist has no grasp, is possibly the cheer- 
 iest symbol of optimism to be found in or out of 
 a chronicle. 
 
 It was something of a grief to the Illustrator, 
 who still thrills at Indian lore, that Windsor, 
 which we were rapidly approaching, bore no 
 marks of tomahawks on old oaken doors. In- 
 deed, we have found that the most dramatic 
 events of which we read take place just this side 
 of the point where we " turn in," or just beyond 
 the point where we " turn out." 
 
 I tried to tell him that we should be glad we 
 were spared any more definite visualising of the 
 cruelties his own forbears suffered (he is from 
 Vermont — and Virginia — and other states), and 
 he replied that he didn't want any one to have 
 been out and out killed there, but scalping does 
 not necessarily cause death. I sat back sternlj^ 
 It is amazing how men refuse to grow up. 
 
 And yet they do! With the sure instinct of 
 mankind he picked out some one in the far dis- 
 tance to ask more of Windsor, and she was, 
 again, a very pretty girl. She said we could go 
 to the hotel if we wanted to, but she advised 
 the Windsor Club — she was going there herself. 
 So the Illustrator thought that the Windsor 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 Club was much the better place, and we went 
 her way — where she turned out to be a waitress, 
 but, undoubtedly, a head waitress. 
 
 The Club has been erected by the mill-owners 
 for the men, and the public have only the privi- 
 lege of the restaurant and the telephone. We 
 telephoned to our long-suffering friends in Cor- 
 nish, who had ceased to become friends, we dis- 
 covered, and had gone off for a day and night. 
 We were sorry to lose them, but there was a 
 sort of motor press on, press ever gleam in our 
 eyes, which placed friends as something better 
 than a dog, but not as dear as a good day's run. 
 
 Since our destination was Rutland, we could 
 have motored on up the Valley on the Vermont 
 side, or could, after crossing the river, cling to 
 the river-bank and continue over the excellent 
 Lebanon Turnpike, recrossing the river at West 
 Lebanon. 
 
 But it is foolish to be so near Cornish and 
 not become part of it for a moment, no matter 
 how indifferent the Cornishmen may be about 
 having you there. There is something rustic in 
 the name Cornishmen, but there is nothing rustic 
 about them in reality, with the exception of their 
 gardens — and those are as beautifully cultivated 
 as the minds which own them. 
 
 One does not think, as a rule, of minds owning 
 -hU6-t- 
 

 IV^S 
 
 / 
 
 
 
 •-^•1 
 
 i 
 
 4 -S-^-"** 
 
 
 
 A GARDEN' AT CORXISH 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 beautiful stretches of property, and houses eon- 
 taming chairs, bolsters, flat silver, Oriental rugs, 
 vacuum-cleaners, a phonograph (behind a Japa- 
 nese screen), and other essentials to living. We 
 see fat people owning such comfortable resting- 
 places. But Cornish contains a summer colony, 
 noted for minds, and for the best ones, which 
 means that they are not dull, ponderous masses 
 of grey matter which confound you with facts, 
 and fill you with a panicky feeling that you will 
 not understand what they are going to say next. 
 
 One of the rewards of increasing years is an 
 experience in proportion, and I have found, with 
 relief, that the really great brain is not wrapped 
 in a garment of perplexity, but is as simple and 
 understandable as a nude figure. 
 
 The quality of a retiring mind is charming 
 unless you are a motorist trying to see the great 
 estates in Cornish, then you become exasperated, 
 as the gardens for which the locahty is famous 
 are so retired from the road that one gets nothing 
 but R. F. D. boxes, with magical names on the 
 outside to show that any one lives beyond the 
 iron gates but Mother Nature. 
 
 We wished that all of the houses could be inns, 
 for an inn may be as modest as a daisy, but, like 
 a daisy, it is indigenous to the roadside and in 
 plain view. We had no sooner crossed the river 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 than we came upon one little white tea-house, with 
 blinds the colour of fresh green lettuce, and a 
 swinging sign painted, we knew immediately, by 
 Maxfield Parrish. 
 
 A few yards further on, overlooking the river, 
 is another where one may dine as well as tea, and 
 the traveller would do well to take a meal there. 
 He may argue that he is not hungry, and I can 
 only reply that he will be so by the time he 
 reaches the hotel at White River Junction. 
 Whereas if you are not hungry when you arrive 
 at the Junction you need not stop at that un- 
 romantic spot, but can motor on to Woodstock, 
 and replete with food, remain sensible to the 
 beauties of nature. It is difficult to lay too great 
 value on a well-filled stomach when one is out 
 to admire scenery. 
 
 We still had a friend — or two — left in Cornish, 
 in spite of those leaving hastilj^ whom we were 
 about to visit. And we asked the way of a de- 
 lightful miss, on the edge of long skirts, who 
 was sitting on one of the few porches exposed to 
 the naked eye of the passing visitor. 
 
 She was bursting with knowledge, for she had 
 often visited our acquaintances, she said, but 
 nothing could have wriggled more in the impart- 
 ing of the directions unless it was the dachshund 
 squirming in her arms. 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 " You go," she said, " yes — you go at least two 
 miles — pretty straight — and then you come to a 
 church " — she hesitated — " or do you? That's 
 just it." Her agony of mind was terrible to wit- 
 ness. " And then, supposing you do come to the 
 church, you turn to the right. Yes, you do, but 
 oh, horrors ! " she pressed the dachshund to her 
 brow. "Is it before the graveyard or after it?" 
 
 As the result of this complete revelation we 
 thought it safer to inquire further at the post- 
 office, and found it was after the cemetery, which 
 
 w^as satisfactory in a waj^ proving, as W 
 
 said, that these friends would remain friends even 
 beyond the grave. Yet the government official 
 (also a dispenser of garden seed, underwear, and 
 photographs of President Wilson's summer resi- 
 dence) was not entirely right, and it would 
 seem that it is as difficult to define a country 
 residence as to tell the truth in a witness chair. 
 
 But we found it, first climbing a little hill to 
 the second house and, being wrong, descending 
 it again to the third house, where we were im- 
 mediately encircled by a garden, puppies, sleek 
 cats, and our friends. The scene was so lovely 
 that, for an instant, we wondered why our par- 
 ticular inclination has kept us always in a sort 
 of perpetual motion, instead of settling down with 
 one vista for contemplation instead of a ceaseless 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 demand for a continual unfolding of new land- 
 scapes. 
 
 The regret for our unsettled condition was only 
 for the instant, however. Soon we were in the 
 car again, philosophising that we wouldn't be 
 moving about in this fashion if it was not best 
 suited to our dispositions, and rather blaming it 
 on the Lord. I don't know how some of us 
 could quiet our conscience if we did not reflect 
 that the Lord made us. 
 
 Through lovely country lanes we twisted our- 
 selves in and out of various towns, all called 
 Lebanon, and, crossing a bridge again, were re- 
 luctantly at White River Junction. I defy any 
 one to name a charming town, or a moderately 
 pretty one, or even a stylish village, that staggers 
 under the appellation of Junction. It is as cruel 
 as .naming a girl Eliza or a baby boy Methuselah. 
 The town could as well have been one of the 
 Lebanons — West — West Lebanon possibly, for, 
 while locomotives were busy running up and 
 down in front of the hotel — after the manner of 
 junctions — the name is not the result of the meet- 
 ing of railroads, but of the engulfing of White 
 River by the waters of the Connecticut. 
 
 Although we were hungry, and White River 
 Junction ugly, and the locomotives noisy, we 
 found occasion to liken humanity to this merging 
 ■H-120-*- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 of one defined river into another. How the weak 
 feed the strong! How unconscious the strong are 
 that they, in their greed, liave sapped up for 
 their expansion all the little thoughts and the 
 indi\adual efforts of such mortals who, by their 
 situation and equipment, can be but tributaries 
 in the scheme of life. And, even so, how right it 
 all is! The great stream serves great purposes — 
 but it is a sustaining thought that it could not do 
 without the little tributaries. 
 
 There were several parties of motorists in the 
 hotel dining-room, and out of each party was 
 one fat woman. I have never failed to observe 
 this, although it is still an open question as to 
 whether one acquires flesh from motoring or that 
 one motors who has acquired flesh. It is an un- 
 easy question and has a tendency to the curtail- 
 ing of soup while touring, and by a hurried exit 
 resisting the seductive New England pie. 
 
 It was our waitress at luncheon who urged the 
 pie upon us. She said it was " all right " — and 
 it was. I had not lifted my eyes to her face until 
 we had reached the sweets. Her body was so 
 trim that I thought her young, but her face was 
 of an alarming plainness, and she went about her 
 work with a sad elimination of bantering, as 
 though such things were not for her. 
 
 I thought of the unlovely way that the truth 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 about herself must have been thrust upon her 
 when she was a young waitress, with an inchna- 
 tion to doubt her mirror and a secret hope that 
 some one of the commercial travellers would find 
 her worthy of his light admiration. But that 
 was long ago, and now with an appreciation of 
 her limitations she wisely chose the air of an 
 ascetic. 
 
 Even at her age she could not escape the ma- 
 terial sizing up of one gross guest at table. His 
 eye, like mine, had first embraced her delicate 
 waist, but as he worked up to her homely features 
 he winked openly at his companion and gave a 
 loud guff'aw. She was impervious to his humour, 
 however, and brought him everything for which 
 he had asked — and this was Christian charity to 
 the limit. 
 
 We turned sharply at our right upon leaving 
 White River (I cannot say Junction again) 
 along the valley road of the — a halt to verify the 
 spelling — Ottaquechee. 
 
 Two late haymakers, or, rather, two makers of 
 late hay, told us the name of the river. Strangely 
 enough for those who live in the valley, they 
 stumbled in the telling, and, while I am no 
 farmer, they presented an equal incapacity for 
 haymaking. Since their wagons were pictur- 
 esque, I asked if they would allow me to photo- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 graph them. This is not an unusual request in 
 the country, and in any chme the mention of a 
 photograph is a sign for a quick acquiescence, and 
 a certain setting to rights of one's clothing. 
 
 But these incapable haymakers continued 
 amazing by a burst of laughter and an acceptance 
 of our offer without the hitching of a suspender. 
 It was trying to my vanity, but I followed the 
 usual formula, and upon the clicking of the 
 camera offered to send them prints if they would 
 give me their names. And at this there was an 
 ill-concealed attempt to muzzle more laughter, 
 consequent with a removing of old straw hats 
 to beg my pardon, for, they told us, they were 
 moving-picture actors rehearsing a scene, and 
 they averaged about ten thousand pictures of 
 themselves a day. The Illustrator rummaged 
 for his flask, and we chatted a little until a large 
 motor came up with their camera man and di- 
 rector. 
 
 On the outside was painted the name of the 
 concern in vulgar lettering. There were other 
 actors in the automobile going to their various 
 " locations," and they were so sober and indus- 
 trious about their " job " that we thought it a 
 pity they must be labelled like zanies in a circus. 
 One might as well paint " Attorney " across the 
 car of a gentleman of that profession, or " Spe- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 cialist in Ears," or " Minister of the First Bap- 
 tist Church." Surely the actor is the servant of 
 the public! 
 
 But on we went to Woodstock, with our dis- 
 approval unexpressed and futile save that no 
 mental disapprobation is without action of some 
 sort, and in a few minutes we were mentally and 
 vocally disapproving of each other in the sketch- 
 ing of an old doorway, which I thought an ex- 
 cellent bit, and the Illustrator said was a " bust." 
 If it is presented here I leave it to the public to 
 judge of my taste. 
 
 Besides a doorway I acquired some hairpins in 
 Woodstock and a new valve for my hot-water 
 bottle. One need not feel the necessity of carry- 
 ing from her native city every essential, as though 
 bound for desert places. Shopping in small 
 towns is pleasantly simple, and the choice, being 
 restricted, is quickly accomplished. We also 
 found ourselves drifting into a carelessness as to 
 our personal appearance that gives us many ex- 
 tra half hours in the open, far from mirrors 
 save those that Nature provides in the stilly 
 pools. 
 
 I would never have believed that the correctly 
 veiled person who quitted my apartment four 
 days before could be the same who, with hat on 
 one ear, and an unbecoming hat at that, listened 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 shamelessly to the conversation of others in the 
 delightful inn at Woodstock. 
 
 Listening to conversations may be as base as 
 peeping through windows, but it is endlessly 
 amusing. The Illustrator is immediately sur- 
 rounded by other motor enthusiasts who talk 
 roads, but my sex are not so friendly. 
 
 " She looks like a nice woman," one said faint- 
 heartedly of an absent creature who was laid 
 upon the dissecting tea-table. 
 
 " Her first name is Cora, isn't it? " inquired 
 Cora's accuser severely. " I never trusted that 
 name." 
 
 And that took me back to White River Junc- 
 tion again, although unwillingly. I really think 
 mothers should be more careful when they thrust 
 the nominal sign of the adventuress upon a red, 
 squirming infant. I suppose it is difficult for a 
 mother to imagine a red, squirming infant an 
 adventuress at all. 
 
 After Woodstock we began a steady ascent to- 
 ward the Green Mountains, again over a road 
 much better than the Peru Turnpike — and which 
 cost us nothing at all. The stretches of farmland 
 were rich and ever richer. The lush grass grew 
 smoothly to the edges of the streams, and the 
 hills, bounding the valley, resembled a little the 
 lower stretches of the Alps. Yet only a little 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 little, for each country enjoys a topography 
 peculiarly its own, and America is, to me, more 
 individual than any other. 
 
 Strange, is it not? Trees with leaves, cows with 
 horns, dogs with four legs, men and women with 
 two — strange that we should be so similar! 
 I confided some of these musings to the front 
 seat. I told the chauffeur, for his own enlighten- 
 ment, that his country could not possibly look 
 like any other country. He replied that he didn't 
 want it to, but he hoped, when he visited other 
 countries, that he would find them all look- 
 ing like his. And as this was ridiculous, I 
 sat back without any further promulgation of 
 thought. 
 
 W was willing to continue the discussion 
 
 for the hidden reason that, busied with conten- 
 tion, I would not observe the life of the road and 
 call a halt for a further investigation of events 
 along the way. He had secret hopes of arriving, 
 for once, at the end of our day's run before 
 nightfall. 
 
 But his methods were too vigorous. At one 
 lonely spot he began to question me so eagerly 
 as to my opinions — opinions in which he had 
 never taken any interest before — that I peered 
 suspiciously over his broad blocking shoulders 
 just in time to espy a very quaint little sign set 
 -e-126-«- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 stiffly on a post in front of a very shabby little 
 house, which he was trying to rush me past. 
 
 The sign was gleaming with fresh paint, ap- 
 plied colourfully, but untruthfully, to a row of 
 animals, with the announcement beneath that 
 Home-made Toys were for sale. Knowing that 
 he was worsted he backed back, and we were 
 shortly afterwards on the shabby porch, sur- 
 rounded by carved dogs, horses, dolls' houses, 
 dolls' chairs, cows, and what I think were bears. 
 
 The maker was a man of huge stature, but so 
 crippled by rheumatism that he could no longer 
 work at his trade of carpentry beyond carving 
 out his small wares through the winter and sell- 
 ing them to those motoring past in the summer. 
 I found our young chauffeur looking at him 
 with a sort of sympathetic contempt, but it was 
 
 as remarkable as it was touching to W and 
 
 myself that this great creature, this maker of 
 homes, was now producing tailless dogs and 
 tailful horses with the enthusiasm if not the skill 
 of an artist. 
 
 " The point is," he said, " it's my job. He's 
 a poor man who won't like the tiling he can do, 
 and I've grown to like them. It's kind of vain, 
 I guess, but I take a sort of father's pride in 
 them. Oh, yes, madam, people are very kind. 
 The only time my feelings get hurt at all is the 
 -e-127-J- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 way some of the visitors can't tell the dogs from 
 the horses." 
 
 I hastily put down one — or other — of these 
 quadrupeds, for I was a little uncertain beyond 
 its being of the animal kingdom, and I bought, 
 after that, creatures with horns, unquestionably 
 cows. 
 
 I also took a little chair with a Greek cross 
 cut out on the back. " I like to see a cross on a 
 chair," he said, handling the toy delicately. " It 
 seems to be resting there — kinda, somehow." 
 
 " You carry your cross," W responded. 
 
 " Always, sir," with a hand to his twisted spine. 
 
 We talked of rheumatism and he told us of the 
 man from Bridgeport who had passed that day 
 and, before whirling on, advised the invalid to 
 take a cure in Russia. 
 
 " But I couldn't get along without the auto- 
 mobilists," he added gratefully. " Once I thought 
 I couldn't stand the pain, now I know I can." 
 
 I told him of one Marcus Aurelius who says: 
 " The pain which is intolerable carries us off, 
 but that which lasts a long time is tolerable, and 
 the mind maintains its own tranquillity by retir- 
 ing into itself, and the ruling faculty is not made 
 worse." 
 
 It did not seem unusual to be quoting the Ro- 
 man Emperor to this bent giant of Vermont, nor 
 -!-128-f- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 astonishing that he accepted the philosophy with 
 understanding. The man from Bridgeport might 
 be out of place in the Green Mountains, but the 
 Ancients are perfectly fitted to any habitation 
 where dwells the simple sj^irit. 
 
 We put our names in a little book before we 
 left. He showed with the greatest pride the sig- 
 nature of one who had been the First Lady of 
 the Land. He knew the weeks and the days 
 that had passed since her death. In the outer 
 world the transition of her soul had come at a 
 time when grief from appalling havoc made small 
 by comparison any less international sorrow. But 
 here in this quiet countryside we felt that we had 
 stumbled upon an altar to her memory, covered 
 over with fresh flowers. 
 
 As a result of the protracted call upon Mr. 
 Bailey, we, as usual, reached our night's resting- 
 place as the electric lights were changing the 
 dusk into an admitted blackness. The authorities 
 of Rutland point the way intelligently by signs 
 arrowing (I have coined this) the business por- 
 tion of the town and that of the residences. I 
 had hoped the hotel would be on a hill, or a 
 meadow, or even a park, for we were permeated 
 with a sense of the country, and were impatient 
 at the prospect of the lights of the moving-pic- 
 ture houses shining in upon such respectable 
 -t- 129 -e- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 early-going-to-bed tourists as we had become. 
 But it was squarely in the centre of all the lights 
 in Rutland. A commercial hotel with a stern 
 disinclination to hearken to the appeal of the 
 drummer for its self-improvement. 
 
 A disinclination, indeed, to hearken to anything 
 save the honk of the motor horn, and to boost up 
 the prices with the ascending of the motor trunk. 
 It is not that they charge so much, but that they 
 charge too much. Too much in proportion to the 
 comforts to be secured for the same sum at other 
 hotels along the way, which are also recommended 
 by the emblematic shield of a certain Association. 
 
 I have long known that a shield signifies pro- 
 tection, and as we went through the country 
 largely influenced as to our choice of stopping- 
 places by this emblem, I had cherished the idea 
 that the armour was to protect the guests. But, 
 arriving at Rutland, I learned that it is the 
 hostelry which hides behind the shield. 
 
 Rebellion was not enduring. If we had 
 stopped anywhere else in the world I would never 
 know how, in Rutland, a man can care for a 
 woman. I knew it would be a confidence by the 
 way he glared at me when I chanced to stray 
 into the parlour. I knew she was expecting a 
 confidence by that glad questioning in her eyes 
 and her utter indifference to me. I knew, too, 
 -?-130-e- 
 
CONCERNING VERMONTERS AND THEIR WAYS 
 
 that she cared a lot more for him than he did 
 for her. I could have told her so in advance, 
 but we must learn by our own experience. 
 
 " I've got a new horse," he told her. 
 
 "Do you drive it to your buggy?" 
 
 *' You bet I do," he answered. 
 
 She beamed upon him. 
 
 " Will you be at home to-morrow at four? " he 
 asked. 
 
 She said she would. 
 
 " You be on the porch." 
 
 She said she would. 
 
 " I'll drive past and you can see it," said the 
 swain. 
 
 If I had not left the parlour there would have 
 been a dead Rutlander. 
 
 131 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Scenery Everywhere, Especially " With 
 the Top Down'' 
 
 We left Rutland late the next morning, for the 
 reason that the chauffeur was not to be found. 
 As a rule the earliest bird at the garage, he was 
 
 not there when W went over finally to see 
 
 what was wrong. 
 
 Nor could he be located by telephoning to the 
 various small hotels patronised by chauffeurs. I 
 was sitting in the lobby, surrounded by bags, 
 
 when W returned expressing the conviction 
 
 loudly that the boy had been " done away with." 
 It was very absurd for one who had been born 
 in New York to go to Rutland, Vermont, for the 
 drinking of knock-out drops, and I said this by 
 way of calming the Illustrator. 
 
 While it did not calm him it did inspire him, 
 and he went on to develop a theory that this 
 disappearance of our young man was probably 
 the result of an extraordinary justice. Think, he 
 continued, of all those from the country who 
 have, from time to time in New York City, drunk 
 of the cup of oblivion in a rear saloon, and been 
 relieved of their small roll. 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 For all we know there is now a secret society 
 among the Green INIountain Boys — who have had 
 small opportunity to right wrongs of late — a 
 society whose members carry small vials contain- 
 ing sleeping potions. And these they pour into 
 the coffee cups of visiting chauffeurs as they sit 
 on the stools of the Owl Lunch Wagon. 
 
 The Illustrator had a little difficulty in continu- 
 ing with his theory after this, as he did not know 
 how the Green Mountain Boys could get their vic- 
 tims out of the Owl Lunch Wagon. There is no 
 more respectable place in the world than a night 
 lunch, especially if it is called the White House. 
 Besides, the genial proprietor, making egg and 
 onion sandwiches in a very compressed space, 
 could not allow them to sleep away on the few 
 stools, as it would spoil trade. Yet, on the other 
 hand, it would attract attention if the city men 
 were dragged out and robbed under the wheels 
 of the wagon. 
 
 We grew very uneasy over the situation, bell- 
 boys were beginning to gather about us, and I 
 don't know how we would have worked the thing 
 out had not, at that moment, a perfectly new 
 White House passed along the street with a 
 number of children sitting up in front, going into 
 the country for a Sunday's airing. 
 
 In swift sweeps of the mind we then decided 
 -hlSS-i- 
 
SCENERY "WITH THE TOP DOWN" 
 
 that the Green IMountain Boys controlled one or 
 more of these wagons, and that it was their custom 
 to daze the New York chauffeurs as they drank 
 their coffee, then hastily drive out of the town, 
 deposit them on the ground (generously leaving 
 a nickel in their pockets for carfare), and return 
 to the village for more strangers to the great 
 country. 
 
 " And it is particularly fitting that Rutland 
 should be the first to establish this sure justice," 
 
 completed W , " as the Howe scales are made 
 
 here. Did you ever see a statue of Justice without 
 a pair of Howe scales in her hand?" 
 
 This appeared to settle the matter, and we 
 were so enjoying our extravaganza that it was a 
 little disappointing to us when our car bounced 
 before the door, and the driver, knocked out by 
 nothing but the sleep of beautiful youth, began 
 to cry hurried apologies. 
 
 It is but fair to Rutland County that it has 
 overcome its ominous name b}^ good roads, in 
 spite of the fact that this part of the state has 
 been largely quarried. I recall the fearful con- 
 dition of the roads in Italy near the great Carrara 
 marbles, cut by heavy hauling and liberally be- 
 sprinkled with samples of their specialite du pays. 
 Possibly the American is too thrifty to scatter 
 about pieces of marble large enough for grave- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 stones of — at least — inconspicuous mortals. Since 
 the quarries of Vermont are marble, I asked a 
 clerk in a beautiful inn at Brandon why it was 
 called the Granite State, and he replied that he 
 did not know it was. 
 
 This so confused me, fearing I was wrong, that 
 I backed away and confined my observations to 
 visual, not mental, efforts. There was a series of 
 excellent prints on the wall, pictures of gentle- 
 men with side whiskers and silk hats racing one 
 another in quaint sleighs, while Central Park was 
 fully expressed by ladies in hoop-skirts whizzing 
 along in cabriolets. 
 
 I looked at them rather wistfully, for there was 
 a great deal of action in the pictures, whereas 
 Brandon, although decorously beautiful, was 
 choked into insensibility by the Sabbath calm. 
 
 The man who must spend a Sunday in New 
 England is fortunate to be motoring in and out 
 of the villages. In the country there is the con- 
 tinual assurance that life is going on, whereas 
 there is no such optimistic note in a village. 
 And, mark you, it is the houses that are to blame. 
 Not even people are as deeply affected by a strict 
 closing as are habitations. They are in natural 
 opposition to nature anyway, for they have no 
 individual power to expand into more rooms, or 
 a new porch even, while a mustard seed goes on 
 -J- 135-?- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN » 
 
 expressing itself as extensively as it wishes — 
 and with no regard for Sundays. 
 
 I admit that the residents of houses are fre- 
 quently affected by the stiff manner their envel- 
 oping walls acquire on Sunday. But to justify 
 my contention I beg the automobilist to watch 
 the houses of the small town on Sunday, and on 
 Monday. Then, even if it be wash-day, he will 
 observe a certain winking joyousness about the 
 windows which was not manifest twenty-four 
 hours before. 
 
 Such inhabitants as we met upon the street 
 were all going to or from church, glad to be out 
 of their stiff homes with such narrow views. 
 Even through the country they were walking 
 along the paths, and, apart from the ethical ad- 
 vantage of church-goang, I was impressed anew 
 with the great social opportunity that worship 
 offers to the isolated. Men in this district once 
 carried their guns on their shoulders when they 
 escorted their females to and from the service. 
 And I wonder if it was not the pleasant mixing 
 of humanity, as well as the God-fearing impulse, 
 which brought them to court an Indian attack by 
 their weekly assembling. 
 
 To the traveller of the road a church gen- 
 erally stands as a landmark, past which you go 
 or don't go. In Brandon we were to go past it, 
 -f-136-i- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 and would have done so without difficulty but 
 we were detained by the falling of a trolley wire 
 upon the top of our car. It was the only live 
 thing in Brandon, yet had we not been travelling 
 with the top up we might have been less alive 
 now than we were then. 
 
 The top subject is not extraneous matter. It 
 is, strangely enough, considering its position on 
 the car, the base of many an unsuccessful motor- 
 ing day. I like the top lifted and W does 
 
 not. He says one cannot " see up," that it is 
 not going to rain, but if it does the canopy can 
 be raised in less than a minute. 
 
 This is not the truth and he knows it. It takes 
 longer than a minute; indeed, in our particular 
 internecine strife it covers an indefinite period. 
 If, by chance, we should start off on a cloudy 
 
 day with W as conqueror (that is, with the 
 
 canopy folded up) and the rain, in spite of him, 
 should begin to fall, he does not see it or feel it. 
 
 It does not seem to rain on the front seat and 
 he is surprised when I call attention to the fact 
 that I am getting wet. He is very cheerful 
 over my damp condition. He says he thinks 
 the storm is passing, anyway that we are passing, 
 and will soon be " out of it." He says, too, that 
 the wind will dry me off in no time. 
 
 As we go on and the downpour continues, he 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 sometimes shakes the raindrops off his lashes 
 surreptitiously, and asks me if I want the top up. 
 And when I answer, frozenly, that I do, he won- 
 ders if I would mind taking from the receptacle 
 formed by the folds of canvas the laundry bag, 
 his golf shoes, a bottle of whiskey, one of hair 
 tonic, and some old shirts to be used for waste 
 while he and the chauffeur make ready to lift the 
 thing. 
 
 This frequently weakens me in my resolve, but 
 if I hold out and the top is put up, as sure as 
 my cause is just and life is an enigma, the sun 
 will come out, and the scenery be limited to 
 
 mountain peaks overhanging the road. W 
 
 will then sigh deeply. " It must be very pretty 
 along here," he says. 
 
 However, you have all had that experience and 
 wonderfully enough gone on speaking to each 
 other, so I need spend no more time on the 
 subject, and did not in this present instance in 
 Brandon, beyond asking the Illustrator three 
 times if he was not glad the top was up, and our 
 lives saved. 
 
 On we went, wireless, stopping as little as 
 possible, yet continually, like an accommodation 
 train that has acquired the habit. Beyond Pitts- 
 ford was a roadside monument to Caleb Hough- 
 ton, who was killed by the Indians — ^not at this 
 -j-138-«- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 point, but half a mile away, for the monument 
 served the double purpose of commemorating his 
 death and the site of Fort Vengeance. 
 
 Fort Vengeance! Not a lovely name for the 
 conciliation of two races, and in this land now 
 oozing peace and plenty a name seemingly re- 
 mote. In spite of historical records and such 
 wayside tablets, it is difficult to imagine New 
 England as ever the home of the red men. The 
 wide plains of the far West lend themselves more 
 perfectly to savagery. There is a sense of 
 breadth and space in the topography which one 
 can associate with the uncontrolled spirit. And 
 I am inclined to believe that, in time, the Indians 
 of this locality would have become civilised by 
 the limitations of their environment if continual 
 warfare had not exterminated them. 
 
 This may be only foolish conjecture. One his- 
 torian so disagrees with me as to state that " war 
 is the delight of the savage. It furnishes an ex- 
 citement necessary to his happiness." While this 
 is opposed to my theory, I would like to agree 
 with the chronicler. We all have something of 
 the savage within us, and in these distressful 
 times it is a relief to believe that the warfare 
 of to-day may be in the nature of a joy to the 
 man in the trenches. 
 
 We were now heading for Lake Champlain. 
 
SCENERY "WITH THE TOP DOWN" 
 
 The tall peaks of the Green JMountains which 
 enclose Rutland still watching over us, while, as 
 we slipped over the curve of the earth, in the far 
 West we espied the faint outlines of the Adiron- 
 dacks. Between the two ranges lies the long 
 lake, and at its southernmost tip is old Ticon- 
 deroga, a fort on the alert for three centinies and 
 now, alas! sleeping lazily through the Sabbath 
 day. 
 
 It is dangerous to have this generally known, 
 for any one of the enemy — Indian, French, Amer- 
 ican, or Briton, to name the besiegers in their 
 turn — could seize the fort, single-handed, as it 
 snoozes through a Sunday. 
 
 We did not learn this until we had turned 
 south at Sudbury and descended at Hyde JNIanor 
 for luncheon. It was Mr. Hyde who told us. 
 From father to son for over a century this fine 
 old house has been open to guests. It is far 
 enough from the centre of things now to satisfy 
 a Thoreau or John Burroughs, but once it was 
 the main posting inn on the highway leading up 
 from Albany. 
 
 Summer boarders are now entertained there — 
 summer boarders with " references " — the only 
 chilling thought to be associated with a place of so 
 much evident good cheer. By assuming our best 
 manner we remained for an hour or two without 
 -h 140 -e- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 creating distrust, and so far as I am concerned 
 I could have put off our trip indefinitely to sit 
 by the side of the present Boniface and learn of 
 Fort Ticonderoga, Crown Point, Skenesborough, 
 and all those acres round about, which had 
 been fought over from the wars of the seven- 
 teenth century to the last battle on the lake 
 in 1814. 
 
 In the writing-room of the Manor there is a 
 high black marble mantelpiece. We were ac- 
 customed to smaller affairs of this Victorian 
 mould in our houses of the Middle West. But 
 this generously proportioned specimen had been 
 made for a Southern plantation in 1860, and the 
 Civil War, enforcing camp-fires for warm hearths, 
 had so curtailed the orders that Vermont house- 
 holders had been able to buy — no doubt at a 
 bargain — the extravagances of their enemy. 
 
 There was a scrap of a fire in the grate, and 
 comfortable chairs of an earlier period drawn up 
 before the blaze, and there is no more comfort- 
 able way of acquiring knowledge than to sit in 
 one of these chairs and listen to INIr. Hyde as 
 he sits in another. Mr. Hyde's father was one 
 of those who carried a gun when he attended 
 service on Sunday, and he knew what he was 
 talking about. But I did not always agree with 
 him, although I did not say so, mindful that we 
 -J- 141 -«- 
 
SCENERY "WITH THE TOP DOWN" 
 
 had no " references " with us and must be cir- 
 cumspect in our behaviour. 
 
 Although " Fort Ti " was built to resist the 
 French and the Indians, our most thrilling asso- 
 ciation with it is its surrender by the British to 
 Captain Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold. I 
 did not know until recently that Benedict Arnold 
 accompanied Ethan Allen on this expedition. As 
 far back as Bennington I fear I spoke of Allen 
 sending him flying with the flat of his sword 
 when he presented his commission which gave him 
 the right to take charge of the Green Mountain 
 Boys for this attack upon the British. Benning- 
 ton would probably say, " That's my story and 
 I'll stick to it," but I always felt uncertain about 
 the facts, as Arnold was a soldier of fortune, 
 accustomed to swords, and in the end had the 
 temerity to turn traitor. I do not admit that 
 turning traitor is commendable, but I still claim 
 it takes courage, as he courted death and, need- 
 less to add, received it. 
 
 According to my latest historian it was left to 
 the subordinate officers of Allen's regiment as 
 to the disposal of this question of leadership, and, 
 with a good deal of tact for green Mountain 
 Boys, it was decided that they should both be 
 leaders, Arnold acting as assistant to Allen. 
 
 This worked fairly well until they neared the 
 -J- 142 -J- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 fort, when an altercation again arose as to which 
 leader should go first. Once more the suhordi- 
 nates were consulted, and once more it was de- 
 cided that they should go shoulder to shoulder, 
 not one before the other. This they did, crossing 
 the lake in boats, and leaving Seth Warner with 
 another detachment to bring uj) the rear. 
 
 There was no resistance made when they ar- 
 rived at the fort, and while I am a good Ameri- 
 can, I don't see how there could have been. 
 Allen had two hundred seventy men in all and 
 there were but forty-eight garrisoning a fort 
 largely gone to pieces. 
 
 Although I would not say this to INIr. Hyde, 
 I can go further as an iconoclast, and venture 
 that if any one at all cried, " Surrender in the 
 name of the great Jehovah and the Continental 
 Congress!" it was as apt to be Benedict Arnold 
 as Ethan Allen. Perhaps, upon the ad\dce of 
 their men, they said it together, or, quite as likely, 
 it was never said at all. 
 
 I have noticed (in my limited attendance upon 
 history-making moments) that men are particu- 
 larly inarticulate under great stress. It is after- 
 w^ards, in the polishing of the tale, that rounded 
 aphorisms steal in which one cannot decry, for 
 the nobility of the phrase stands very fittingly 
 for the nobility of the deed. 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 It is an awful thought, however. Did Nelson 
 exhort: "England expects every man to do his 
 duty." Did General Stark utter: " There are 
 the Red Coats, and they are oiu's, or this night 
 Molly Stark sleeps a widow." And did, oh did 
 Admiral Dewey quietly command: "You may 
 fire when you are ready, Gridley." 
 
 I hasten to add that, on second thoughts, Ad- 
 miral Dewey probably uttered this order. There 
 are too many alive to rise up and confute me. 
 Indeed, there could be no simpler method of ex- 
 pression — nor one more modest. It is not the 
 form in this instance, but our admiration of the 
 man, that has given the words any great signifi- 
 cance. Yes, " You may fire when you are ready, 
 Gridley," savours of the inarticulate. I trust it 
 will go down in history without further trim- 
 mings. 
 
 This leaving behind of Seth Warner was no 
 fault of the gallant officer, but it recalls an ex- 
 pression of one of the Revolutionary leaders, 
 which I did not glean from Mr. Hyde, but by 
 predatory raids upon the Public Library. In a 
 later conflict, which ended in victory for the 
 patriots, Seth Warner, in coming up with rein- 
 forcements, " moved so extremely slow that he 
 saved his own men and hurt none of his enemy." 
 And it passes through my mind — a mind averse 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 to warfare of any sort — that a little less activity 
 in " getting there " might be the solution of 
 most of our contentions in life. A little late 
 with the hot retort, a little late with the " come- 
 back," and when we did arrive to find the diffi- 
 culty adjusted by the dignity of silence — and of 
 absence. 
 
 But I am moralising again! I venture into 
 this imaginative realm onlj^ to show that one can 
 glean even from chronicles anything he wants to 
 find. And there is humour in all things. I like 
 to think that our ragged soldiers in those days 
 got some fun out of it — fun besides the savage 
 happiness of warfare, which remains debatable. 
 
 They had fun at Skenesborough. We visited 
 the hamlet mentally with Mr. Hyde before the 
 high black mantelpiece. The patriot, Captain 
 Herrick, with thirty men, acquired this nearby 
 village, taking the Tory, Major Skene, twelve 
 negroes, and thirty dependents. In searching the 
 IMajor's house they found something more. 
 
 In the cellar was Mrs. Skene, deceased for 
 many years, but unburied. She was the elder Mrs. 
 Skene, and " sojourning in Europe " was her 
 husband, collecting an annuity which was granted 
 her, so ran the will of a relative, " as long as she 
 remained above ground." It is said that Cap- 
 tain Herrick buried her immediately in the gar- 
 -J- 145 -i~ 
 
SCENERY "WITH THE TOP DOWN" 
 
 den, thus, like a good patriot, cutting off the 
 enemy's revenue. 
 
 After luncheon I was pulled away from Hyde 
 Manor, feeling the desire to go limp like a bad 
 child clinging to the hand of a parent. On we 
 went up the post road toward Burlington, won- 
 derfully early for us, as I was lured into the 
 car by the promise that we would go out in a 
 small boat on the lake if we arrived before 
 dusk. 
 
 The Illustrator was as full of hope of arriv- 
 ing before dusk as though he had ever done it. 
 He said, while he had sworn to travel by no 
 method of transjDortation other than a motor, that 
 we could doubtless get a motor-boat. We met 
 a party on the road just beyond the Manor with 
 this usual determination of the automobilist. At 
 least they were sticking to the car, although a pair 
 of horses was drawing it. 
 
 We could hear them laugh consciously as we 
 passed, but we did not look their way — we had 
 been in that same predicament ourselves, and we 
 could see, without looking, that gay defiant ex- 
 pression which each was wearing. Why do we 
 take mechanical misdemeanors so much to heart? 
 It isn't as though a motor had been born and 
 brought up with us. As the wife said of her 
 husband: " Thank heaven he's no blood relation." 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 Possibly it is not wounded vanit}^ but a more 
 right-minded sensation in finding ourselves 
 worsted by a few cogs, a blue spark, and an 
 ill-smelling commodity. Even the occupants of 
 the back seat share the shame of the mechanician, 
 and feel enormously tall when other motorists 
 meet them. 
 
 I have often wanted to lean out, in passing 
 such unfortunates, and ask them if they were 
 ever pulled by a cow which the owner insisted 
 upon milking en route in the streets of a French 
 
 village, but W declares that the retailing of 
 
 the episode would be too magnanimous for any 
 one to comprehend. The incident recurred to us, 
 however, revivified by the presence of many cows 
 in the pastures. The fields were no longer en- 
 closed by stone fences. The roots of trees, re- 
 sembling lines of unbroken cacti, made the bar- 
 riers. There were few fences in front of the 
 houses, the green lawns sloping charmingly to 
 the white road. On each porch there were milk 
 pails, huge ones, such as drive through our New 
 York streets. 
 
 In truth, they do drive through our streets, 
 for the milk of this district is bought up by a 
 great concern who tempt you with picture dis- 
 plays in the Subway of their own cows and their 
 own pastures. The farmers' cows seem quite as 
 -f- 147 -f- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 sleek as the cattle in the advertisements, and as 
 all of the milk undergoes some process of reno- 
 vating, like a continual spring house cleaning, I 
 suppose it matters very little who owns them. 
 
 Before we reached Vergennes the Illustrator 
 made a sketch — and swore at the sun. It was a 
 lovely silent old farmhouse, with nobodj^ at home 
 save the cat, looking severely at us through a 
 closed window. There was an old sofa on the 
 porch. There are old sofas on most of the 
 porches, and an odd rocker or two, but I have no 
 recollection now of any one resting on them. 
 
 I have thought much of the chairs of the rich. 
 It is rather a mania with me. The chairs of those 
 rich who have no social place, chairs all over the 
 house that have never been sat upon — nor ever will 
 be sat upon. Gems of chairs, with inviting arms, 
 in a far corner of a drawing-room that no one 
 ever visits — hospitable creations unfulfilling their 
 mission. But these unoccupied couches are just 
 as disquieting, for in every house is a woman too 
 busy to drop down and rest for an instant. 
 Surely a woman's work is never done. 
 
 We stopped at Vergennes for post-cards, but 
 found the day bitterly opposed to any purchas- 
 ing. W , who is a hysterical lover of boats 
 
 for a man born inland, had hoped to find some 
 
 prints of the old American fleet of 1812 that had 
 
 -J- 148 -f- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 been fitted out here. Vergennes is some distance 
 from Lake Champlain, but Otter Creek., as well 
 as many another inlet, is navigable, and while 
 our men were bus)^ in the shipyards the Britisli 
 were taking apart their ocean-going vessels, 
 carrying them over the rapids of Richelieu, and 
 economically putting them together again for 
 use on the lake. 
 
 One may wonder why this ninety miles of glit- 
 tering water, looking now as though created 
 only for summer visitors, should have been for so 
 long a bone of contention. But before the days 
 of steam and rail it was considered the key be- 
 tween Canada and New York. More than that, 
 it was necessary for the Americans to prove 
 themselves victors on the lake to encourage the 
 uneasy settlers round about into believing that 
 patriotism, like honesty, was the best policy. 
 
 It was evident, as we continued on the long 
 white way, that our best policy was a moderate 
 pace. Along the miles of good turnpike were 
 posted signs at regular intervals forbidding us to 
 go faster than six miles an hour, which is but the 
 jog trot of a slow horse. And while we did not 
 heed the mandate entirely, one is alwaj^s affected 
 by it. The Selectmen who made the laws — and 
 were probably scooting around the countr}^ in 
 Fords — are as cruel in giving us good roads and 
 -h 149 -«- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN » 
 
 forbidding us to enjoy them as would be a host 
 who prepares a feast for a hungry man and dares 
 him to eat it. 
 
 We suffered as did Tantalus most of the day, 
 for everything we wanted as we passed through 
 the villages was staring out at us from show- 
 windows, while the doors remained locked. Even 
 the road-houses were forbidding, one displaying 
 the sinister sign, " Auto parties kept here," which 
 too ominously suggested the county jail to en- 
 courage lingering. 
 
 Back at Middlebury (it came before Vergennes, 
 proving I am a poor pathfinder), we had taken 
 on gasoline, filling the tank to overflowing in the 
 desire to buy something. I understand that the 
 best day in the shops of any city is Monday, the 
 result, I now deduce, from that enforced inac- 
 tivity of the purse-strings during the day pre- 
 vious. To get out and BUY something — that is 
 the craving of the American. 
 
 But nature continued prodigal without price. 
 We now had the Green Mountains to the right 
 of us, while beyond the shimmering water on 
 our left were the well-defined ranges of the 
 Adirondacks. The valley between was green and 
 fertile. We felt that the ground had been worth 
 fighting for, and were selfishly glad that it had 
 all been arranged before we came a-motoring 
 

 
 
 "^4^a!-;* <?'^*,^ '^>. * 
 
 
 
 J? -V 
 
 FRO.M THE HOTEL ROOF GARDEN, BIRLIXGTON 
 
SCENERY "WITH THE TOP DOWN" 
 
 along. Then, too, the sun was still sliining and 
 we were not far from Burlington. 
 
 " Boat, boat, boat," the Illustrator cried en- 
 ticingly whenever I wanted to get out and watch 
 the cows — on the other side the root fences. In 
 fact, he said boat once too often, for our present 
 vehicle, resenting his desire to abandon it, saw a 
 nail in the road, picked it up with great skill, and 
 in a few moments was lolling wickedly at the 
 wayside with a tire down — and I was going up 
 to a kitchen door to talk to the children. 
 
 There was a choice of kitchen doors, for houses 
 lay on both sides the turnpike, but a white placard 
 was tacked to the porch of one, and, while I could 
 not read it from a distance, I feared it might 
 bear an inhospitable reference to visitors. It 
 might only be " Cream separator used here " 
 (which is not conducive to my mind to the buying 
 of milk), yet it might read: " No conversation on 
 Sunday." 
 
 So I straggled past a porch with a shabby 
 sofa, up the worn path to the kitchen of the 
 placardless house, and I nodded to the children 
 peering through the closed window — although the 
 day was mild — and I waited. 
 
 I knocked twice. The dime in my hand for a 
 glass of milk began to grow smaller, and I was 
 wondering if I could not hurriedly substitute a 
 -J-151-J- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 quarter, so nervous does one become when one 
 feels unwelcome (How generous are we to the 
 indifferent!), before I was heeded. 
 
 The door was opened by a tired young mother 
 with the north New England accent, which is 
 very pleasant to the ear. I had a chance of judg- 
 ing, for she talked more than I did — and seemed 
 glad to do it. But she would not let me in, for 
 her children had been exposed to infantile pa- 
 ralysis — yes — they had it across the street where 
 the placard was. I asked a question — yes, where 
 the milk cans were waiting. Her children had 
 played with their neighbours' children — and her 
 baby wasn't very well. Her voice did not break, 
 but all the wires of her soul were taut. 
 
 With an over-dramatic imagination, prompted 
 by a desire to be of service, I admitted the dis- 
 ease in my own family — a family particularly 
 free from such ailments. And to encourage her 
 completely I added that they all got well. 
 
 She considered me gravely. " There is a sight 
 of it in this part of the country," she said. 
 " There are two little boys near by. They hved 
 too. But they never got over it." 
 
 I suggested that she had everything on her 
 
 side. I tried to enumerate them, but I could find 
 
 nothing on her side save country air. It was very 
 
 lame. I didn't believe it any more than did she. 
 
 -j-152-<- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN " 
 
 The older children came out and I gave them 
 chocolates. They were thin-chested as was the 
 mother. She eyed them — and then me, to see 
 how much she could let herself say to a stranger. 
 " Could it " — she ventured — " could it come from 
 tuberculosis? " 
 
 " No," I answered, stoutly concealing my 
 ignorance, " from a weak condition of the bones." 
 
 Her face cleared for the moment. " Our hones 
 are strong," she said. 
 
 It was dusk when we reached Burlington! And 
 too late to go out in the boat, but I didn't care 
 much. It seemed that the joy of going out in the 
 boat, added to this swift flying away from sorrow, 
 was too much for an individual replete with bless- 
 ings that she did not particularly deserve. I was 
 almost glad that the rooms shown us were not 
 attractive. And I was straightway rewarded for 
 accepting them in the proper spirit, as a very 
 pleasant clerk quitted his desk and came up 
 jangling keys himself to show us others that 
 looked out upon the lake. 
 
 This was more after the fashion of foreign inns. 
 Although Burlington was a city and this a com- 
 mercial as well as a summer hotel, I was glad we 
 stopped at the Van Ness, instead of the newer 
 house across the way, for there is nothing so 
 effective as courtesy. 
 
 -J-153-J- 
 
SCENERY " WITH THE TOP DOWN » 
 
 After supper I sent off some letters from the 
 writing-room. I could look into the lobby and 
 watch W being strongly advised to take cer- 
 tain roads on the morrow. The adviser was a 
 brisk young man who knew so much that, mind- 
 ful of my own imaginary flights, I held him in 
 poor esteem. And, at that, as it developed the 
 next day, I esteemed him too highly. 
 
 A local politician who had successfully over- 
 come the Sunday liquor law came in, dripping 
 cigars. W avoided him, but later I dis- 
 covered our young chauffeur, with his derby on, 
 smoking a large one (cigar, not derby), while 
 two more protruded from his pocket. I think 
 the general impression was that he owned the car 
 and was taking us on a trip. 
 
 The roof garden was but a flight above our 
 bedrooms, and we sat there for a while, watching 
 the lights of the ploughing steamers, which would 
 have filled even the stout heart of General Cham- 
 plain with fear, could he have awakened from his 
 three centuries of sleep. But all else was so quiet 
 that he probably would have put down this 
 progress as a bad dream and turned and slept 
 again. 
 
 154 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Adventures of the Road with the White 
 Mountains on Ahead 
 
 I WAS awakened the next morning by a song. It 
 was a pretty song, although not well sung, for 
 the Illustrator was making the music. 
 
 " Down the mountainside we will smoothly 
 glide," he warbled, ending up in a series of fear- 
 ful yodelings spelled something like: " Ede-la-y- 
 la-y-la-y-ooh." 
 
 I did not remonstrate with him, for this burst 
 into a Tyrolean air at such an hour was an indi- 
 cation of the complete immersion of the artist 
 into the motorist. He no longer awoke for the de- 
 lightful purpose of turning over and going to 
 sleep again. He now opened his eyes with the 
 immediate intention of bathing, breakfasting, and 
 getting into the car as soon as possible. 
 
 He was a man with a Purpose. I am not sure 
 that it makes much difference what our purpose 
 is in life so long as we have one. This morning 
 it was the attainment of the White INIountains. 
 
 A definite point ahead is a stimulus to the 
 mind. One must have a goal in motoring, as in 
 -e-155-e- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 life. The achievement of it earns a night's re- 
 pose, and the failure to realise it but increases 
 our endeavour. It is the best inducement I can 
 offer a traveller of the road for a mapped-out 
 itinerary. 
 
 The White Mountains was some goal. The 
 prospect rendered our previous meanderings 
 among the Berkshire and the Green Mountains, 
 along rivers, around lakes, and across valleys, 
 weak and inconsequential. 
 
 Soon we were eating griddle-cakes lavishly 
 garnished with Vermont maple syrup (verj?^ pale) 
 and I was asking the white waitress why they never 
 have coloured girls in the dining-room when they 
 have coloured boj^s in the office. She looked at 
 me in frozen horror and withdrew. And, al- 
 though I lingered to assure her that I didn't 
 want coloured girls — I simply wanted to get lier 
 opinion on the subject — she did not return. So, 
 no doubt the coloured boy, who, as omnibus, 
 gathered up the dishes, gathered up my quarter 
 intended for her. 
 
 But why is it that we never see negro wait- 
 resses when in almost all of the large hotels in 
 New England we find negro boys double shuf- 
 fling about with bags and stationery and ice 
 water. The darky never ceases to be a joy. 
 His presence in America atones, in a measure, 
 -J- 156 -J- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 for the lack of Roman ruins, which besprinkle 
 Europe. No negroes are there except a few also 
 riding in motor-cars. 
 
 I watched one as he put on the luggage. He 
 described so many curves during the operation 
 that an Efficiency Expert would have gone mad 
 over the lost motions. He skated, he slid, he 
 swooped bags about, and, as he packed each arti- 
 cle around me, he so alluringly bowed that I felt 
 every coin in my purse trying to get out and 
 reach his palm. 
 
 Tips are said to be an evil of our times, but 
 the man who has to give them makes the state- 
 ment — that vast number which receives the 
 largesse has probably found it no crime. There 
 is much to be said on both sides, but I cannot 
 think that it is a system which should be, indeed 
 can be abolished, for the giving of a tip is the 
 recognition of personal service. It is the only 
 way one can thank a man who is not, in his 
 present capacity at least, in the class of the one 
 who dispenses the coin. And there is another 
 reason — to argue for the other side — that was 
 most beautifully exemplified in a story which 
 came to me recently. 
 
 A friend of mine took into service as indoor 
 man one who had attracted her attention as a 
 most perfect waiter in a hotel. She paid him the 
 -J-157-*- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 same amount that he averaged as a waiter, and 
 she found him as satisfactory in her own home as 
 she had expected him to be. Yet at the end of a 
 few months he begged to return to his more ex- 
 hausting duties in a great caravansary. 
 
 "I don't know as I can make it plain to you, 
 madam," he said to her earnestly. " But it's 
 the tips that I look forward to; not that they are 
 any more on the whole than I get here, but there's 
 always an uncertainty about it. I keep wonder- 
 ing if I am to get a good deal, or very little, and 
 it makes the day interesting. It's a kind of an 
 adventure, in a manner of speaking, madam." 
 
 Ah, the Great Adventure! not so much of a 
 one but his, and life would be flat, indeed, if we 
 were not playing a game of some sort. Remem- 
 ber this: each time that we dig into our pockets 
 we add to the romance of greyer souls than ours. 
 
 While W admits this he regrets that it re- 
 quires larger and still larger sums yearly to 
 colour these grey souls. He is glad that a quar- 
 ter still lends a rosy tinge, but deplores that a 
 ten-cent-piece adds so little nowadays to the 
 glow of the spirit, and he broods sadly over 
 the good old days when a iive-cent-piece would 
 have metamorphosed the dullest of shades into 
 a crimson rambler. 
 
 This extravagance is the fault of the giver — 
 -i-158-i- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 fearing to be niggardly we grow lavish. And if 
 there are any of us left who tip in accordance 
 to the service bestowed, he is still contributing 
 to the pleasure of the dependent, for I infer 
 from the story of the waiter that it is the element 
 of chance which composes largely the joy of the 
 adventure. 
 
 Satisfied, satiated, the domestic scraped up the 
 steps backwards as we left the hotel, and a traf- 
 fic policeman bade us keep straight on for the 
 White INIountains. We had no thought of mak- 
 ing any detour about the charming town, al- 
 though we should have done so. We have 
 learned little of Burlington beyond the fact that 
 the first town meeting was held in 1787, and a 
 gentleman named Orange Smith ran the first 
 store — presumably a fruit store. 
 
 We have put down Burlington for a future 
 attack. In pursuance of some such idea, I have 
 in a drawer of my desk a mass of clippings, 
 programmes, and various souvenirs that I plan 
 pasting into a scrapbook — when I break my legs. 
 I did not know why I am counting on this en- 
 forced idleness which will come to me, nor is there 
 any place for the discussion of it here, but it is 
 with some such sop to my conscience that I hasten 
 away from the New England towns which par- 
 ticularly attract us. As surely as I am going to 
 -i- 159-?- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 break my legs, I shall return to these places — 
 with a like leisure and a great deal more of en- 
 joyment. 
 
 We swept into the East with greater success 
 than another car which stopped firmly on the 
 crossing, in spite of the traffic policeman, who 
 said it couldn't be done. The husband was driv- 
 ing while his wife, shrouded in a green veil, sat 
 in the back seat. (I know it was his wife be- 
 cause she was in the back seat.) There is a 
 satisfaction in sweeping around another car while 
 they are trying to awaken it to activity again — 
 a satisfaction that is always punished. But one 
 does not reflect upon this as one sweeps. 
 
 A block or so on we made another quick curv- 
 ing out to avoid a sawhorse, which fell from the 
 rear of a cart. The carter was unconscious of 
 his loss, nor did he awake to it when I oracularly 
 cried as we passed him : " You have lost your 
 horse." He had not lost his horse, as he was 
 driving it, and he looked at me in disgust, con- 
 tinuing on without recovering the sawbuck. We 
 never saw the carter again, so there is no end 
 to this slice of life, but — alas — we again saw the 
 wife with the green veil. A few miles out of the 
 town an old friend of ours passed away, burst- 
 ing with a loud report. It was not an unex- 
 pected death. He had accompanied us for over 
 -J-160-J- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 a year, developing protuberances which were 
 unlovely as time went on, and, of late, a flapping 
 elej)hant ear. It hit the ground with a resound- 
 ing whack more often in a minute than one would 
 have thought possible for a car of moderate pace. 
 
 As there were children about, I hoped to give 
 the old casing to them, and the Illustrator hoped 
 that he would be generous enough to do it also, 
 for he is fond of children. You could see him 
 struggling with his love for children and his love 
 for old things, but he strapped it on the car in 
 the end because " I have had it for so long." It 
 is a family trait. He has a great-aunt who 
 boasts that she has never thrown away a cork. 
 
 He placated the children by sending in some 
 magazines to their mother. Never leave a maga- 
 zine in a hotel for an indifferent chambermaid to 
 pitch into the waste-basket. I believe, with choco- 
 late in one hand, magazines in the other, and six 
 courteous phrases of the language of the coun- 
 try in your mouth, you can make friends in any 
 clime. 
 
 The wife with the green veil sailed past us as 
 I was looking for an inner-tube in the hatbox. 
 She did not stop nor glance our way, but a j^oung 
 man, driving a gay little nag, drew up alongside, 
 and we fell into violent conversation. I found 
 him a most pleasant young man in the beginning. 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 It was evident from his first speech that he kept 
 abreast of the times. 
 
 It was not until later that I discovered he not 
 only kept abreast, but outstripped them. At 
 least he outstripped me, and now that I look 
 back upon our swift meeting and parting I 
 realise that the young man and I were extraordi- 
 narily alike. So alike that we could never have 
 hit it off very well anyway, so perhaps it was 
 best that we separated when we did. 
 
 There was nothing I had ever thought of that 
 the j^oung man had not thought of before me. 
 We were applying the engine to the tube for the 
 pumping up of the tire, and I told him that I 
 had declared seven years ago that this should be 
 invented. He said he had told his wife the same 
 thing eight years back. 
 
 I then remarked that nine years ago I had in- 
 sisted to the Illustrator that there ought to be 
 some way to generate sufficient electricity to start 
 a car. He remembered that he had spoken of 
 the same thing to his cousin ten j^ears ago — he 
 wasn't married then. 
 
 In a great rush so as to get ahead of me he 
 now quickly claimed he was the first human 
 being to think of using the batteries for lighting 
 the car, and the invention of the Klaxon was all 
 in his head. I swallowed the statement, for it 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 was beneath my dignity to question his being the 
 very first to ponder on these things when I was 
 older than he and may have worked it out in my 
 cradle. But I triumphantly hinted that I was at 
 present working on a device for signalling automo- 
 biles behind us as we turned to the right or left. 
 I would not say overmuch, for one should not 
 who has an invention still unperfected. 
 
 I shall never forget the way he gathered up the 
 reins — just as an actor leaves the stage upon the 
 delivery of an exit speech. " I got one of them 
 on my car already," was his joarting shot. 
 
 W endeavoured to soothe me when he had 
 
 gone out of my life. " All that either of you did 
 was to think of the inventions," he said; "why 
 didn't you work them out?" Yes, why didn't 
 we? That young man and I were too much 
 alike. 
 
 I turned my attention to the landscape. Who 
 was it said, " Nature never did desert the heart 
 that loves her " — or words to that effect? I know 
 nothing more remarkable than the way we fly to 
 her when mankind disappoints us. Nothing more 
 remarkable, at least, unless it is the way we flj^ 
 from her when mankind again beckons his fin- 
 ger toward us. 
 
 After all, I wonder how much are green fields 
 and wide vistas food for the soul. We were now 
 -f- 163 -{- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 in a broad fertile valley with far views of lovely 
 hills. Sleek cattle were in the pastures, but the 
 farmhouses were poor and mean. Even those 
 with the large milk cans before the door had 
 broken window-panes stuffed with sacking from 
 the ever-useful Minnesota flour mills. We could 
 look into the uncurtained rooms of the upper 
 stories and see ill-made, sagging beds. 
 
 The views from the doorsteps were inspiring, 
 but I wonder if a View carries much solace when 
 the comforts of the creature are lacking. Can the 
 soul feed the body? It is one of my eternal 
 questions — I cannot answer it. But I have an 
 uncomfortable suspicion that a decently-nourished 
 body will go as far as a mountain view toward 
 elevating the spirit. 
 
 The valley that I am now iconoclastically 
 traversing is that of the Winooski River. The 
 name fills me with regret, regret that we did not 
 cling to this Indian appellation for the vegetable 
 we designate as onion when we took upon our- 
 selves the Indian country. JMuch of the prejudice 
 against the homely bulb might never have de- 
 veloped had we termed it by this fanciful word. 
 
 There is an elegance about it that would nullify 
 
 criticism. We would feel more lenient toward 
 
 our neighbour in the next apartment when, as we 
 
 entered our hallway, it was made certain that 
 
 -e- 164-?- 
 
/~ 
 
 
 
 
 THE KOAD TO THE EAST THROUGH THE WIXOOSKI 
 VALLEY, VERMONT 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 they were having winooskis for dinner. The 
 young man could take longer chances with his 
 dinner before going to call upon his inamorata, 
 although he takes fairly long chances now. 
 " Excuse me, I have been eating winooskis," 
 would win an instant pardon. Even the young 
 woman who, in terror of " losing him," circum- 
 scribes her diet closely would be forgiven for 
 anything as charming in sound as a " winooski 
 breath." 
 
 I spoke of these things to W , but he was 
 
 indifferent to my suggestion that we have the 
 name changed by Act of Congress. This was 
 the result of selfishness. In the adoption of 
 another name it would do away forever with 
 his own Bill, which he has been for years eager 
 to bring to Washington. One of the Illustrator's 
 noblest aspirations is to have one night of each 
 week devoted to the eating of onions. Actors, 
 artists, mere business men — with money — can all 
 breathe upon one another without apology. The 
 whole world would be full of the odour of onions 
 and no one would know it. It is, upon reflection, 
 rather a gigantic scheme and I admire him for it. 
 So much so that I have not blackened his dream 
 by asking what he will do with those who cannot 
 partake of the delicacy. 
 
 But I can go no further with this thought. 
 -hl65-i- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 He has called in from his workroom to ask 
 what I am writing of now, and in a terrible panic 
 I have called back Jonesville. Jonesville is part 
 of our motoring day, and keeps him placidly at 
 his drawing-board, whereas " Onions " or even 
 " Winooskis " will bring him raging in to say 
 I am ruining the sale of the book — and who 
 will see his illustrations? 
 
 Jonesville is in no way worthy of commemora- 
 tion beyond the general store which sells clothes- 
 dryers. As this was wash-day we discovered a 
 curious type of clothes-drj^ers all along the route. 
 It is a most excellent arrangement of wooden 
 strips, which let down and unfold and pull out, 
 until it holds a washing heavy enough for the 
 most representative of households. Yielding to 
 my earnest j^lea we slacked our pace before one 
 farmhouse long enough to enable me to ask of 
 the apparatus and to suggest delicately that I 
 would like to know where it came from. 
 
 I had visaged it arriving parcel post from a great 
 mail-order house. I could imagine the triumph 
 of the first resident of the valley who had chosen 
 this particular kind of drj^er from out the printed 
 catalogue, and had set the fashion for the country- 
 side. I spent a year once in a lonely orange 
 grove, and I remember the blissful evenings 
 hovering over the catalogue of these mysterious 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 shops where the purchaser is never seen, and 
 the clerks must be the greatest readers in the 
 world of character from handwriting. 
 
 So it was a surprise to me to learn that I could 
 buy them at Jonesville and at Jonesville only. 
 True enough, when we passed through the ham- 
 let, there was one alluringly displayed on the 
 sidewalk. I stared at it longingly. I stuttered 
 
 something to W about its being no worse in 
 
 appearance if tied to the car than an old tire. 
 He grew very excited. He said it would be im- 
 possible to go to all those fashionable hotels in the 
 White Mountains with a clothes dryer strapped 
 to the tire case. " I am not up to it — I am simply 
 not up to it! " he cried despairingly. I gazed at 
 him with pity. He saw that I knew he was a 
 coward, and he grew cunning. He slowed down. 
 " But get it if you want to. It's no doubt in- 
 vented by that friend you made when our tire 
 burst." 
 
 " March on," I said sternly. 
 
 There was an inclination on the part of the 
 citizens at Waterbury to keep us there for lunch- 
 eon when we stopped to ask the distance to Mont- 
 peHer. We did not ask a " grown-up " at first 
 how to get to Montpelier, for the reason that we 
 did not know how to pronounce it. We knew 
 the INIontpellier of France well, but we hesitated 
 -h 167 -i- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 to plunge into a French accent, yet there were 
 so many other ways of pronouncing it, if it was 
 Anglicised, that we would be sure to be wrong. 
 
 We did not deplore this accommodating of a 
 French word to an English-speaking people. We 
 Americans, or such of us as are familiar with 
 another tongue, find it amusing when a foreign 
 word, employed in social usage, is pronounced 
 after our own fashion. Yet there is no reason 
 why we should not cling to our English rules. 
 The French never embody an English word into 
 their language without sounding it after their 
 own laws of pronunciation. In this way they 
 keep their language pure and their accent invio- 
 late. Let us do away with " restaurang," 
 " valeys," and, as in this case, " Mong-pel-ya." 
 
 We picked upon a boy, in the far distance, 
 before reaching Waterbury, with the idea of 
 pointing out the word on the map and repeating 
 his pronunciation after him. He was a pleasant 
 but stupid little boy, who excused his inability to 
 read by saying he was in the " C " grade, and 
 when we enticingly asked him to name some 
 towns roundabout, he could think only of Jones- 
 ville. 
 
 We spied another boy a httle further on, but 
 he was not in a mood for answering questions. 
 He was standing on the apex of a woodpile pitch- 
 -hl68-i- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 ing sticks of wood into a shed, and he was very 
 much annoyed at being obliged to do this. One 
 cannot blame him, as it was the noon recess and 
 the workman's hour of delightful ease. lie was 
 red in the face, and muttering horrible things 
 about his cruel mother, and, just as we passed, 
 he inadvertently hurled a neat little log through 
 the kitchen window. Above the crash of glass 
 we could hear the expostulations of the tyrant 
 who had set him to work, but a curve in the road 
 blotted out the scene — which probably became, 
 very shortlJ^ more painful than it had been. 
 That is one of the drawbacks of motoring: we 
 rarely see both cause and effect. 
 
 It was a garage-keeper in Waterbury who 
 finally set us straight, by informing us that the 
 hotel of his town was better than the one at 
 " Mount-Peel-yer." Garages are dispensers of 
 information to motorists, just as drug stores are 
 to pedestrians. They are generally truthful, al- 
 though it is hard for them to admit that the roads 
 are not excellent going in and out of their town, 
 and that their hotel is not the best in the state. 
 With a rock-bound civic pride they will not even 
 give you the distance to the next town, if the 
 traveller asks at meal time. Nothing extorts the 
 truth from them but our intimation that we do 
 not lunch. 
 
 -h 169 -(- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 We acquired ^lontxiclier before the dining- 
 room doors had closed, although they were clos- 
 ing as we slipped through them, and banged so 
 vindictively after us that we felt like unhappy 
 flies in a spider's web. A very amiable spider 
 reversed the order of things which generally goes 
 on in a web, overcoming as much as possible the 
 dreariness of the architecture by an array of food 
 v/hich might be put down as agreeable interior 
 decoration. 
 
 This building of oversized hotels and opera 
 houses in undersized towns is done, I imagine, to 
 lure the village to growing up to them, unmind- 
 ful that there is nothing so dwarfing as a stand- 
 ard too high to reach. Since Montpelier is the 
 state capital, the hotel may be full of Solons (as 
 we insist upon calling them in the newspapers) 
 when the legislature is in session. Legislators, 
 especially when called Solons, are so important 
 in appearance that a very feW can fill the largest 
 hotel to repletion. 
 
 We walked over to the State House to see the 
 statue of Ethan Allen in the portico. An art 
 editor once told the Illustrator that the sculptor 
 had managed workaday clothes on the figure, and, 
 more than that, he had suggested, by the rugged 
 appearance of Allen's countenance, that he was 
 probably one of the most profane men of his day. 
 -i- 170 -h- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 This last was undoubtedly what held the Illus- 
 trator. He has some faults of his own, and while 
 not sure of the statue to keep his memory green, 
 he intends forbidding any possibility of one in 
 his will if those irascibilities peculiar to him were 
 going to be put out in marble, and set up for 
 all the world to stare at. Reflect upon the en- 
 durance of a marble fault. 
 
 This statue is not the only artistic display in 
 Montpelier. By fishing out the Baedeker I 
 made a discovery all my own. There has been 
 no mention of the Baedeker before, as I have 
 been rather shy about admitting that we needed 
 a German guidebook, compiled by an English- 
 man, to get us over our own country. Indeed we 
 have not needed it, but our motor-car felt so 
 much at ease with the familiar red book in its 
 tonneau that we took it along as a sort of coach 
 dog. 
 
 It is not an enthusiastic volume — it dislikes our 
 cab system — ^but it is honest, and no town is too 
 small for a word as to its merits or demerits. It 
 was in a Baedeker that we learned of the art 
 gallery of IMontpelier " chiefly consisting of 
 paintings (original and copied) by Thomas W. 
 
 End." I did not tell this to W , for I knew 
 
 it would embitter him to have Thomas W. End 
 
 go down to posterity when from cover to cover 
 
 -^- 171 ■+- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 there is no mention of his name, and, unless he 
 can manage a beautiful untruthful statue for 
 himself, there probably never will be. 
 
 But I thought long after we motored on of 
 the Thomas W. Ends in life, and of the quality 
 they have of getting into print. In the home 
 towns of all of us there is ever an individual 
 who appears in the papers oftener than we do, 
 and, since we are not that man, he seems to be 
 in no way worthy of such attention. In this 
 case, as long as Baedekers are bought by tourists 
 visiting America Thomas W. End will be es- 
 teemed as a painter, and, since he furnishes a 
 complete art gallery, as a prolific one. They 
 may even buy his pictures, and, on the boat home, 
 ask one another if they were so fortunate as 
 to secure a Thomas W. End. There will 
 be no finality to the man at all — except his 
 name. 
 
 But, seriously, or as seriously as one can be 
 who is going blithely over a good road toward 
 the White Mountains, how little stress can be or 
 should be laid on the artistic endeavours of our 
 young country when so much can be said of its 
 natural beauty. How little the height of the 
 dome of a court house matters when that court 
 house is in a long street shaded by elms, in the 
 possession of a loveliness that no other land can 
 -i- 172 -f- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 claim. For of this I was sure at the end of 
 eight days of motoring in " my ain countree." 
 
 Having arrived at this satisfactory conclusion 
 we sank into the mud beyond Danville and gave 
 every evidence of remaining there indefinitely. 
 We need not have gone this way; it was not the 
 right way, but was the result of the Smart Alec 
 back in Burlington who knew all about routes, and 
 whom I had suspected from his verbosity of never 
 having been in a motor-car. We were warned 
 that the road was in process of new construction, 
 but the Smart Alec had told us to pay no atten- 
 tion to these signs, so we had bumped along over 
 broken stones with workmen stepping aside for 
 us until the rich soil of Vermont took us unto 
 itself. 
 
 The roadmakers behaved very well about it 
 and our chauffeur worked like a fiend tearing 
 down some farmer's carefully-built wooden fence, 
 and making a little plank path for our car to 
 walk. It was one, two, three, let in the clutch, 
 and all push, and just as we were getting out the 
 wife with the green veil passed us, triumphantly 
 making the turn we should have taken. We had 
 seen her at INIontpelier, as she and her husband 
 were going in to view the Thomas W. Ends, and 
 the hope that we had met them for the last time 
 was engendered not only from an antipathy to 
 -f-173-i- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 green veils, but to the conclusion that the green 
 veil brought us misfortune. 
 
 After we were out of the worst of the mire 
 we stayed so long offering sustenance to the road- 
 makers from a flask that we sank into the soft 
 road again and were pushed out of it once more by 
 our new friends. I wished to repeat the convivial 
 offer, but as they themselves unselfishly reminded 
 me, any further lingering would bring the same 
 results, we finally wavered up the hill, crossed a 
 pasture, and worked back to the main road. 
 
 Still we didn't regret meeting them. They 
 were fine, capable young fellows, much more 
 worthy of a place in Baedeker than the height of 
 a court house dome, and to be classed with the 
 landscape as part of the charms of American 
 touring. 
 
 The valley had been narrowing since Mont- 
 pelier, and by the time we reached St. Johns- 
 bury we were quivering with the certainty that 
 the White Mountains would be ours — and before 
 dusk. It was not our intention to pass the night 
 in the heart of them, rather in the foothills, giving 
 up the next day to peaks and fastnesses. 
 
 I should have enjoyed stopping over in St. 
 Johnsbury. The hotel was new and shining, but 
 it was not yet dusk and habit was too strong 
 for us. Besides, the Illustrator was impressed 
 
THE OLD TOWN' OF ST. .lOIlNSBL'UY 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 by the placarded appeal Bethlehem was making 
 to us from every fence rail. It was brief and 
 unvarying, and to my mind not stimulating, for 
 its continual boast was: "Bethlehem — Thirty 
 Hotels." 
 
 I jjointed out to him that we could spend the 
 night in but one of the hotels anywaj^ but he 
 had visions of driving slowly through the town 
 before we made our choice, with all the porters 
 of all the Thirty running out to meet us, and 
 twenty-nine of them being disappointed. Hotel 
 porters in America do not run out to wave you 
 into their courtyards as they do in Europe, and 
 he had missed this attention. And he figured if 
 we were ever to receive it, it would come to 
 us in Bethlehem. 
 
 We strayed into a bakery in St. Johnsbury 
 where coffee was served, and drank the mildly- 
 concocted beverage, while the chauffeur went 
 among the shops to buy a new shirt. I do not 
 know what this boy did with all the shirts he 
 bought, but he had a way of collecting them with 
 the same fervour that other travellers buy sou- 
 venir postal cards. It is not a bad idea — this pur- 
 chasing of raiment en route. For years after- 
 wards each day's equipping of himself can bring 
 to mind his trip. 
 
 " I bought this shirt in St. Johnsbury," he can 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 say to his wife — for all chauffeurs marry young. 
 Then he will sigh, and she will be delicately 
 piqued into loving him the more as she wonders 
 what dear association he holds for the purple and 
 green stripes. 
 
 There was love in the bakery. The young lady 
 who was doing up the evening's bread for various 
 customers never turned her face from the street. 
 She found bread, paper, and twine with the sure- 
 ness of the blind, and when criticised rather irri- 
 tably by one dys^^ectic old gentleman, admitted 
 brazenly that she was watching for her sweet- 
 heart. 
 
 " Didn't know you had one," said the dyspeptic, 
 laying down ten cents for his gluten bread. 
 
 "Didn't?" she answered. "Look at me." 
 
 We all looked at her. She was plain, yet there 
 was that about her which, we knew, meant sweet- 
 hearting from the cradle to the grave. I did not 
 begrudge her this quality. It was highly satis- 
 factory to see a woman commanding attention 
 whose hair was not curly and whose wrinkles were 
 
 rather ensnaring than otherwise. Both W 
 
 and myself felt more comfortable over our faces 
 which Time had already begun to pat and paw 
 with firm if kindly fingers. 
 
 We left the bakery, mentally at least, hand in 
 hand. As we came to a long hill which we must 
 
ADVENTURES OF TPIE ROAD 
 
 climb, we met a young couple in a roadster who 
 might have been ourselves ten years back — ex- 
 cept that a smart bulldog was riding cosily be- 
 tween them. But as we had always wanted a 
 dog, we felt that the picture of this pleasant trio 
 was a mirroring of what we would have liked to 
 have been. 
 
 Their car was covered with banners, " Safety 
 First " being prominently displayed, and they 
 were living up to this by turning back to St. 
 Johnsbury for the night and leaving the steep 
 hill for broad daylight. Our cars stopped by 
 mutual consent. And quite without preface we 
 talked together for some time. They said they 
 might see us on the morrow, although we would 
 probably outstrip them. As we had outstripped 
 nothing but a steam-roller so far, owing to our 
 predilection to hngering, we assured them of an- 
 other meeting. We parted without any exchange 
 of names and this is the true spirit of motoring, 
 the young couple scampering back over the 
 easiest road, our older selves climbing the long 
 hill, for life has taught us that we must go for- 
 ward. 
 
 We were rewarded by an orange sunset from 
 the mountain top, which brought warmth to the 
 chill of our years, and coincident with the dwin- 
 dling of the day came the lights in the houses along 
 -«- 177 H- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 the roadside. We peeked in curiously. Some were 
 at supper, some weaving rugs, a hand was lifted 
 to a sick face, a baby in a mother's arms — we 
 flashed by them. Ah life! a moving picture that 
 never tires, and grows richer in interest as we 
 grow older. 
 
 Before Littleton we came suddenly upon a toll 
 gate. We would have passed it unwittingly had 
 not the pole been swung across the road. A 
 young woman came from out the little lighted 
 house. She said she did not as a rule put down 
 the bar, she trusted to one's honour, but a car had 
 just passed without so much as a howdy-do. She 
 dwelt a good deal upon this breach of country 
 etiquette, and as she had bounced out in time 
 to get the number she was about to paste it up 
 on the board for all the world to read their 
 shame. She was very proud of this method of 
 degradation. 
 
 It was not surprising to me that the occupant 
 of the rear seat had been a lady with a green 
 veil. Apart from the satisfaction at hearing of 
 her dishonesty, I was full of the fear that we 
 might sail past her again, and swift retribution 
 follow in a third accident to us. 
 
 Tremulously we approached Littleton, and 
 just as we left Vermont and acquired New 
 Hampsliire our headlights picked out a floating 
 H-178-i- 
 
ADVENTURES OF THE ROAD 
 
 green veil. W was very bitter. lie wished 
 
 to get to his " Thirty Hotels " before thick night. 
 To do so he must pass her, yet if he did pass her 
 he would probably crack the cylinder and never 
 get anywhere. 
 
 I will say this for the lady: she got us out of 
 the difficulty herself, for her car suddenly took 
 a fork to the right, and as our course was over 
 the other road we left her far behind without 
 arousing her malevolence. 
 
 Even so, we had some trouble reaching the 
 " Thirty Hotels." We had made a wrong turn 
 and found it strangely difficult to get the proper 
 direction for our destination. Our young driver 
 obligingly descended to make inquiries at door- 
 steps, but the result was a curious confusion 
 both on his part and that of the householders. 
 
 At one long parley W climbed out after him 
 
 — I heard murmurs, ejaculations, laughter. The 
 Illustrator returned to the car in advance: 
 
 " Did you know this boy's last place was with 
 a Jewish family?" he asked me. 
 
 "Well, what's that got to do with it?" 
 
 " He's been asking for Bethelheim." 
 
 179 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 Motor Mountain Climbing 
 
 Owing to our arrival at Bethlehem under cover 
 of darkness there was not the gratifying effort 
 
 to secure our patronage that W had counted 
 
 upon. 
 
 But the Sinclair House atoned for it by giving 
 us ecstatic attention from the bell-boys. They 
 denuded our car with a tenacity of purpose that 
 only armed resistance could have withstood. 
 They were mindful that twenty-nine other hotels 
 were ready to receive us, even if the porters, 
 and waiters, and guests were not out in the road 
 making fin-like movements with their hands to- 
 ward their wide porticoes. 
 
 They even pulled from the receptacle which 
 the top (being down) formed the old shirts and 
 the whiskey bottle and that of hair tonic. They 
 marched upstairs with the chauffeur's new shirt, 
 neatly done up in a package, and had to be 
 marched down again with it. Before I could say 
 I didn't like the rooms (which I did, but one has 
 a formula while travelling) the bags were un- 
 strapped, and my dinner gown was popping 
 -j-180~i- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 enticingly out. More wonderful than all this, 
 they did not linger about for tips, but disappeared 
 as soon as their work was done. 
 
 Only the captain remained — to assist me, I 
 should judge, in dressing. He told me that he 
 went South to work in winter and to school in the 
 spring and autumn — he had a stepmother and 
 was fond of her. And all the time he was fixing 
 shades, and turning on lights and seeing if we 
 had sufficient stationery. Upon reflection I put 
 it down that he was the most complete bell-boy 
 I have ever met although, curiously enough, lack- 
 ing an ear. 
 
 When the Illustrator upbraided me for my 
 sudden friendship with him, I argued that as our 
 stay in Bethlehem was short, I could not find 
 out about the ear without compressing the right 
 of several years' acquaintance into fifteen min- 
 utes. Even so, I never discovered how the acci- 
 dent occurred, in spite of the fact that I told 
 him of our losing a tire early in the day. This 
 was in the hope of delicately leading up to that 
 member of which he had been so unfortunately 
 bereft. I might have learned had not a waitress 
 arrived with the news that they were keeping the 
 dining-room doors open for us, and this new at- 
 tention so touched me that I bowed the. complete 
 bell-boy out of my life forever. 
 -J-181-J- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 The head waiter was taking his evening meal 
 when we gained the dining-room, sitting in a far 
 corner with his napkin carefully spread over his 
 shirt front. His kind is so majestic when he is 
 in action, so supercilious, so gravely critical of 
 any breach of table etiquette, that it was rather a 
 pleasure to find him humbly trying to make his 
 dress shirt last another day. 
 
 I never could see just what started this hid- 
 eously dignified air of those who serve us in life 
 • — just how it began, in the first place. It must 
 be that they ape a manner popularly supi)osed 
 to belong to their superiors. Yet what caused 
 the first butler in the world to adopt a frozen 
 dignity. Whom did he emulate? And why — oh 
 why are we willing to pay more for this joyless, 
 mummified type than for those who serve in- 
 terestedly, and who are not above laughing at 
 our best jokes? 
 
 Certainly it cannot be that they have borrowed 
 their grand manner from those upon whom they 
 wait, for it is an optimistic and relieving thought 
 that those who are grandest in the social scale 
 have the least manner. It is only the great who 
 can afi^ord to be simple. Therefore we saw the 
 head waiter, eating wheat cakes with his naj)kin 
 tucked under his chin, in his finest moments. 
 
 His assistant served him, a young woman in 
 -h 182 -2- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 ^vhite, with no enthusiasm for her job, and when 
 ho had finished she sat down and was served, in 
 turn, by an ordinary waitress — in black. She was 
 not so indifferent, for she was of that age when 
 the woman higher up commands a deep admira- 
 tion. She called attention to her hair which she 
 had dressed after the style of the head waitress 
 who, I thought, was rather languid about it. I 
 asked our handmaiden what girls served those 
 in black when it came their turn, and she said the 
 kitchen maids, and when I asked who served the 
 kitchen maids she replied, scornfully, that nobody 
 did. So one infers that the scullions are on the 
 lowest rung of the social ladder in hotels, and do 
 not eat at all. 
 
 I fear it is the contrariness of my nature that 
 occasions me to cover all the pages allotted to 
 Bethlehem with the doings of the servants' hall. 
 Here we were in the White Mountains, a locality 
 that, from my earliest recollection, stood for all 
 that was elegant in the world of fashion, yet I 
 could find nothing of interest in the guests, and 
 very little in the village of hotels. We walked 
 about the streets before going to bed, almost 
 alone in this mild pursuit of pleasure. The 
 houses were glaring with lights, and discords from 
 a medley of orchestras smote the ear; through 
 the window^s we could see couples limping back- 
 -e-183-J- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 ward and forward in the employment of a dance- 
 step which must be a severe strain on the ten- 
 dons. In a gymnasium the " lame duck " would 
 be considered far too fatiguing for steady exer- 
 cise. 
 
 As we gained the steps of our own hostelry hid- 
 eous screams from the main parlour filled us with 
 dread — a dread that we must hear, if not see, a 
 visiting Elocutionist giving an imitation of Rich- 
 ard Mansfield as Dr. Jekyll and ]Mr. Hyde. It 
 was Mr. Hyde going on at the time, wallowing 
 on the carpet and eating the body Brussels roses. 
 It was a long while before the gentler and quieter 
 personality of Dr. Jekyll overcame the wallower. 
 There was peace for a moment when the Doctor 
 gained the ascendency. 
 
 Through all this babble the stars remained 
 shining in the sky. Nothing frightened them. 
 But if stars think, they must marvel that this 
 little town, named years ago by pious settlers, 
 could so lose its beautiful significance. 
 
 I am guiltily mindful that the history of my 
 country was greatly neglected in the last chapter, 
 and that I shall have few, if any, dates sprinkled 
 through this one. W , who is fond of moun- 
 tains, and would not exchange a foothill for the 
 finest date in history (even 10G6 or 1492), argued 
 gladly that we were too far north for any of our 
 -h 18 i -!- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 wars, and that we had best abandon ourselves to 
 peaks. 
 
 The morning dawned splendidlj^ for the aban- 
 donment, and we got away in excellent time con- 
 sidering the hampering of the cohort of bell-boys 
 who slung everything on wrong. They were 
 alert, however, as every one was, and we put it 
 down to mountain air, for we were feeling very 
 elastic ourselves and bounced around in the car 
 like rubber balls. 
 
 We took a turn to the right at McKenna's 
 Store for the Profile House, turning again to the 
 right when we reached the main road. The high- 
 way was not without its sign-post, but this sign 
 brought a lump in my throat for an instant. 
 
 W , pointing to it, asked if I wanted to go 
 
 there, and I said " no," but I think if I had been 
 told that I should never see " New York " again 
 the lump would have come to stay. Recently, 
 while travelling across our Continent, I chanced 
 to glance from the window of the Pullman, and 
 mj^ eyes fell upon a sign-post quite as thrilling. 
 Tlie new Lincoln Highway was under construc- 
 tion, and at this point in the desert, sticking up 
 from the sand, were two hands, and one pointed 
 to the West and the other to the East. " San 
 Francisco — New York — Half-way " read this 
 message in the desert. 
 
 -i- 185 -f- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 We were immediately in the mountains when 
 we turned toward the Profile House, mountains 
 which we have endeavoured to garnish by fine 
 roads and civilise by great hotels. But a moun- 
 tain is uncompromising. One can wreathe it in 
 garlands like a Roman Emperor and it will not 
 lose its grimness. I am rather in awe of these 
 great creatures, and I marvel that so many silly 
 people can spend the summer among their heights 
 and not grow uncomfortable. 
 
 It is said, however, that the rocky profile of 
 the Old Man of the Mountain is scaling off a bit. 
 Possibly its steady contemplation of the world 
 is effecting a gentle softening toward mankind. 
 He knows that all of us men and women, wrig- 
 gling down below, are made of meaner clay, and 
 he may ap2:)reciate that it is not so easy to be good 
 and resolute when our hearts are not of flint. 
 
 The motorist could not very well miss seeing 
 this great rock, but, for fear one should, an enter- 
 prising arrow marks the best view along the road 
 by pointing heavenward. After this one might 
 expect other arrows designating the moon, the 
 sun, or the Dipper. A number of automobilists 
 were looking at the Profile as solemnly as were 
 we. There is little to be said about a great 
 freak of nature, although one young woman who 
 had brought her opera glasses bridged the chasm 
 -i-186-t- 
 
Mfd i'J^^ ' '^'■'\?<' ,\.- , - .y ' ^' 
 
 CRAWFORD XOTCH 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 between almighty nature and nature simply hu- 
 man by remarking the resemblance of the Profile 
 to " Grandpa." 
 
 Many of these automobiles continued south 
 through Franconia Notch, and we would have 
 spent more time in this district but that our 
 itinerary forbade too much lingering. We re- 
 traced our path with the idea of the Bretton 
 Woods for luncheon. For a distance we were 
 not out of the woods, pine and birch wove their 
 branches above us, and if one can find any fault 
 with this wonderfully-laid track through the 
 great forests, it is that the way is too enclosed for 
 extended views. 
 
 The roads were magnificent, some of the turns 
 made with " banked curves " for fast going, like 
 a motor race track. Which is all very well for 
 one who is driving rapidly, but causes the car 
 of milder pace to fear that it may topple over. 
 INIuch of this land is preserved forestry which 
 Uncle Sam, like a good housewife, has husbanded 
 (granting that Uncle Sam can be a housewife, 
 and, if a housewife, can husband) for an indefi- 
 nite future. Along the way boxes of tools are 
 ready for the dreaded fires, and foresters in 
 khaki with the best of motor-cycles were scouting 
 along the road. The Illustrator's recollection of 
 the Old Man of the INIountain v/as complete^ 
 ri- 187 -i~ 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 obliterated in his anxiety to remember whether 
 he did or did not blow out " that match." 
 
 At Twin INIountain House we came into the 
 open once more, meeting a railroad which was 
 obsequiously shrinking across our path. Time 
 was when the railway crossed the road in an ag- 
 gressive manner, other vehicles were interlopers, 
 but in this paradise for automobiles it is distinctly 
 second. We look upon a train in disapproval 
 when it holds us up, and are inclined to show 
 surprise if any other heads than pumpkins peer 
 out from the windows. When motor trucks begin 
 to carry freight the fast express will pass away 
 from shame. 
 
 The golf course at this point is traversed both 
 by the road and the tracks. It is known as a 
 
 splendid " hazard," and as W 's nose was 
 
 nearly hit by a dying ball I think it well named. 
 The ending of the story is excellent, however, as 
 I caught the ball, and it is now in my handker- 
 chief case in the trunk. My dishonesty very 
 nearly severed the friendship between the Illus- 
 trator and myself. I still claim that it was not 
 altogether from a sense of sportsmanship which 
 occasioned his protest, as his principal argument 
 was that he might some day meet the owner of 
 the ball. 
 
 It recalls an incident of a protesting modern 
 r-J- 188 -«- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 mother. " Don't you know it is immoral to drive 
 alone in the park with a gentleman," one of this 
 species recently said to her daughter. " What 
 if there should be an accident!" 
 
 It was unfortunate to engage in any marital 
 bickering with the whole Presidential Range 
 looking down upon us. We should have been 
 feeling loftier, and hitching our wagon to a star, 
 or, at least, to Mount Washington. I told this 
 
 to W and he said you could only get there 
 
 by donkeys. But his mood softened, and we 
 both melted as we passed the big hotel known 
 as Fabyan's. For in front of the hotel was the 
 little roadster of the young couple who went back 
 to St. Johnsbury in the last chapter, and who, 
 with the confidence of the young, had said they 
 would surely see us on the morrow. 
 
 They were evidently at luncheon, but the dog- 
 gie was in the car, guarding it with shining teeth, 
 which nature, not a bad disposition, had forced 
 it to show continually. Mindful of their complete 
 harmony we grew friendly again, for we were 
 not going to be outdone by a young couple in a 
 small roadster. And we wavered uncertainly 
 before we decided to go on to the Mount Pleasant 
 House. The Illustrator, who has kept up the 
 understanding of youth, feared to intrude upon 
 their happy intimacy. When we grow older we 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 are ready — alas, eager — to give more generously 
 of ourselves. All this to explain to the young 
 couple, should they chance to read our book, why 
 we didn't meet them again. Perhaps on the mor- 
 row — or the morrow — or the morrow? 
 
 At the Mount Pleasant you not only register 
 for lunch, but you pay for it in advance. If you 
 chance to choke on an olive pit before the soup 
 and die on the spot, your estate would get no 
 refund. As this was probably the most conserva- 
 tive of the hotels we visited, it speaks poorly for 
 the honesty of the best people. But, to return to 
 a more optimistic point of view, it is pleasant to 
 reflect that one receives at the best places the 
 best attention, the best food, and the best quar- 
 ters. And I should have very little to say about 
 the dishonesty of the best people when a golf 
 ball was rolling around in my handbag. Perhaps 
 it is my best plea for being of the " best." 
 
 We were careful with our olives and completed 
 an excellent meal. I asked the waitress all about 
 herself, and was told very nearly All. She was 
 from Maine and stayed " to home " in the winter. 
 She was niggardly with forks, but generous as to 
 knives, and this may have been the result of 
 Maine influences. 
 
 She told me also that many of the good-looking 
 waitresses whom we had seen throughout this part 
 -hl90-i- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 of the country were shopgirls from Boston, who 
 gave up their work in the summer to accept a 
 humbler but more healthful profession. It is 
 the most intelligent action I have ever known a 
 shopgirl to adopt, and I fear it is because they 
 come from Boston that they show this breadth 
 of mind. I have inquired since — and been 
 snubbed for my pains — but I have never heard 
 of a New York clerk following such a course 
 when the thermometer mounts to the nineties in 
 a hall bedroom — and stays there. 
 
 ]Mellowed by food, we talked at table of linger- 
 ing in the White Mountains. From our window, 
 across the wide, treeless plateau, the Presidential 
 Range was beckoning us. It seemed absurd to 
 be covering this entire district in a day, but as 
 
 W pointed out, we couldn't see it all if we 
 
 stayed forever, and as we were singularly healthy 
 and richly poor it would be foolish to remain for 
 a holiday. 
 
 While this most famous of our mountain play- 
 grounds was all one could wish, it was in no way 
 as I had imaged it, and I was particularly dis- 
 appointed in the Presidential Range. It was 
 even more imposing, and much whiter, than I 
 had expected it to be, but it was on the wrong 
 side the scenery. All my life I had planned to 
 come up from the South and find these " most 
 
 -Hl91 +- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 grave and reverend seigneurs " on my right, and 
 here they were stohdly on the left. 
 
 I spoke about it to the girl who helped me on 
 with my coat, and she was inclined to blame the 
 hotel for my confusion. She said if the hotel had 
 been built on the other side the Range, then the 
 mountains would have been on my right. I ad- 
 mitted this, but sought to straighten out the 
 tangle that the position of the hotel had occasioned 
 by asking which way it faced. As a rule, attend- 
 ants have no idea how a single room in their 
 hotels faces — they are entirely devoid of a sense 
 of direction. A bell-boy recently insisted that 
 our north rooms gave on the south for the reason 
 that the sun shone on the windows of the house 
 opposite all day, and the glow was reflected into 
 the windows of our suite. 
 
 This girl was very glib. She said the hotel 
 faced the west. This was utterly impossible with 
 a brilliant afternoon sunshine pouring down on 
 the back of the hotel, but she would not give in. 
 She said she knew it was the west, for when 
 she was in school her right hand always pointed to 
 the east and the left to the west. 
 
 " But how were you facing? " I asked craftily. 
 
 " I was facing the teacher," she replied. 
 
 Baffled, we drove on, stopping at the little 
 church which lies between the two great hotels, a 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 memorial for some one whose spirit must have 
 been as lofty as the surroundings. While this 
 district is known as Bretton Woods, we were 
 not in the forests again until we passed the Craw- 
 ford House, and entered Crawford Notch. We 
 then moved through the most lovely glades, the 
 road roofed with green so delicate in colour that 
 it would seem spring was clutching its privileges 
 to the exclusion of summer. A stream which 
 surely must have been known as Boulder Brook 
 was our inconstant companion, flirting off into 
 the woods and coquetting into our presence again 
 when we least expected it. 
 
 With a fine artistic appreciation even the signs 
 were made of rough bark. " Caution! " was hung 
 on trees like Orlando's eulogies of his fair Rosa- 
 lind. This word of warning was probably meant 
 for the pedestrians as opposed to the swift motor, 
 but it served a double purpose, for one " Cau- 
 tion!" fell on our heads as we passed under it, 
 nearly guillotining the Illustrator. 
 
 There were evidences in the upheaval of rock 
 along the way that the motor had other dangers 
 to contend against. At one point on this route 
 an unhappy family, by the name of Willey, were 
 entirely wiped out by an avalanche. Of course 
 we missed the point, but as it happened a century 
 ago and the Willeys would all be dead by this 
 -hl9S-i- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 time anyway, I felt no particular grief over their 
 rocky end. 
 
 They, at least, have insinuated themselves into 
 history hy their annihilation. Their demise is 
 recorded in all American guidebooks, but, to my 
 delight, the English gentleman who compiled the 
 Baedeker slipped in and out of the White 
 Mountains without ever hearing of the Willeys. 
 They do not get a word, although we learned that 
 " black flies and mosquitoes are somewhat trouble- 
 some in June." 
 
 It is interesting to note in guidebooks compiled 
 for the foreign visitor how much space is given 
 to the welfare and equipment of the pedestrian. 
 It recalls to mind the many climbers we have 
 met in the mountains of Europe, yet we have 
 no recollection of a single walking party through- 
 out our New England trip. If we haven't rail- 
 road fare in America we stay at home — and save 
 until we can buy a motor. 
 
 With a hundred excursions behind us to do 
 some other day, we ran out of the woods at 
 Bemis, and entered into the workaday world once 
 more. There were few houses and no farms until 
 we reached Bartlett. Even then there was little 
 suggestion of a populated district save, inversely, 
 by the reappearance of those small pathetic grave- 
 yards which we frequently passed in New Eng- 
 -?-194~j- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLHIBING 
 
 land. It is not so much life that gives a settled 
 air to a community. Rather the small gleaming 
 headstones that hespeak life's complement: death. 
 
 At Bartlett we stopped for gasoline, and to 
 talk routes and distances. We would have to 
 turn off at Glen if we wished to circle the Presi- 
 dential Range, probahly making Gorham for the 
 night, or we could cut more swiftly out of the 
 mountains and go on to North Conway. We 
 were entirely willing to adopt either plan, and we 
 could not make up oiu' minds before we reached 
 the point where we must turn north for Gorham, 
 or continue straight on for North Conway. We 
 did not make up our minds then, for the chauffeur 
 was driving, and as he had no idea where he was 
 going anj^way, and didn't much care, he clung 
 to the main road from habit, and this settled the 
 matter for us very comfortably^ If it is the broad 
 road that leadeth to destruction, every chauffeur 
 is instinctively bad. 
 
 In a short time, long before dusk, we were in 
 a pretty village looking for the Kearsage Hotel. 
 We scoured the wide street for it — we turned 
 back — we asked ignorant little girls, one of them 
 contending that the Kearsage was a vessel. We 
 grew rather cross about it, and drew up at last 
 before the oldest inhabitant. We told him be- 
 fore he had time to speak that, as we were asking 
 -^195^- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 for the best hotel in North Conway, we saw no 
 reason why the inhabitants should so demean our 
 choice as to know nothing of it. There was no 
 doubt that we were piqued out of vanity. This 
 selecting of an inconsequential hotel discredited 
 our taste. 
 
 The oldest inhabitant, with the deliberation of 
 all realistic actors, took a chew of tt)bacco, and 
 said we could look all night and we'd never find 
 it there. 
 
 "And why not?" I asked severely. 
 
 " 'Cause this town's Intervale." 
 
 It was dusk when we arrived at North Conway 
 and were embraced by the friendly arms of the 
 Kearsage. Yet it was not thick dusk. We 
 could still see — it took some walking — ^the gleam- 
 ing stone on the mountainside that was called the 
 White Horse. The most remarkable thing about 
 this stone is that it looks like a white horse. I 
 have always had small patience with the astron- 
 omers who find extraordinary animals in the 
 heavens, and marvel at less imaginative people 
 because they can't see them. " How j^lain the 
 Great Bear is to-night," they will say, leaving 
 us to pass over the subject hastily and concentrate 
 on the obvious Milky Way. The White Horse 
 is to the mountains what the JNIilky Way is to 
 the sky, and I cannot imagine why, in this district 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 of o'reat hotels, there is not a single White Horse 
 
 Tavern 
 
 The village street was very pleasant at dusk. 
 We wandered into a shop almost entirely aban- 
 doned to postal cards and bought White Horses 
 largely. The pictures were of unusual merit, 
 and when I commented upon this to the young 
 woman in attendance she told me they were 
 copied from the collection of her father's photo- 
 graphs. " His health failed — we had to have a 
 trained nurse — I didn't know what to do — that 
 was a long time ago when illustrated postal 
 cards were just coming in — I made a few and 
 they sold — now I turn out thousands and it keeps 
 us comfortably." 
 
 I thought it was the best brief I had ever 
 heard read for postal cards. We bought quan- 
 tities, and a little bow and arrow as well. The 
 bow and arrow were sent to a small boy who 
 had hurt his foot. I don't know why I should 
 choose this active form of exercise for a boy so — 
 handicapped, can one say? It seems that he has 
 punctured almost everything in his room, includ- 
 ing his mother, and she has written me a very 
 sharp letter about my selection of the gift. 
 
 I put it down to the influence of the nice young 
 woman who had the invalid fatlier. I went out 
 of her shop leaving beliind ni}^ handbag contain- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 ing my money and jewellery in the most unwordly 
 fashion. Later I not only acquired it, but a large 
 photograph of Cathedral Walk. The Walk leads 
 out of North Conway, and when I return I am 
 going to take it, delighting Mr. Baedeker, for 
 the young lady said: "It is so beautiful that it 
 is just like going to church, and not having to 
 hear anything." 
 
 I often wonder what the villagers did before 
 these to^vns were given over to visitors. I sup- 
 pose the money they bring makes the natives 
 put up with all sorts of dull types. We sat at 
 table that night with two of the dull ones — I 
 don't know what they called us. We bowed 
 to them as they took their seats, for it is disagree- 
 able to break bread in a silence that cannot be 
 equally broken. But they were not accustomed 
 to the foreign fashion and stared unbelievingly, 
 so that we all ended by keeping our eyes fixed 
 on our food for fear there might be the inter- 
 change of a glance. It was a good way to kill 
 the flavour of a good dinner. 
 
 Such encounters have an advantage: they ren- 
 der the steady company of the Illustrator more 
 delectable. And he, in turn, let himself down 
 by my side for liis after-dinner cigar with a sigh 
 of relief. I know it was his reflection that if I 
 hadn't firmly seized him when I did that very 
 -J- 198 -f- 
 
MOTOR MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 
 
 woman with the horror of bowing at table might 
 have carried him off, and he would, by this time, 
 be that terrible man who accompanied her, and 
 who would not speak to us. 
 
 A Russian orchestra played — all one family, 
 but, instrumentally, a happy one. And we were 
 equally happy in North Conway. 
 
 199 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 Lost in the Maine Woods 
 
 I WAS awakened the next morning by a noise 
 of stiff paper. I had been dreaming that my 
 ears were full of the din of battle, a battle which 
 I was running away from as rapidly as heavy 
 dream-legs would permit. So it was a relief to me 
 to find that it was only the Illustrator joyfully 
 crackling his new map of Lower Maine and the 
 Maritime Provinces. 
 
 The reader may remember that our parapher- 
 nalia mentioned in the first chapter included two 
 golf bags. We had carried them with the idea 
 of stopping over wherever the golfing was good 
 and taking a day or two off from automobiling. 
 But we had not stopped. We were consumed, 
 as time went on, with an ever-increasing desire 
 to motor and do nothing else. It was not with 
 the intention of getting it over with that we 
 swept through the country; rather, a complete 
 capitulation to that quality one might coin as 
 automobilism. 
 
 I still claim that it is a better attribute than 
 militarism, which possesses Europe at present, 
 -^200^- 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 although my mother has written me a letter or 
 two regarding the value of homeism and workism, 
 and saving-your-moneyism, as opposed to this 
 glorious motoring obsession. 
 
 It was not entirely the fun of seeing " the 
 wheels go round " that kept us moving. Going 
 over the same motor track each day might be 
 exhilarating (and at first we felt happiness in 
 mere swift motion), but the eye and mind would 
 certainly lack stimulus. Whereas part of the 
 tour now was the daily anticipation of new scenes 
 and new people, and this was the reason that 
 
 W , although he loved mountains, was waking 
 
 me up with the map of Lower Maine and the 
 ^laritime Provinces. We were not going to the 
 Maritime Provinces, but the words smell of the 
 sea. Indeed, I thought I smelled the sea already, 
 for I knew it would be ours by nightfall, 
 and called in to the Illustrator to ask if he no- 
 ticed it. He called back that he didn't, that it 
 was rain on the window-pane I was sniffing, 
 but he thought we had better go on just the 
 same. 
 
 Miserably for me the rain slackened as we 
 were about to start, and the chauffeur appeared 
 with the canopy folded up. He would not look 
 
 me in the face nor would W , and when it 
 
 began to patter gently down again as soon as we 
 -j-201-«- 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 were under way, both of them pretended that 
 there was no back seat at all. 
 
 I put up my umbrella, completely shutting out 
 the view, and since I might as well have been at 
 church for any enjoyment of the landscape, I 
 gave myself up to some of the things one thinks 
 about during the sermon — and planned my winter 
 clothes. 
 
 In this way they made the wrong turn before 
 we had gone many, if any, miles. I had just time 
 to peer out, a sense of direction permeating my 
 silk umbrella, and cry: "This is not the road to 
 Fryeburg," as they motored to the right. But 
 the chauffeur, who was driving, insisted that a 
 
 sign-post claimed it was the road, and as W 
 
 said he didn't want to go to Fryeburg anyway, 
 I retired under my shield again. 
 
 I was not going to get rained on trying to 
 prove to the Illustrator that, no matter whether 
 he liked Fryeburg or not, he would have to go 
 there if he wanted to reach Poland Spring. I did 
 not even ask that he take out the map and have 
 a look at it. One of the bitterest commentaries 
 on the Illustrator's attitude toward me and to- 
 ward his maps is the way he won't take them 
 out on bad days for fear they'll get wet! 
 
 I went back under my umbrella, and in fifteen 
 minutes we were in a charming wilderness of 
 -J- 202 -e- 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 balsam woods ploughing through a narrow way 
 
 of IMaine sand, with W feebly commenting 
 
 on the poor quality of the " highway " as soon 
 as we got out of New Hampshire. He said he 
 had always heard the roads in Maine were bad. 
 But he would not catch my eye, although I 
 leaned over and described circles in the effort to 
 catch his. I had closed my umbrella, for it was 
 worth while getting wet to accomplish this, but 
 the Lord was on my side, for it stopped raining 
 anyway. 
 
 We asked a woman who was driving a grocery 
 wagon if this was the Portland Road, and she 
 replied that she really didn't know. One would 
 think that a driver of a delivery wagon would 
 learn something about roads and I muttered 
 words to this effect, but she answered that she 
 didn't deliver out of the Conways — that was far 
 enough for her — so one mustn't expect wide 
 knowledge from a creature so ambitionless. 
 Americans admit their ignorance, anyway, and 
 there is an element of greatness in that. In the 
 Latin countries the travellers of the road will 
 never fail to direct you some way, although it 
 maj" be wrong. It is a matter of pride with them 
 to know everything. 
 
 We rocked on until we reached a choice of four 
 lanes with a sign-post in the centre pointing to a 
 r^ 203 -t- 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 number of destinations which we had no desire 
 to reach. We sat there very comfortably, the 
 balsams blessing us with their odours, and I was 
 obliged to admit that I was enjoying our plunge 
 into the Maine backwoods. Another wagon 
 finally came along, the driver, who was an in- 
 telligent gentleman, jerking his thumb in the 
 direction from which he had just come, as though 
 he was in the habit of meeting an automobile there 
 daily, and sending it back to the route from 
 which we had strayed. 
 
 When he had arrived within speaking distance, 
 he told us that we wanted to go to Hiram, and 
 while I didn't want to go to Hiram any more 
 than the Illustrator didn't want to go to Frye- 
 burg, I refrained from confusing the man by 
 telling him so. In fact, the Illustrator was 
 rather ready to go to Fryeburg now, and asked 
 for it hurriedly, in a small voice, hoping that I 
 wouldn't hear him. But the man said we, on 
 the minor route, were now beyond Fryeburg on 
 the highway, and the best thing for us to do was 
 to go to Hiram, which would bring us into the 
 Portland Road further along. He added, in part- 
 ing, that it was like a triangle and we had " sim- 
 ply " taken two sides of it instead of one. 
 
 He was a kind man, and it would not be 
 decent to call him untruthful, although W 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 insinuated that he was after we had cut through 
 ten miles or more of forestry " describing " not 
 only two sides, but every side of a triangle, and 
 every side of every kind of a triangle. I did not 
 know what to call them until I looked them up in 
 my dictionary, there to find that, while our geo- 
 metrical designs were not limited to this figure, 
 we described an equilateral triangle, several 
 isosceles, four obtuse-angled triangles, and one 
 undoubted scalene. 
 
 It was at the apex of the scalene that we came 
 across the ruins of a farmhouse, and, although it 
 had been burned down long ago, our car instinc- 
 tively stopped to ask the way to Hiram. Be- 
 fore we had time to bid our faithful friend go 
 on again an old man emerged from the ruins, and 
 we forgot all about asking the road in our eager- 
 ness to find out about the fire. He was not de- 
 pressed over his loss, as was our acquaintance of 
 the Green Mountains. I do not know whether 
 his mother-in-law burned up in it, but he had 
 insured it two days before the conflagration, and 
 had built a much better one further on with the 
 proceeds. A solitary cook-stove, seemingly un- 
 harmed, was all that was left of the furnishings. 
 He pointed to it and chuckled: " See that stove — 
 never would burn." A very chipper old gentle- 
 man! 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 There were many delightful farmhouses along 
 this untravelled way, pleasant in outline but un- 
 painted from the day of their birth. Since paint 
 is a preservative, it is difficult to figure why the 
 man who fences his fields, weeds his garden, and 
 hoes his corn does not apply some of that in- 
 dustry to anything as essential as his rooftree. 
 I asked the chauffeur (for we had all grown 
 friendly again, owing to the loveliness of the 
 sweet woods) how much it cost to paint a farm- 
 house, and he said several thousand dollars. 
 
 W challenged this, and the boy argued back 
 
 that it cost fifty dollars to paint a small motor- 
 car, and as the area of a farmhouse was 
 larger 
 
 This boy has no instrument of comparison ex- 
 cept an automobile. The Illustrator, who was 
 hurt that I had not asked him how much it cost 
 to paint a farmhouse, explained that one does 
 not use the same paint on a house as on a car, 
 and decided that it would cost twenty-five dol- 
 lars to paint one of these buildings if you hired 
 a man, and four dollars if you did it yourself. 
 
 I don't know how he came by these figures, 
 but it was so within my means that I suggested 
 buying one of the places along the sandy track 
 and having the four-dollar job done. But 
 
 W , appreciating that he would undoubtedly 
 
 -hWe-i- 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 be the one chosen to paint the lioiise, since I 
 counted on the smaller sum, thought it would be 
 a mistake, for we might never be able to find the 
 estate again if we left it for a moment. And 
 as this was so unusually intelligent I gave up 
 the idea, concentrating once more on Hiram. 
 
 We saw a small store, although there was no 
 reason for its being, as there was no one around 
 to buy anything, with the name of Ole Johnson 
 over the door, and we quieted the motor, that 
 our voices might be lifted in a sort of yodelling 
 trio as we called, " Ole, Ole, Ole, Ooh! " 
 
 He turned out to be a pretty girl, who asked us 
 flatly why we wanted Hiram when Fryeburg was 
 just up the road. And we concealed our as- 
 tonishment that we were anywhere near this mys- 
 terious town, the Illustrator gallantly admitting 
 that she was right, and swallowing his hatred for 
 the hamlet in order to make some small advance. 
 We passed through Fryeburg one hour and a 
 half later than we need have if the canopy had 
 been up so that I could have directed them as to 
 the route. But I did not say this, and as a 
 
 token of appreciation for my forbearance W 
 
 stopped at Denmark to let me attend a green- 
 corn husking bee. 
 
 It was not a merry affair with young boys pur- 
 suing pretty girls. Fifty men and women were 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 squatting in the sunshine before a cannery, toss- 
 ing the husked ears into individual baskets of 
 which a record was kept by an overseer. They 
 received five cents a basket, some of them mak- 
 ing two dollars and fifty cents a day, so I can 
 leave you to work out the number of baskets they 
 filled daily. I asked one of those employed what 
 they did with the corn, and she said she didn't 
 know. There seemed to be no excuse for this 
 ignorance except that many of the buskers had 
 come from a distance; the explanation of the 
 overseer implying that those not closely related 
 to the town of Denmark suffered from a lack of 
 mental development. 
 
 I went through the building with the wife of 
 the proprietor, as he did not appear at all. The 
 process was accomplished with little use of human 
 hands and that but to watch the machinery. 
 There may be fingers in many a pie, but there 
 are no fingers in canned corn and I have been 
 eating it all winter with enthusiasm. The wife 
 knew every cog of the machinery and of the busi- 
 ness. She was of those capable women whom one 
 meets throughout the villages of the United 
 States, with a cultivation of mind that causes one 
 to bless anew " Cadmus, the Phoenicians, or who- 
 ever it was that invented books." 
 
 While I was interested in corn she was in- 
 -h 208 -J- 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 terested in the latest publication. She spoke of 
 Galsworthy, Anatole France, the while she gave 
 me statistics as to the number of tins sealed in 
 an hour. When I told her that, hitherto, our 
 travel stories had been only of Europe she 
 stopped leading me about and looked out of a 
 window tliat gave upon the village street, up the 
 road to the fir trees and the strips of sand. 
 
 " Europe — Italy — the Riviera — the Black For- 
 est. I have never seen them." She turned to 
 me. " What can you write of in New England? 
 What can you wi'ite of to-day? But then, of 
 course, you are going to Poland Spring." I 
 told her that I should write of something much 
 more interesting than the guests at Poland 
 Spring, but she was too modest to understand me. 
 
 There was another effort as we neared Naples 
 to turn us from the straight road, and force us 
 into a circuitous route aroimd Lake Sebago. 
 A freshly-painted sign-j^ost named every desti- 
 nation one would be likely to want within a day's 
 run, but we had developed caution as the sun 
 reached its meridian, and asked a passing driver 
 what all these signs, obviously pointing us away 
 from the main road, could mean. It was un- 
 fortunate that we chose a man with a skittish 
 horse, but I held the bridle while he restrained it 
 from an inclination to eat me as he explained 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 that the signs were " kind of a blind." Various 
 innkeepers put them up to get the motorist to 
 go by their hotels. 
 
 " 'Tain't right," he admitted, but he said worse 
 things than that happened in Maine. Some of 
 the very best residents of the country dug up 
 reliable sign-posts and used 'em to hold up clothes 
 lines. Surely enough, a little further on we found 
 one holding up a choice array of lingerie in 
 a back yard, with a majestic finger bearing the 
 inscription " Copley Plaza Hotel, Boston," point- 
 ing to a beehive. 
 
 Naples was so named because it was on the 
 water. It bore no other resemblance to that 
 pink city which one is bidden to see and die. The 
 water was one of a series of little lakes which we 
 were now continually passing. They were lovelj^ 
 clear lakes with islands planted neatly in the 
 centre of each, producing the effect of toy Japa- 
 nese gardens, such as we receive for Christmas 
 gifts. Summer cottages and campers besprinkled 
 the shores, and there was an air of festivity about 
 that invested even the roadway. 
 
 It particularly invested it at one point where 
 the way was narrow, for we encountered a merry- 
 go-round in transit, an implacable caravan that 
 refused to share the road, so that we were the 
 ones who had to " go 'round " by crawling into 
 -h 210 -h- 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 the ditch, and were not at all meriy ahout it. 
 The driver was grim of visage, endeavouring to 
 preserve his dignity, for he was sitting in a fish, 
 while his helper, a very homely man, was glower- 
 ing at us from a sort of hower of roses. Ah, 
 well! Business had been bad perhajis. Although 
 the " new thought " books argue along different 
 lines, there is no reason why it should be amus- 
 ing to furnish amusement to a frivolous 
 public. 
 
 We left the direct Portland Road at Naples, 
 taking two sides of a triangle again, that we might 
 lunch at Poland Spring, although an enterprising 
 shopkeeper, who wished to sell us hats when we 
 arrived at Portland, continued with his milestones 
 and exhortations all along our way. My spirits 
 rose with the natural elevation of the land as we 
 approached this famous Source, reaching a climax 
 in a burst of song which no one heard, but it is 
 a fashion of mine to sing when I am happy in 
 the back seat. 
 
 There was a reason for my delight. Poland 
 Spring had ever been definitely visaged in mj^ 
 mind as a place in a flat wood, far too low, and 
 thickly grown with brush. The hotel was painted 
 a dark green with cream trimmings, little damp 
 walks led to small basins where water trickled 
 into muddy pools. I fancy this was the result of 
 -f-211+- 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 my first " cure " in an undeveloped Indiana re- 
 sort thirty — yes, alas — thirty years ago, but I am 
 glad that it was so gloomy in my imagination, 
 for nothing could have been more surprising than 
 the sudden gaining of the high plateau. There 
 I found myself amidst the best kept lawns in 
 America, with three gleaming hotels scattered 
 about the great open space, and fine roads in- 
 vitingly leading us to each one of them. 
 
 Vulgarians by nature, we chose the largest, so 
 large that one cannot imagine where any other 
 Americans spend the summer when this one is 
 " full up." The clerk assured us that it was 
 always " full up " and we could not stay the night 
 if we wished, but he was not supercilious about it. 
 Like all able creatures he was modest, though he 
 could well have been proud, for his intellectual 
 development extended to the reading of a guest's 
 name upside down on the register. 
 
 "Lunch, Mr. Hale?" he asked as soon as the 
 signature was completed, leaving the Illustrator 
 titillated with the possibility that he might not 
 have read the name, but have recognised him from 
 Sunday newspaper cuts. As we were not taking 
 rooms we could not discover if he possessed that 
 other coveted gift of writing numbers upside 
 down, although, no doubt, that lay within his 
 grasp as well. 
 
 -^ 212 -«- 
 
n 
 
 
 rh 
 
 
 HE 
 
 
 
 POLAND SPRING 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 We once encountered in a small hotel out West 
 a clerk with this attainment, but he was not a 
 pleasant man. There were deep grooves in the 
 desk which he had made by raldng his finger nails 
 into the wood after each guest had registered, 
 which occasioned a sinking of the heart, fearing 
 we had unwittingly strayed into an ogre's den. 
 I remember asking him if he was sure we could 
 get our laundry by the next day. " Nothing is 
 sure, lady, but death," he replied, raking terribly. 
 We did not stay overnight in that hotel. 
 
 It was hard to decide which was better at 
 luncheon: the food or the views. There were 
 gentle hills, lakes, streams and farmlands 
 stretched out as extensively as the menu, and as I 
 complacently ate I decided that this rolling coun- 
 try was better suited to my mild nature than the 
 majesty of mountains. 
 
 The golfers played almost up to the verandas. I 
 never knew anything tamer than the balls unless 
 it was the squirrels. We walked over to the 
 shrine built about the only and original Poland 
 Spring with the squirrels taking every liberty with 
 us. One even scampered up my gown to my hat, 
 running around the top of it madly under the im- 
 pression that it was the wheel in a cage. Every 
 one was amused at this but m5''self. 
 
 " It wants you to give it a nut," explained an 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 old gentleman with a squirrel sticking out of his 
 pocket as he was ahout to address a ball with a 
 brassie. " They're very fond of filberts." He 
 looked at me reproachfully as I made no effort 
 to take a filbert out of my hair or produce it by 
 some other act of magic, and the squirrel tore 
 around my motor bonnet more wildly than ever. 
 And while I like animals, I was exasperated at 
 the squirrel, feeling that it should keep in its 
 place, and I asked the golfer where did he expect 
 me to get a filbert? 
 
 He avoided ansAvering by making a very good 
 brassie shot, at least good enough to take him 
 far away from me, which was a relief to us both, 
 the squirrel ending the comphcation by leaping 
 from my hat to a tree, carrying with him a por- 
 tion of my hair net. 
 
 Nevertheless I was mortified at not having a 
 filbert, and I think guidebooks should speak of 
 the wisdom of investing in this commodity be- 
 fore leaving for Poland Spring. The depression 
 might have continued had it not been dispelled 
 by the necktie of the attendant who offers one a 
 drink of water from the original source if one 
 wants it. 
 
 It was a silk tie with a Gibson girl painted on 
 it. The top of her pompadour came just below 
 the knot, her face and shoulders were neatly 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 spread out after the fashion of four-in-hands, 
 and her right eye was squarely punctured by 
 
 a ruby scarf pin. W says no European 
 
 spring is half as beautifully encased as is this 
 one and I must take his word for it — I saw 
 nothing but the necktie. I hope the boy will 
 wear it forever and make thousands of tired busi- 
 ness men happy. 
 
 We went on to the bottling works nearby. 
 It was not an exciting process, the bottles slipping 
 along in a little groove, getting themselves filled 
 and corked without effort, and going off to New 
 York to be sold for a sum quite out of propor- 
 tion to the ease by which the thing was seemingly 
 accomplished. But we do not pay for the water 
 alone. We pay, and everlastingly should, for the 
 brain of the first Ricker who owned this Spring 
 and who decided to cork it up as a commercial 
 enterprise. I stared at the long line of sliding 
 green bottles. If a Jones had had this farm in 
 1797, or an Ames, perhaps, or — surely — a Hale, 
 to this day the cows might have been standing in 
 the little stream its narrow trickle would have 
 made, snoozling up through their nostrils the 
 present dividends of a vast corporation. 
 
 We did not visit the other buildings on this 
 four thousand acres of estate. Everything is 
 here that one could possibly want, even, I am told, 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 to some of my books in the library! Everything, 
 at least, but the sea, and as we wanted the sea 
 most urgently we sent out an S. O. S. call for our 
 automobile. And in an instant, by some mysteri- 
 ous process, it came rattling out of the bejewelled 
 garage and we were on our way. But we looked 
 back regretfully, for this of its kind is a finer 
 flower than the older countries of Europe have to 
 offer. 
 
 In spite of the Call of the Sea we stopped, 
 soon after quitting the i^ark, at a large stone 
 building so forbidding that it tempted us, like 
 the apple, to inquire of it. We learned that it is 
 now but the dairy house for the big hotels, but 
 that it had once belonged to the Shaker Settle- 
 ment. This elicited further inquiries, and a little 
 " more far," as the French say, we espied a neat 
 old lady sewing at a window. She was so extraor- 
 dinarily placid and so sternly bonneted that we 
 knew we were at the Shaker house for the women. 
 More than that, goods were announced for sale, 
 and glad of an excuse for meeting a Shaker lady, 
 I went in to see the wares. 
 
 She of the window met me at the door, and 
 took me into the shop. I was impressed by her 
 simplicity, and I was almost afraid that I might 
 take advantage of her while acquiring a few 
 souvenirs. I was afraid she might want to give 
 -8-216-*- 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 them to me and that I would be obKged to force 
 the money upon her. 
 
 But she was a remarkable old lady, her sober 
 habit but the cloak to as keen a trading instinct 
 as one finds at the Rag Fair in Rome. She did 
 not heed my modest demands at first. She began 
 with the most expensive articles, working down 
 toward my price with a certain restrained con- 
 tempt that made me a little sick at her worldli- 
 ness. I wanted to ask her if she had ever heard 
 of the ]McCreery Stores, and of the printed notice 
 given to each clerk that the smallest buyer is as 
 valuable to the shop, and as welcome, as the most 
 reckless purchaser. New York and its ways 
 were quite simple to me after mj'' encounter with 
 that old lady, and I went away carrying my few 
 dcquisitions — mentally at least — between the 
 thumb and forefinger. 
 
 I was glad to be going on to Portland, where 
 (I am told), with Providence and some other 
 New England cities, there are schools of etiquette 
 for clerks, and courteous methods are rehearsed 
 for dealing with discourteous shoppers. I sat 
 back relieved to find, after I had admitted it, 
 that I was as glad to be approaching a city as I 
 was to be nearing the sea. 
 
 We whizzed past generous farms, through little 
 hamlets, circumvented ox-carts, with an eye eager 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 for the first glimpse of a trolley car coming out 
 from Portland. And when we saw it speeding 
 through the country with tired farmers' wives 
 carrying early autumn hats in paper bags, we fol- 
 lowed up the track with the same enthusiasm that 
 Hop-o'-My-Thumb's parents must have trailed the 
 bread crumbs. For the pursuit of the city is as 
 stimulating as the chase for Maine deer in the 
 open season. 
 
 It is worthy of comment that we arrived before 
 dusk, and by some confusion of trolley lines found 
 Longfellow's home before we met the harbor. 
 The Illustrator insisted that this was the Long- 
 fellow home, and, being substantiated by the 
 passerby, emptied himself out of the car to make 
 a sketch. 
 
 As Portland is a historic town, no one is 
 alarmed when an artist takes to drawing in its 
 busiest thoroughfare, although there is the usual 
 comment from the street as to the excellence of 
 the work. This freedom of expression is limited 
 to no one country, but is less humiliating in for- 
 eign parts as it is done in a tongue fairly 
 unfamiliar to us. 
 
 While I was proud of W 's sketch, I was 
 
 embarrassed at finding his subject the real Long- 
 fellow residence. In a previous visit I had picked 
 out another house as his, and pointed it out to 
 -^ 218 -h- 
 
THE LONGFELLOW HOME, PORTLAND 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 strangers who were as ignorant as I. The one 
 of my choice stands in the httle open place where 
 his statue is erected. The chauffeur and I drove 
 past there as we endeavoured to choose a hotel, 
 and I still like it, and wish he had lived there. 
 It is at the end of the most delightful street in the 
 world, where the shade trees are not limited to a 
 noble row on either side, but extend themselves 
 to two rows, and conspire to form the nave and 
 side aisles of a cathedral which one can motor up 
 and down without disturbing the service. 
 
 In fact, the chauffeur spent so much time 
 motoring up and down it, turning and re-turning 
 in the wide street (turning without drilling is 
 the chauffeur's delight), that we arrived at the 
 Lafayette Hotel too late for any rooms save 
 those next to the elevator, and, all of a sudden, 
 my joy was turned to bitterness. The car was 
 sent after the patient Illustrator, and I gloomily 
 unpacked with every evidence of a boiler factory 
 going up and down one wall. When our effects 
 were disposed for the night, and I was just saying 
 I must make the best of it, I went out into the 
 hall, quite without my own volition, and screamed 
 out that I couldn't. 
 
 As a reward for my lack of self-control, a 
 sympathetic bell-boy heard me, and we two 
 scouted about the halls, going up and down steps. 
 
LOST IN THE I\IAINE WOODS 
 
 and trying doors, until we marked a party leaving 
 rooms in a far, quiet corner. By a certain ex- 
 change of silver for keys the rooms were mine, 
 and attendants, carrying dinner dresses, and 
 pumps, and toothbrushes, and yawning hand- 
 bags, moved me into them. Even then I forgot 
 the soap, but had it by the time W arrived. 
 
 I was jiaid for my efforts by the way he sank 
 into a wicker chair, exhausted by the criticisms 
 of his drawing of the Longfellow house, and, 
 lying back comfortably, remarked that some body, 
 not a hotel, had furnished the room. I had been 
 thinking the same thing, and marvelling that with 
 all the guests going in and out daily there was 
 still a pervading sense of some one individual. 
 
 Long ago a fire had burned on the wide hearth, 
 marks showed against the wall the traces of book- 
 shelves once affixed there, a bracket for a plant 
 was empty by the window, and a fixture from 
 which a bird-cage must have hung was still sus- 
 pended over the fresh curtains. W gener- 
 ously insisted upon my taking this room, and I do 
 not think he was uneasy over any gentle ghost 
 that may have been hovering about. Strangely 
 enough, the adjoining room, although the same in 
 size and furnishings, carried with it no delicate 
 sensation of a life so quick that its glad vibration 
 stirred a chord in our own emotional hearts. 
 
LOST IN THE MAINE WOODS 
 
 We ate on the roof — how often do I speak of 
 eating! — green corn, horribly, for there is no 
 other way of denuding the cob. But I do not 
 
 look at W when he is eating, and he does 
 
 not look at me. I look at the other guests eating 
 corn, however, and hate them. Some go straight 
 around the cob, some in a long line from end to 
 end, and some gnash in anywhere. The last 
 have no sense of order. It was pleasanter to look 
 out over the city and to see the lights of Casco 
 Bay. The smell of the low tide reached us even 
 on our rocky eyrie. The little steamers were 
 going to the various islands, far beyond was open 
 water. 
 
 And yet — we returned to the window of our 
 spirit room, the one that looked up the quiet 
 street where the couples were walking. The 
 moon shone down through the branches of the 
 trees — still it was dark enough for couples. One 
 young man quarrelled with his young lady and 
 she cried. He " made it up." 
 
 " One might think we'd go out on the water," 
 said the Illustrator, " now we've reached it." 
 
 But we made no move. We were at that world- 
 old occupation of enjoying humanity, and there 
 are no romances like those of the city streets. 
 
 221 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Down Along the Maine Coast 
 
 It was very foolish to be walking down the 
 main street of Portland the next morning admir- 
 ing the arrangement of fruit, flowers, and vege- 
 tables in the shop windows when I ought to have 
 been digging into my guidebook and brushing up 
 on dates. 
 
 We were back on historic ground again, and 
 we would continue on it from that point until we 
 were home. I once dreamed, after a day of 
 delving into the library, that we were motoring 
 over a flat country devoid of beauty, and with no 
 characteristics save rows of date palms along the 
 way. The palms were rich in fruit, if it could 
 be called that, yet the bearing was but a series 
 of figures swaying in the wind. We passed every 
 date from the reign of the Ptolemies to the blow- 
 ing up of the Maine. It was a most tiring trip, 
 and I determined that no tour of mine in real life 
 should be marred by too great a predominance 
 of this obnoxious fruit. 
 
 I take space for the relating of this nightmare, 
 that I may be pardoned any slurring of the 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 events which stand out prominently in the making 
 of our history, and, instead, speak more continu- 
 ously of what we saw in the beauty of the country 
 and the lives of those about us. The dates will 
 be with you forever — but you can take but one 
 trip with the Illustrator and the humble ( ?) 
 scribe. 
 
 Ergo: I did some shopping in Portland (which 
 was founded in 1632, was first called Casco and 
 then Falmouth. I'll admit that much!), as I in- 
 tended to have my shoes shined. There was a 
 bootblack across the street, but he showed no dis- 
 position to take my money. He sat on his own 
 high throne, strumming on a mandolin as he read 
 an Italian newspaper spread upon his knee, and 
 he was so entirely happy that I did not disturb 
 him, for ten cents more or less could mean nothing 
 to this man. As a result of this, I went on down 
 the street and very nearly bought some ostrich 
 feathers. 
 
 This desire to shop when in a small city, for 
 fear one will not find anything as good when one 
 reaches a metropolis, seizes the traveller after 
 several days in the country. I felt as I looked 
 at those feathers in the showcase that they would 
 be the one great bargain of my life, and that I 
 would never see anything like them in New York. 
 I resisted the temptation, fearing the Illustrator, 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 for they would have to be carried in a large box, 
 and since then I have seen many other feathers 
 not only cheaper but better, and have bought 
 none of them. 
 
 I even got away without an air plant which 
 beckoned me from a florist's. It seemed folly not 
 to buy the air plant, for it needed neither earth 
 nor water, and would look very well blossoming 
 
 on top of the typewriter. But W came 
 
 along at the psychological moment of my great- 
 est weakness with one of Portland's most promi- 
 nent citizens. The artist was taking him up the 
 street behind our hotel to show him a most lovely 
 composition of an old gateway and an older tree, 
 for the distinguished man was as alive as we were 
 to the charm of his town. Yet the citizen laughed 
 when he saw the find, saying it was the back yard 
 of ]Mrs. Blank's boarding-house. But we all three 
 thought it very nice in art to grant the good 
 compositions as freely to the poor as to the 
 rich. 
 
 We saw the full sweep of the bay, at last, as 
 we left the city going toward Biddeford, and, just 
 at the city limits, guarded by a policeman, lay the 
 body of a man who had tramped for the last time. 
 I felt sorry that he must die on so glorious a day, 
 for surely no man can better appreciate the 
 tempered wind and soft sunshine than a tramp, 
 -e- 224 -f- 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 But he lay very easily in the lap of his mother: 
 Earth. 
 
 We followed the trolley to Biddeford, but it 
 was not a busy trolley, and when we reached the 
 tow^n w^e found most of the mills shut down, with 
 the great smoke stacks, which we would gladly 
 have had polluting the skj'', unfulfilling their mis- 
 sion. INIen and women were idle in the door- 
 ways, and hanging out of windows. We have 
 come upon evil days for our mill peoi:)le, although 
 I understand the owners endeavour to run them 
 for half the week, that the bodies of the workers 
 may remain integral with their souls. 
 
 The blight appears to have extended itself to 
 the trees of the open country. At least they have 
 a blight of their own, and such trees as have 
 been sprayed with arsenic bear large placards of 
 " Poison," doubtless to warn the educated New 
 England cows against eating the leaves. In spite 
 of these calamities of town and country, the places 
 were prosperous in appearance, the farmhouses 
 were finely built, and fat oxen in the fields lent an 
 air of solidarity to the scene. We were headed 
 for Kennebunkport, having been told, en route, 
 that the golf course was on this side " The 
 Tombs," and the town beyond them. In Elaine 
 the cemeteries are given that terse name. It has 
 a resonance that consorts well with these little 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 patches of the dead which lie along the rocky, 
 booming coast. 
 
 We stopped at Kennebunkport for old time's 
 sake, although the cottages of our friends were 
 closed, and the hotel where we lunched was about 
 to close. Or perhaps I should say that it wished 
 to be about to close, as the proprietress whispered 
 
 to me that as soon as old IMr. K left she 
 
 would shut right up. We saw old IVIr. K 
 
 puttering about happily with no evidence of leav- 
 ing, and while I did not wish to distress the 
 proprietress, I told her of a man I knew who had 
 been invited to stay overnight at the house of a 
 friend of ours, and who lingered there for seven 
 years. 
 
 In spite of that she gave us a good luncheon, 
 
 although I don't know what JNIr. K received, 
 
 and we walked out among the cottages after- 
 wards to the water's edge. This was our first 
 beach on the tour, and several years ago it was the 
 first one tliat I had ever visited. JMen who write 
 come to Kennebunkport, and I was the guest of 
 one of them. The sightseeing buckboards used 
 to drive past, pointing out the author as he sat 
 on the front porch. The top of his head would 
 get pink, then, and while I sat up very straight, 
 trying to look like tlie famous man's wife, the 
 real wife and her illustrious liege would crawl 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 around to the kitchen steps, there to sit as the 
 next contingent went by. 
 
 The revisiting of a locality which one associates 
 with friends when the friends are absent is like 
 sitting before a wide hearth on which no fire is 
 burning. We did not feel the want of acquaint- 
 ances in places that were new to us, but the day 
 in Kennebunkport brought to me most poignantly 
 that it is people, not things, which make up a 
 large part of the world. And I offer the old 
 thought as a solace to those who must stay at 
 home, yet are surrounded by men and women 
 whom they know. 
 
 I spoke of this to W , who did not care 
 
 for my log fire simile, preferring to liken my sen- 
 sation of loss on this beautiful coast to the con- 
 templation of a lovely woman without a heart. 
 Since this locality was unfamiliar to him I 
 thought the reference to the lady rather unneces- 
 sary, for he, himself, was feeling nothing but a 
 mild indignation that I could remember so little 
 of the route. 
 
 I could pick out the way to Ivennebimk proper 
 only by my recollection of a fine old Colonial house 
 on the right which had been over-ornamented with 
 white encrustations like the icing on the wedding 
 cake. No traveller must or will fail to observe 
 it. Its appearance makes one long for a build- 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 ing committee to restrict extravagances of archi- 
 tecture both of town and country. What a tear- 
 ing down of towers and a removal of gingerbread 
 porches there would be if a body of capable archi- 
 tects were set loose among the cottages built some 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 At my earnest solicitation, we stopped at 
 Kennebunk to inquire of a setter dog that I had 
 found in that vicinity upon my last visit there. 
 The famous novelist had refused to give it house 
 
 room for about the same reason that W had 
 
 resented my annexing the golf ball back in Bret- 
 ton Woods: he feared he might some day meet 
 the owner. But the dog was undoubtedly lost, 
 and, at last, I bestowed it upon a very willing 
 Kennebunk sportsman, who declared the animal 
 perfectly pointed. 
 
 Upon inquiring now, it was no longer with 
 him. He was sorry for this, and enlarged upon 
 dogs that don't appreciate a good home. He 
 said some people were like that, just born strays, 
 run and run through the country till they die. I 
 thought of the tramp back in Portland. And the 
 dog and that tramp and ourselves Avere all curi- 
 ously confused in my mind. The Illustrator and 
 I raced on, understanding a good deal the joy of 
 the dog's running, and not finding the tramp's 
 end so very unlovely after all. 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 Before Ogiinqiiit we were forced to make a 
 detour, and discovered an old gentleman in a 
 small car stuck in a sandy pasture, bleating pite- 
 ously for Portland. "Is it all sand?" he asked, 
 under the impression that JNIaine had no more 
 roads to offer. But this detour was occasioned 
 by the process of hitching together as good a road 
 as one can ask for. It ran now among colorful 
 moors, for we were out of the pine forests, and 
 the sea threw its sj)ray among the rocks, like, as 
 our chauffeur charmingly put it: "like an atom- 
 iser." Studios with great north skylights were 
 part of many of the cottages, and maidens sat 
 in meadows, braving the cows to paint the cliffs. 
 At one turn of the road we stopped to admire 
 and " register " (as they say in taking a moving 
 picture) a house and a tree beside it, and the 
 sea beyond them both. That was all. Why does 
 the heart go out to some habitations and remain 
 so cold to others? 
 
 The roadbed grew so extraordinarily good as 
 we neared York Beach that the automobile associ- 
 ation urges you to keep within bounds by posting 
 horrible -warnings of swift motor-cj^cle police 
 who lurk behind every heather bush. Even so, 
 the Maine automobile travels with throttle 
 wide open, a conscious look upon the face of 
 the taxpayer, as though he would say: "As 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 you make your own bed, so shall you ride 
 upon it." 
 
 I believe that the beach which stretched before 
 us on our left is the finest in the world, just as 
 the cottages which were on our right are certainly 
 the meanest, and in no way deserve the view, con- 
 sidering that the ocean has to look back at them. 
 Every name that could be derived by mediocre 
 minds was given to those shacks, and flaunted 
 over the door, from (hospitably) " Letumcum " 
 to (modestly) " The Atlantic " — a very small 
 bungalow. 
 
 In close juxtaposition was York Harbor, a 
 smnmer place rich in fashion but poor in interest. 
 A beautiful woman with seventy-five smnmer 
 gowns once told me that the large hotels get a 
 hold on you, and you go back year after year. 
 Forewarned by this, we did not stop at all, for we 
 cannot imagine any greater misery than a large 
 hotel " getting a hold on us," and, like the setter 
 dog, we ran and ran toward Portsmouth. 
 
 It was the Illustrator's wish to visit the Navy 
 Yard before it was closed for the day. It lies 
 at Kittery Point, and we were as near to reaching 
 it on time as we ever were at getting anywhere, 
 for the gun had just fired for the closing of the 
 shops as we brought up before the sentry. Hav- 
 ing garnered our camera, we were allowed to 
 

 XEARIXG PORTSMOUTH HARBOR 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 motor among the buildings and visit some of the 
 warships which were in dry-dock. It was here 
 that General Cervera was pleasantly imprisoned 
 during the Spanish-American war, and if he had 
 the run of the beautiful Governor's house and the 
 officers' quarters scattered along the Point, I 
 think he did well to be captured. 
 
 The workmen were going off to Portsmouth in 
 launches, a much more festive fashion than electric 
 cars, although they were soberly reading news- 
 papers and paying no attention to the sunset, as 
 Venetian laborers always seem to be doing. The 
 vessels in dry-dock were preparing for the even- 
 ing meal. I asked one neat scullion who was 
 carrying pails of potato peelings to the water's 
 edge if he preferred being ashore in this half-and- 
 half fashion, and he said, upon reflection, that he 
 didn't. I was stirred by his preference for the 
 high seas, but, after probings, learned that the 
 advantage of the broad ocean was the pitching 
 of the potato peelings directly out the port 
 holes. ** That's the worst of being ashore," 
 completed the tar gloomily. " No place to 
 throw things." 
 
 The Russian and Japanese met here daily until 
 the peace treaty was signed — could it be as far 
 back as 1905? A tablet on a building commemo- 
 rates that period, so gay for the Americans, so 
 
 -H-231-J- 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 gratifying to the Russians, and so bitter to the 
 silent little Orientals, who, while the victors, re- 
 ceived nothing. 
 
 When we reached the Rockingham Hotel in 
 quaint old Portsmouth, we found a disposition on 
 the part of the young girl at the newsstand to 
 claim this hostelry as the one which harboured 
 both factions, but I think she was rather over- 
 zealous than undertruthful. She was only a 
 little girl then, she said, and didn't dream at the 
 time that she would ever be working for her 
 living (so she has her story, I suppose, but, the 
 Illustrator poking me, I did not pry into it). 
 She was playing with her dolls, she remembered, 
 when the guns were fired that announced the 
 signing of the treaty, and she had cried, for she 
 thought the Russians and Japanese were attack- 
 ing us. " Not yet," said W gloomily, which 
 
 was unnecessarily foreboding at the close of a 
 sunny day. 
 
 The traveller should spend some time in this 
 only port of New Hampshire. Indeed, the 
 traveller should do few of the things that we 
 do — except be happy and follow his own incli- 
 nation. There was much diplomatic visiting at 
 Portsmouth in early Colonial days, for New Eng- 
 land was the White Hope of the nation, and 
 great deference was paid to the wishes of these 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 northern states. Both AVasliington and Lafa- 
 yette visited Governor Langdon in the old house 
 still standing, our first President writing of it to 
 a friend as one of the finest houses he had ever 
 seen. The doorways were exceedingl}^ good. I 
 like to see a lovely portal. A young writer, 
 Ernest Poole, has completely expressed it: "I 
 always like the front door of a house to be wide 
 and low with only a step or two leading up. I 
 like it to look hospitable, as though always wait- 
 ing for friends to come in." 
 
 It was the moon that teased us out of the 
 town after we had motored leisurely through its 
 streets, and bought the first chestnuts of the 
 season, popping over a glowing charcoal fire. 
 We called tliis a sort of wedding trip, as we had 
 been mistaken at one street corner for a conscious 
 pair we had previously met. They were in an 
 automobile labelled " Just Married," like the 
 bride and groom's car away back (a thousand 
 years back it seems) near Amenia. The over- 
 eagerness of those hiding behind a building to 
 pelt them with confetti resulted in an attack upon 
 us. Yet the laugh was upon them, for, as we 
 emerged from coils of colored paper ribbon, they 
 found that they had expended their ammunition 
 on a couple wearing an intense, long-married ex- 
 pression. And as they profusely apologised, the 
 -j-233-?- 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 " Just Married " drove triumphantly by, confetti- 
 less. 
 
 Since it was the moon, " the inconstant moon," 
 that had led them on, so did it us to Newbury- 
 port. We liked the idea of arriving at this old 
 town of the musical name by night, and, 
 fortified by chestnuts, we ran into open country 
 again. It was intensely quiet. We were by our- 
 selves, all New England had gone to supper, all 
 save a woman with a full, rich voice who was too 
 much in love to eat. We had stopped to turn on 
 the headlights, and she gave us the charming 
 benefit of her song as she walked in her garden. 
 She was as unconscious as the thrush in the bush, 
 but the thrush keeps its secrets; there were words 
 to her cry: 
 
 '' The night has a thousand eyes. 
 
 The day hut one. 
 Yet the light of the whole world dies 
 
 With the setting sun. 
 The mind has a thousand eyes. 
 
 The heart hut one. 
 Yet the light of the whole world dies 
 
 When love is done" 
 
 We stood motionless until she had finished, 
 and as she sang to the end my mental picture of 
 her changed. I could see her not as a young 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 woman. There was a break in her rich voice, now 
 and then, which would suggest that the fingers of 
 time were at her throat, making gentle indenta- 
 tions in the flesh, steahng her youngest notes 
 from their ivory casing, sorry to do it, perhaps, 
 but intent upon its eternal remodelling. Thank 
 time, or philosophy, or whatever power it is, that 
 as our body changes so does the spirit within us. 
 One hopes that the woman of middle age singing 
 in her garden that night had found this accommo- 
 dating spirit — our fears, from the yearning of her 
 song, that she had not. 
 
 But New England did not remain indoors for 
 long. The bells were clanging in the villages 
 through which we passed, and old folks were 
 going to the weekly prayer meeting. Young 
 people, who need it most, do not go to prayer 
 meeting, although in my youth I would go as 
 far as the hitching post. Here was tied my 
 grandfather's white horse, and my companions 
 and myself would drive it, " lickety-split," about 
 the town while my dear old grandparents, all un- 
 suspicious, praj^ed for the redemption of my soul. 
 The " joy ride " did not develop with the institu- 
 tion of the automobile. 
 
 Long before we expected it, we caught a line 
 of silver on the horizon which betokened the port 
 of Newbury. Little boats were riding at rest 
 -f- 235 -h- 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 (only a boat can ride and rest at the same time) 
 and there were big ones farther off in the harbour 
 which evidently stayed out later, as grown-ups 
 can, for they were all " lit up " — and that means 
 a number of things. 
 
 Once across the long bridge we asked the way 
 to the Wolfe Tavern of an Englishman — judging 
 by his accent — and while his direction was faulty 
 we bore him no ill-will, for it gave us the oppor- 
 timity of traversing a wide, lovely street which had 
 nothing to do with the Wolfe Tavern. The fine 
 Colonial mansions were set far back from the 
 road, solid and substantial. Even the glow of 
 modern electricity coming from the windows shed 
 its rays with dignity, as an able mind diffuses 
 light. Only the creeping vines and the gardens 
 were invulnerably soft. The first time I saw the 
 Colosseum in Rome was by moonlight, and while 
 it has been awkward to do so, since then I have 
 avoided that locality. So I determined that I 
 would not visit this street again; for a fine im- 
 pression, however vague, is too good to be de- 
 stroyed by analysis. 
 
 W said after we had covered the street 
 
 twice that we would never get off it, and that 
 I would probably never see anything else, even 
 if I wanted to. We were too shy to ask of the 
 Tavern at these great doorways, the chauffeur de- 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 murring as he feared the iron dogs might be live 
 ones. No one was walking in the streets. There 
 is a curfew law still enforced in Newburyport, 
 yet it seems to have terrors only for the ancient, 
 as we at last overtook some boys who ought to 
 have been in bed. At first it was difficult to get 
 any definite information owing to their concerted 
 desire to please, and when we begged that 
 but one speak at a time there was every prom- 
 ise of a fist fight over who should be the first 
 one. 
 
 I sternly insisted that, being a lady, I should 
 be allowed to pick out the dispenser of informa- 
 tion, and I sympathetically took the quietest boy 
 as a reward of merit. This created intense de- 
 light among his companions, for I had chosen the 
 village stammerer; but by long breaths, and 
 pauses, and sticking to it the little fellow told us 
 all that we needed to know — and a good deal 
 more. 
 
 You cannot mistake the Wolfe Tavern if you 
 have ever seen General Wolfe. His likeness 
 is painted on the old swinging sign, but as he died 
 on the plains of Abraham while fighting the 
 French, we were better assisted by the name of 
 the Tavern underneath than by any recognition 
 of his features. Like all ancient hotels it is not 
 the original hotel, nor does it stand on the corner 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 where it stood during and before revolutionary 
 times. I do not know why hotels wish to move 
 about in this fashion, nor why they so frequently 
 get themselves burned up — or down, as you feel 
 optimistically or pessimistically. I think they burn 
 up when the insurance is good. It gives me an 
 uneasy sensation o' nights after creeping up delec- 
 table old staircases to read of the number of times 
 the hostelry has been reconstructed. 
 
 The present inn is old enough for any of us, 
 and means a good deal to the citizens of New- 
 buryport as a Peabody once lived in it. There 
 are two staircases, one early- Victorian and 
 ugly, belonging to Mr. Peabody, and one Colonial 
 and beautiful, belonging to the house next door, 
 for the Wolfe Tavern has taken to spreading. I 
 insisted upon rooms reached by this spiral stair- 
 case, for it curves so delicately that it would seem 
 the way to Heaven. 
 
 The old darky porter who carried up the bag- 
 gage, very reluctantly and pantingly, did not 
 agree with me. He confided in a low voice — that 
 the clerk might not hear him — that if Hell's his 
 portion when he dies he'll find it upstairs, not in 
 no basement. " Ancientry is all right," he ex- 
 plained when we reached the roof, and he fumbled 
 for matches to hght the gas, but he had carried 
 trunks up and down those stairs for twenty-two 
 -J- 238 -?- 
 
A DOORWAY, XEWBURYPORT 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 years and before it came his turn, " God send," 
 they'd have an elevator. 
 
 I fastened on to God send, for here was an old 
 English expression probably not in usage outside 
 of Xevvburyport. And I fastened on to the old 
 darky also, for he told me that directly he got us 
 settled he was going off to the hospital, for there 
 his son lay with a broken leg. I immediately be- 
 came an authority on broken legs, and begged 
 that the limb of his son did not remain too long 
 in a plaster cast. I advised splints at first, so 
 that it could be watched from time to time to see 
 if it was knitting correctly. I gave an instance 
 of a young man I knew in England (I made him 
 out an athlete, but he w^as a poor thing) who had 
 worn a cast for nine weeks, and when it was taken 
 off the bones had not knitted properly — and he 
 was lame for life. As a result of this story the 
 negro went off without bringing us, or any 
 other appealing bells, ice water. And I can 
 imagine my unpopularity among the hospital 
 staff. 
 
 We dined late, wandering uncertainly through 
 the carte du jour, attended by a buxom creatiu'e 
 who gave no evidence of capability beyond a firm 
 mouth. The best thing I can remember either 
 about her or the dinner were the Newburyport 
 crackers. She recommended them, and whenever 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 we seemed to lose our spirit over the meal would 
 offer these huge round wafers to us as one applies 
 a poultice to a more definite pain. 
 
 W put down a quarter on the table for her 
 
 as we went out. You can give a boy a coin with- 
 out the slightest fear of his bursting into tears at 
 the insult, but a waitress, while just as keen for 
 the money, will frequently not deign to touch the 
 tip until the guest has dej^arted. I watched from 
 the hallway to see if she would not disregard it 
 altogether with a sort of guilty consciousness of 
 her own unworthiness, but she swept it up, along 
 with the crumbs fallen from the Newburyport 
 cracker, and secreted it upon her person. 
 
 The port of Newbury needs a new hotel with 
 the same clerk, the same porter, the same spiral 
 staircase, and General Wolfe to look down upon 
 it. I would like to have it on the identical spot, 
 and if it would not be too much to ask, to 
 have also the same tree out in front which 
 gently tapped upon my window-pane all 
 night. 
 
 Yet it was much quieter than the young man 
 who occupied the room next to mine on the other 
 side of the thin, revolutionary wall. He read a 
 letter after he came in, tearing open the envelope 
 and whistling as he did so. Then there was si- 
 lence. One rustle as he turned the page, and, 
 
DOWN ALONG THE MAINE COAST 
 
 after he had finished, six heavy sighs. So, while 
 I did not know All, I was sorry for him, and it 
 was commendable that, in the midst of whatever 
 grief the letter brought, he remembered to brush 
 his teeth. 
 
 241 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 The North Shore and the Breeches Bible 
 
 Between the individual charms of the old darky 
 and those of Newburyport I found the usual 
 difficulty in getting away. Everything was there, 
 including abounding laughter occasioned by the 
 porter. 
 
 I heard him coming up the stairs the next 
 morning, jangling keys affixed to huge tin horse- 
 shoes, oversize for any pocket. A prospective 
 guest was in his wake looking at rooms for an 
 extended visit, and she was twittering between a 
 choice of those on the parlour floor and on the 
 top. The porter paused on the last step. 
 "Lady, how many trunks you got?" 
 
 "Four," said the lady. 
 
 " Pahlour floor's the best," hastened the por- 
 ter. And she thanked him for his interest in her 
 welfare. 
 
 I asked him, later, what the old town was prin- 
 cipally noted for, and he answered its Purity 
 and the landing here of the Siamese twins. He 
 added that they were both dead, and I do not 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 know whetlier he referred to the two attractions, 
 Purity and the Siamese, or simply to the twins. 
 
 I was shocked that he did not speak of Wash- 
 ington and Lafayette who had slept in a nearby 
 mansion, but notables who were not freakish by 
 nature he held in small esteem. Even the hotel 
 clerk was rather blase about these distinguished 
 guests, opining that these two gentlemen, if one 
 could judge by tablets all over the country, slept 
 more than any other men in history. 
 
 His Newburyport favourite was Lord Timothy 
 Dexter, who was not a lord at all, but had longed 
 so ardently to be one that the title attached itself 
 to him by the force of thought. He was an eccen- 
 tric creature who, during Colonial days, lived in 
 one of those great houses I had seen by moonlight 
 and sworn never to see again. He was a philoso- 
 pher, if saying you are makes you one, and wrote 
 a little book of precej)ts which have no merit 
 whatever beyond the quaintness of the phrasing. 
 Once upon a time, as a joke, he sent a boatload of 
 warming pans to the West Indies, although I 
 don't know on whom the joke was except him- 
 self for his expenditure. But the cargo was the 
 wisdom of a fool, for the warming pans were 
 applied to ladling up cane sugar, and Lord 
 Dexter grew even more rich by his folly. 
 
 All this is very well to talk about sitting on the 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 front porch of the Wolfe Tavern of a late sum- 
 mer's morning. But, from my own acquaintance 
 with village cut-ups, I can imagine what a bore 
 he must have been in his day, and how he found 
 our wide street of the night before as empty as 
 did we when he sallied forth for a promenade. 
 
 He served, however, along with the Siamese 
 twins and the porter, and the old house across the 
 street which Stanford White greatly admired, to 
 bring the personal equation strongly into New- 
 bury. Its Puritanism was nicely blended with 
 fine tales of privateering, of prize ships towed 
 into the harbour, and, quite at variance with these 
 attractions, but of especial interest to us now, of 
 the attitude of the dames of the town during the 
 distressful times of the Revolution. For it was 
 the custom of these ladies " to meet and dedicate 
 a few glasses to the following truly sentimental 
 and highly republican toasts: 
 
 *' 1. May our beloved President preside at the 
 helm of government longer than we shall have 
 time to tell his years. 
 
 " 2. Mrs. Washington, respected consort of our 
 illustrious chief. 
 
 " 3. May the fair patriots of America never 
 fail to assert their independence, which nature 
 equally dispenses. 
 
 "4. Maria Charlotte Cor day. May each 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 Columbian daugliter, like her, be ready to sacri- 
 fice their life to liberty. 
 
 "5. The day that saw the wondrous hero rise 
 shall, more than all our sacred days, be blessed." 
 
 That was five drinks. If a suffrage dinner 
 party in this city filled their glasses at all the 
 Cause would be lost. I cite this to prove that 
 we women, while expanding in our demands, are 
 contracting in our beverages. 
 
 The world is getting better. We were shown 
 an old bill for liquors concocted at the Wolfe 
 Tavern and drunk by gentlemen of distinction. 
 The sum total amounted to £59, of which only 
 £7, as far as I could make out, was ever paid. 
 
 W asked the clerk if we could get away 
 
 with anything like that, and he replied, very 
 firmly, that we could not. So there seemed 
 to be nothing to do but pay our account and 
 go on. 
 
 I went up the wide street which we had 
 traversed the night before with my eyes 
 shut — which was absurd, I grant — but I opened 
 them at the edge of the town, to see a baby of 
 three toddling along the highway in front of our 
 car, evidently making, as were we, for Rowley. 
 It broke into a frantic little run as we appeared 
 to bear down upon it, and roars filled the air, yet 
 it continued on its way, a good deal as we must 
 -8- 245 -J- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 all do in life, crying, perhaps, but holding stub- 
 bornly to our direction in spite of the terrors that 
 beset us. 
 
 I got out and led the child back to the old 
 farmhouse from which it had evidently strayed, 
 for I wished to take no chances with motors less 
 controlled than ours. I was going to tell the 
 mother some things about guarding her young- 
 ster, but I saw at first glance that it would be 
 wasted. She took the rescue calmly, her admon- 
 ishment to the child consisting of " baddy boy," 
 as one says, " two lumps, please." So he is prob- 
 ably on the road this very minute, with legs grown 
 a little longer — and nearer Rowley. 
 
 We only wished for Rowley that, acquiring it, 
 we might go on to Ipswich. But the Common 
 was so pleasant that I insisted upon a photo- 
 graph of it for myself. It remains only in my 
 memory as I took two pictures on one film, the 
 result being a small strip of grass with a dog of 
 mammoth jiroportions eating up the houses be- 
 yond. We stopped by a watering trough on 
 which was carved " Blessed are the Merciful," 
 and one of the merciful was endeavouring to en- 
 tice water for his horse from the reluctant pump. 
 Yet he was not blessed, although, had he pumped 
 long enough, he might have received a benedic- 
 tion. The only thing that flowed was his pro- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 fanity, and at last he drove away with the beast's 
 thirst unslaked. 
 
 We were now on the Bay Road of 1640, with 
 every wrinkle so removed from its old face that it 
 made me long to have a steam-roller at my own 
 command. It was a homely way, in the real sense 
 of the word, for the air was full of the odour of 
 autumn pickling. Housewives peered out of the 
 doors to see if we were the vinegar they had sent 
 for, and went back to their stoves disgustedly, 
 seeing we were not. 
 
 The smell changed to the less pleasant one of 
 tanned leather as we came to Ipswich, and we 
 stopped before one factory with soles drying in 
 the sun, to ask where we could find the Whipple 
 House. We wanted the Whipple House because 
 we wanted to see the Breeches Bible. That is, the 
 Illustrator wanted to see it. The Bibles which 
 had been left by the Gideons were good enough 
 for me. Besides, I was afraid to see the Breeches 
 Bible for fear the Illustrator was right. 
 
 It was his contention that this famous book, 
 of which we spoke so glibly and knew so little, 
 was given the name because it was the first Bible 
 small enough to go into a breeches pocket. After 
 saying this must be wrong I stuck to it, although 
 inwardlj^ asking myself why it should be called 
 that if it didn't have something to do with trou- 
 -J-247-+- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 sers. I endeavored to weaken the Illustrator's 
 attitude, which was growing more arrogant every 
 minute, by asking him whose breeches it was that 
 carried this Bible, and, after a minute's hesitation, 
 he said Mr. Whipple's breeches, because it was to 
 be shown in the Whipple House. 
 
 This I was sure was an error, and he must have 
 felt that he had gone a little too far with his de- 
 ductions, for we never found the old mansion in 
 Ipswich. He tried to, he claimed. He went up 
 to several doorsteps by himself and asked for 
 something or other. I could hear him mumbling 
 out a question, but I believe it concerned the 
 road to Essex. 
 
 No one could mistake the Essex route, and few 
 could have been any happier than were we in 
 spite of dissension. The road under foot was rut- 
 less, sky overhead cloudless, there were elm- 
 shaded villages, red-dyed downs, and, far off, 
 white patches of sand mid strips of blue water. 
 More than that, we were going to stop off for a 
 day or two and see some friends. At last we 
 were to have an opportunity to use our golf clubs. 
 Just why we should choose friends living on a 
 small island off the mainland as those most likely 
 to give us a game of golf is something not to be 
 answered with any credit to ourselves. 
 
 Unfortunately, we could not visit them if we 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 could not find the island. We knew it was in the 
 water, as an island should be, and we could motor 
 to it coming up from Boston, although we did not 
 know how to reach it going down from Newbury- 
 port. It would be a waste of time to go to Bos- 
 ton in order to reach an island nearby, so we 
 asked along the way, and it was not as difficult 
 to learn of the island as it was of the Breeches 
 Bible — being larger. The barber in Essex 
 pointed tlie route. There is always an elegant 
 efficiency in barbers — they cull gossip with their 
 razors and travel vicariously. 
 
 After a time we were being rowed in a small 
 boat to a cottage on a rocky promontory, with 
 the high tide encircling half of it while our motor 
 talked over our trip to our friends' motors in a 
 garage on the mainland. I would like to go on 
 writing of our life on the island, and of the golf 
 we didn't play. But I am again frigidlj^ re- 
 minded that this is a motoring stor}% and that the 
 real tour carried us through Essex to Gloucester. 
 So I must hurry you on, and say nothing of the 
 waves lapping my room at night, or of the red 
 flag hung out in the morning, and how the lobster 
 man, seeing the signal, rowed directly to the 
 door with his catch. At least, I can say nothing 
 more than this except to advise the tourist to 
 spend part of his time along the Massachusetts 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 coast. I know that I have advised him to linger 
 on each day's run, but, upon retrospect, I know 
 no playground more lovely than what is known 
 as the North Shore. 
 
 Chief in interest to the reader may be the be- 
 haviour of our island hosts when we mentioned 
 the Breeches Bible. They were from Boston, 
 and we knew their culture was sufficient to em- 
 brace com]3lete knowledge of this sartorial volume 
 at the Whipple Mansion. But they showed noth- 
 ing but an over-developed sense of humour when 
 we told them our story, refusing to enlighten us 
 beyond gasping out "in Mr. Whipple's pocket! 
 Oh, Moses!" 
 
 All this mysterious reticence drove me to our 
 New York library as soon as I could shake the 
 dust of the tour from my clothes. I had grown 
 fearful of any further questioning among my 
 friends, but one has no shame before the libra- 
 rians. We grant them superior creatures at the 
 start. The first one whom I attacked in the 
 history-room behaved unusually, for, instead of 
 raining heavy tomes down on me from the gal- 
 lery, he unlocked a door and told me " third turn- 
 ing to the right and there it is." 
 
 He then pushed me away unwillingly while I 
 muttered that " it " was at Ipswich, that all I 
 wanted was to know about it, and that a small 
 
 -t- 250 -n- 
 
-/i«Ji5!t:T"*"-««m>^i-;^ 
 
 
 
 laiK=m<«>ii'^"«'t'«»>*»^'- 
 
 
 DRYING OUT SAIL, GLOUCESTER 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 encyclopedia would be sufficient. I reiterated this 
 same speech to a blond young man at the third 
 door to the right, who did not hear me out, but 
 turned on his heel, and came back with a good- 
 sized volume in a new binding. He was apolo- 
 getic about the binding. He was sorry that it 
 was new, but their first edition was under lock 
 and key. 
 
 I was inclined to be severe with him. I told 
 him that the Breeches Bible was at the Whipple 
 House at Ipswich, unless (I dwelt upon this) 
 it had been recently stolen. But he was not at 
 all resentful. He said all of the Bibles printed 
 in England from 1560 to 1590 were Breeches 
 Bibles, and he did not laugh when I cried 
 out in despair over the size pockets must have 
 been to carry such large volumes. He was accus- 
 tomed to ignorami like myself. He very gently, 
 something in the manner of a j)hysician, turned 
 to the third chapter of Genesis, walking mod- 
 estly away while I read these words: 
 
 " Then the eyes of them both were opened, 
 and they knew that thej'' were naked, and they 
 sewed figge-tree leaves together, and made them- 
 selves breeches." 
 
 *' So," continued the young man, not looking 
 at me, " such editions employing this word were 
 classed under the head of the Breeches Bible." 
 -J- 251 -i- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 And the worst of it is I remember now having 
 learned that at school, and the Illustrator re- 
 members having learned it also. 
 
 We left for Gloucester exactly at the hour we 
 had arrived in Essex a few days back, so the 
 running time was not confused in our simple 
 minds. 
 
 Gloucester is on a peninsula and one can cut 
 it out altogether, but if he does he will miss the 
 quaintest seaport on the route, and millions of 
 codfish drying in the sun, like the leather soles. 
 The Gloucester boats still go to the Banks. Some 
 do not return, and every spring there is a service 
 at the water's edge, when flowers are thrown 
 uj)on the surface to be carried out by the tide 
 for those who did not come back. 
 
 The wharves and boats are so picturesquely 
 ragged that I thought we had lost the Illustrator 
 forever. The chauffeur and I broiled in the sun 
 as we sat in the car. We were alongside a ship 
 in dry-dock, and I agonised over the effort it 
 must take to get the vessels up this incline. A 
 workman — not working — told me nothing could 
 be easier: once get them on the ways, and they 
 can be pulled up by hand. It still seemed a diffi- 
 cult process to me, and our young driver, whose 
 life is far removed from dry-docks, mistook ways 
 for waves, and remarked, to the great disgust of 
 -h 252 -h- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 the longshoreman, that he wouldn't have thought 
 the waves big enough to get a boat on them. 
 
 We ate a " shore dinner," consisting of fish 
 " just in that morning," and clams cooked four 
 different ways. How surprising it would be to 
 hear of fish " just in yesterday morning," or, 
 grown absolutely honest, to have our fish dealer 
 say, " Here is something choice, ma'am, not over 
 tliree months old." I have a cousin who makes 
 eighty per cent, out of the frozen-fish industry, 
 and it is possible that the truthful fishmonger 
 should make this speech oftener than he does. 
 I do not believe in frozen fish, although I have 
 frequently endeavoured to buy some of my 
 cousin's stock. 
 
 While the fish was fresh, the coffee was so stale 
 that I asked in all sincerity if it really ivas coffee. 
 The waitress gathered up my cup with the 
 avowed intention of getting some made. " I'm a 
 coffee drinker myself," she said, sympathetically. 
 She was an amiable girl, prefacing her attendance 
 upon us by remarking that, " It sure was one 
 grand day." 
 
 We could not dispute this, and we remained 
 uniform in all our opinions until the change came 
 
 from the bill W gave her. The coins on the 
 
 plate were so large that It would seem she must 
 
 receive a tip out of all proportion to our account. 
 
 -j-253-e- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 But the Illustrator found some odd quarters in 
 his pocket, and from that moment a cold east 
 wind blew between us. 
 
 Another villager remained sympatico from first 
 to last. We stopped in the narrow main street to 
 ask for an art store of a policeman big enough 
 for New York to entrap and carry away. The 
 shop was directly in front of us, this causing a 
 laugh at the Illustrator's expense, which en- 
 gendered a friendliness between the policeman 
 and myself. 
 
 I do not know why at least one person in a 
 humorous story must suffer. To render some 
 one uncomfortable appears to be the foundation 
 of all pleasantries. And it must be a human 
 being, for there is no fun in a story when the 
 laugh is on a horse, or a rose-tree, or a lobster- 
 pot. I often grow sorry for the Illustrator in 
 this book as all the laughs are on him. And some 
 day, he tells me, he is going to write a book of 
 his own, relating the number of times he has 
 scored off me, which, no doubt, the present 
 reader will find delightful. 
 
 The policeman was glad that we had artistic 
 inclinations. He had once sung in a glee club 
 that went all over New Hampshire and he had 
 also played in a brass band in Providence. " And 
 now look at me," he sighed, " nothing but a 
 -h 254 -J- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 policeman." I knew he was an artist then, for 
 surely no one but a Bohemian would find an 
 officer of the law anything but the next best job 
 to that of President. 
 
 We got along so exceedingly well that I told 
 him one of Gloucester's most prominent summer 
 residents had, at the age of sixteen, asked me to 
 marry him, and I, at fourteen, had considered it 
 serioush^ The policeman's respect for me in- 
 creased enormousl}'' and, as the prominent cot- 
 tager walked along this street eveiy day and 
 always nodded pleasantly, this member of the 
 force promised to convey my regards. He took 
 out his notebook to write down my name, so that 
 the distinguished gentleman would not confuse 
 me with some girl he had arranged to marry a 
 little earlier or a little later in his career. The 
 passersby thought I was being summoned, and 
 ceased to be passersby, by stopping and becoming 
 a crowd. So that they had to be dispersed, 
 sternly, by the law. 
 
 I parted with this artistic policeman reluctantly, 
 not only because he was a Bohemian at heart, 
 but for the reason that we were now going into 
 a part of the country where roadside conversa- 
 tions were rare. Insidiouslj^ as we found our- 
 selves among formal people, we began to assume 
 a conventional manner. We hated it, but it was 
 -h 255 -i~ 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 not to be shaken off. And as we commenced 
 our drive along the North Shore, from Magnolia 
 through Manchester, Prides, and Beverly, we 
 were certain that we were far removed from " ex- 
 periences " beyond the probability of a collision 
 at each sharp turn. 
 
 But, in motoring, the loss of one form of enjoy- 
 ment can always be compensated by the acquiring 
 of another. Where there are no farmers to 
 talk to there are generally better roads; where 
 there are no quaint towns there is open coun- 
 try; where no open country there are great 
 estates. 
 
 On the North Shore life in a stable is not to be 
 despised and one in a cottage beyond the dreams 
 of avarice. There are miles of these estates lin- 
 ing either side the road, and, although a radical, 
 I did not find the wealth exasperating. We had 
 grown so grateful to the woods and fields, which 
 had long been our companions, for their deco- 
 rative qualities, that this land of gabled houses, 
 French chateaux, and old English manors we ac- 
 cepted as a combination of nature and humanity 
 to make our trip delightful. With the growing 
 egoism of the motorist, we felt that this pageantry 
 was arranged for us, and we were able to enjoy 
 the lavish expenditure of others with no tax on 
 our own purse. Blessed be the highway. It is 
 -j-256-*- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 for rich and poor alike, and on such a tour as 
 ours is as infinitely varied as life itself. 
 
 The road continued fine, although the estates 
 dwindled into smaller garden patches, with a pas- 
 ture for the family cow, as we approached Salem. 
 This is one of the towns that needs no guide- 
 hook or further digging into histories. Ahout 
 the first thing learned in school which remained 
 in our memory before we had reached the corner 
 was the witchcraft of Salem. And I think to-day 
 any small boy of this town would write " witches " 
 as the principal exports and imports of the place 
 if the question was put to him at examinations. 
 
 All one has to say as we motor into the old 
 town is " witches," and the youngsters leap to 
 the running-board, firing volleys of misinforma- 
 tion as you drive through the streets. They 
 meretriciously confuse Hawthorne's House of the 
 Seven Gables with the Witches' Jail, and point 
 out the drug store, which is the real " Witch 
 House," as that unhappy roof tree which shel- 
 tered the Reverend Parris — who began all the 
 trouble. As a matter of fact, this reign of terror 
 started at Danvers, five miles to the west of 
 Salem. Here Samuel Parris, through the testi- 
 mony of eight girls, ranging in years from eleven 
 to twenty, caused the death of twenty innocent 
 women. These unfortunates were not even 
 -^-257-^- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 hanged in Salem, but on Gallows Hill, a mile to 
 the west, which, as a guidebook puts it, " can be 
 reached by a pleasant trolley ride." 
 
 In spite of the humming trolleys and a stirring 
 of industrial activities, Salem remains uncanny. 
 I am sure that I would live in fear of the law 
 so long as I staj^ed there. A filthy railway sta- 
 tion does not dissipate the atmosphere of Puritan 
 times, nor does the new portion of the town, 
 now largely destroyed by fire, lend an air of 
 modernity. 
 
 Indeed, there is something sinister about this 
 new part, with its wide open sj)aces, being licked 
 up by the flames when the old, closely settled 
 region remained invulnerable. It was as though 
 some of those witches had been flying about in 
 the sky, sweeping back the fire with their magic 
 brooms. The Illustrator, who accepted my idea 
 without surprise, said that it was most unlikely, 
 as the spirit matches, if they had any sense at all, 
 would burn up the old part of the town, taking 
 particular enjoyment in consuming the descend- 
 ants of such Puritans as had led them out to 
 Gallows Hill. Why is it, I w^onder, that it is 
 estimable to have as forbears those who have con- 
 demned a poor creature to the gallows, when it is 
 so disreputable to descend from those who were 
 hanged ? 
 
 -8-258-!- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 We shook our last small guide off the running- 
 board as we passed out through the burned por- 
 tion, refusing a log of charred wood as a souvenir, 
 and swept on to Swamj)scott, watches in our 
 hands, for we were dining with friends in Boston 
 that night. The traveller would do well to take 
 the longer road by way of Marblehead. It is 
 not much of a pull, after ten days of motoring, 
 to choose between friends and a pleasant detour. 
 We would have abandoned ours shamelessly had 
 they not been motoring during the summer also, 
 and we were anxious to assure them that our 
 experience had been more successful than theirs. 
 
 Swampscott is principally green in our mem- 
 ories for a loud report which we took to be that 
 of the tire of an automobile behind us, affording us 
 much amusement. A few more revolutions and 
 we laiew it was our report and our tire, the car 
 stopping nicely in front of a garage, although 
 the shoe detached itself completely and rolled on 
 toward Boston, until subjugated by a small lioy. 
 Small boys were plentiful in Swampscott. They 
 read the foreign labels on our battered trunk with 
 no emotion beyond a skepticism tliat we had ever 
 been further than the confines of our country. 
 The discovery of our New York number gave 
 us a better position than the labels, and one boy 
 with a far-awaj^ look in his eyes asked me if it 
 -h 259 -i- 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 was very crowded there. I told him that it was 
 no more crowded than Boston, and again I fell 
 in his esteem. " I am to go there some day," he 
 told me, and I am sure that he will — and 
 further. That far-away look in one's eyes carries 
 one's feet through many lands. 
 
 There is a series of boulevards clinging to the 
 coast, leading through Cambridge that one may 
 avoid the traffic of lower Boston, which com- 
 bines to make this day's run as perfect as one 
 can find in America or any other country. From 
 Lynn we began to feel the tremulousness which 
 seizes us as we approach a great city. There was 
 that perfect order of the road, the many wisely- 
 worded signs, and the excellent system of light- 
 ing, which is the blend of city brains and city 
 money. 
 
 We approached Boston intelligently — as one 
 should — and we would, I believe, have arrived on 
 time for dinner had not the Wellington Bridge — 
 whatever that is, we never saw it — been closed. 
 Some said it had burned up, and, after prowling 
 about on the Middlesex Fenway for a long way, 
 we, in our exasperation, hoped if it hadn't that 
 it would. Yet we never left tlie fine macadam, 
 passing through Medford and Somerville, and, 
 quite unexpectedly, finding ourselves in the midst 
 of Cambridge hultur. 
 
 r-«- 260 -«- 
 
^m*/ K 
 
 
 
 
 
 PARK STREET, BOSTON' 
 
NORTH SHORE AND BREECHES BIBLE 
 
 Here we paused, for the motorist can trail 
 through a country as an Indian can pick his 
 way in a forest, but Indian and automobile alike 
 bow to the intricacies of city streets. A large 
 yellow car asked if we were going to Copley 
 Square, and as we were (or would have if we 
 hadn't been, since the car had a sort of Copley 
 Square look about it) we followed it humbly to 
 the cit}^ No doubt any stranger will find just 
 such a kindly motor ready for escort, although I 
 cannot guarantee the canary colour. 
 
 We needed no guide after we reached the 
 bridge spanning the Charles River at Massa- 
 chusetts Avenue, and we called out the names 
 of the streets, each trj'ing to get ahead of the 
 other, as though we had discovered them for the 
 first time. Beacon Street — Newbury, or is it — 
 Commonwealth Avenue — ^Iceep on till you get to 
 Dartmouth — but is it called Dartmouth on this 
 side the square? — turn in, turn in — all torn up — I 
 have lived in that hotel — here we are — what 
 makes you think so? — Why, The Library! 
 
 Lights too dim, and erudition, and plate-glass 
 windows, and wisely arranged flowers; women 
 with bags, no spectacles whatever, good deeds 
 a-plenty, and a curious joyousness, which is not to 
 be understood — or denied. That's Boston. 
 
 261 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Among the Puritans 
 
 There is a sajing tliat a visitor who tarries over 
 a week on the Isle of Capri stays there for life, 
 and while Boston is far removed from that lotus- 
 eating land, it has a like hold upon 5"ou. 
 
 If I were a tourist from the West I should 
 spend the summer in Boston. There is much to 
 keep one interested: roof gardens gay with cham- 
 pagne, and earth gardens resplendent with flow- 
 ers; puhlic institutions, beautiful to the eye and 
 satisfying to the mind, enrich the fine drives; 
 brilliant shops deplete the purse; and a profu- 
 sion of railway tracks run through the town to 
 assure the visitor that he can get away quickly 
 if he wants to. 
 
 We did not remain long this time, remember- 
 ing the adage regarding Capri. We started at 
 noon of the next day, after the Illustrator had 
 made a sketch of the old State House from the 
 front seat in the car. He was most triumphant, 
 as this was the first time the car had been able to 
 fulfill its original mission, which was to save him 
 the rental of a chair. And he paid a high compli- 
 
AMONG THE TURITANS 
 
 ment to the Boston citizens for not bothering him 
 as he sat in the busy street. " Brains count," he 
 said. 
 
 The luggage was strapped on with tlie same 
 despatch to be found in country inns. I had won- 
 dered, before our arrival, if there would not be 
 some confusion in finding a garage in so large 
 a city. But, of course, there was none, the taxi- 
 cab-starter of the hotel, driving off with the 
 chauffeur, instead of a bell-boy, to show the way. 
 It came to me, then, as it has many times before, 
 that there is some one to take care of us in every 
 exigency of life if we assume a helj)less air. 
 
 In five minutes we were lost in the Fenway, 
 circling around the flower beds and statues to 
 men (who would have been less profane than 
 
 W in such a predicament) in an effort to 
 
 reach Jamaica. We received many directions 
 which were at variance with the beauty of the 
 drive, for our landmarks were not the clump of 
 hydrangeas, the wall of fuchsias, or even Arnold 
 arboretum, but simple, homely things, like the 
 railway bridge, the pump, and the saloon at Blue 
 Hill Avenue. 
 
 We were further hampered by a babel of for- 
 eign tongues. Once safely established on Blue 
 Hill Avenue, we forbore to ask for anything as 
 difficult to x^ronounce as Ponkaj)oag, thinking it 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 safer to limit ourselves to an English word like 
 Stoiighton. We had known a family of Stough- 
 tons once, and it was pronounced Stow-ton as it 
 should be, but the gentlemen selling berries would 
 have none of this. If we would go to Stoughton 
 with the first syllable sounding like the " o " in 
 how he was ready to direct us, and we had to 
 repeat it after him before he let us pass on. 
 There was the same scrimmage in our effort to 
 reach Taunton. We had to give it up until we 
 were willing to ask the way to Tanton. I de- 
 manded of one lady, with the intention of crush- 
 ing her, if one in New England " taunted a per- 
 son or tanted a person," and she replied that, 
 while she never did any such thing, if the occa- 
 sion ever arose she would undoubtedly " tant her." 
 I don't know why she said " her " when I said 
 " a person," and I am inclined to think that, in 
 spite of her godliness, some one of her own sex 
 was on the brink of a " tanting." 
 
 The Blue Hill Observatory sits up on a hill 
 at our left as we approach Stoughton. And, 
 while we did not see it, it was doubtless observing 
 us in the pursuance of its duty, and recording 
 that a buff motor-car was stealing apples. The 
 Germans frugally make use of fruit trees on 
 either side their country ways — the sale of the 
 fruit paying for the upkeep of the roads. But 
 -+•264.-!- 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 the Germans are an honest people, too much in 
 awe of their government to steal anything asso- 
 ciated with the militar5^ We have never stolen 
 an apple in Germany, but such of the fruit as 
 hung over the fence in America we seemed 
 strangely drawn to. W said it was danger- 
 ous to have apples blocking the way like that — • 
 they might fall off, hitting some one — and our 
 efforts, combined with those of some small boys, 
 largely rid the roadway of this insidious peril. 
 
 A party of cavalrymen appeared over a hill, 
 and we hurriedly concealed the apples, in the in- 
 stinctive fear of uniforms. We heard a great 
 shout after they had passed us, and the chauffeur 
 speeded up, looking as guilty as though he had 
 run over a baby. But the Illustrator nobly 
 bade him stop, and it was well that he did, for 
 the cavalrymen had discovered that our hatbox 
 was open. And while we had not lost the driver's 
 derby, tien soiled collars of the Illustrator's, with 
 which he had surreptitiously encircled my hat, 
 were distributed along the roadway, while a suit 
 of pajamas was about to hop out and see the 
 world. 
 
 We were glad this error was rectified before 
 we reached Taunton, as the guidebook tells us 
 that it was founded by a pious Puritan, Elizabeth 
 Pool, who had come from Taunton in Somerset- 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 shire. I think she was to be commended for not 
 naming it Pool, as I am sure any man would 
 have been tempted to do. 
 
 Upon a former visit here, I saw a madman 
 running amuck in the principal street, but I fear 
 even that offence to decorum would be obliterated 
 
 if we had sought the hotel with W 's pajamas 
 
 swinging from the hatbox as though they were a 
 trapeze performer. 
 
 We did not recognise the hotel at first, as it 
 had a new front in Spanish mission style. Re- 
 membering the interior, I greatly feared that 
 beauty would continue only skin deep. But I 
 was wrong, for we sat down in a new dining- 
 room to a table d'hote luncheon, which was not 
 so young as it was at noon, but still with the 
 warmth of youth. It was only fifty cents. I 
 mention the price, for that was the smallest 
 amount we paid on our tour. And we wished for 
 several stomachs, like a camel, to store up fifty- 
 cent luncheons for the rest of the journey. 
 
 Yet, as we uttered this flippancy, we stared at 
 each other in amazement, for we did not need 
 this charming qualification of the camel. 
 
 " The rest of the journey! " We grew a little 
 sad as we reflected that we would consume but 
 one more luncheon as travellers of the road. 
 According to our figuring we would s^^end the 
 
AMONG TPIE PURITANS 
 
 night in Newport, the next in Bridgeport, and by 
 noon of that day I would be talking over the 
 telephone to the mysterious butcher with the 
 pleasant voice, whom I have never seen, and 
 begging him to French the chops, please. Or, 
 perhaps I would get tlie wrong number, and tell 
 a strange young gentleman about the chops, who 
 would interrupt me to say, " This is the morgue, 
 madam," and hang up before I could retort that 
 the morgue was what I wanted — with him in it. 
 
 We went out thoughtfully, W to make 
 
 a sketch of a modern public building, as though 
 he already felt the influence of new New York, 
 and I to buy a patent mouse-trap, mindful of my 
 kitchen, which I saw in a window. 
 
 The mouse-trap later proved a failure, catching 
 only my handmaiden's toe, but the sketch was 
 
 more successful. Or was it? W sent a proof 
 
 of the original to the postmaster at Taunton to 
 ask the name of the building, for he had for- 
 gotten that in the numbing thought that he would 
 soon be in his studio — with only a daily spin 
 through the park when work was over. The 
 postmaster sent back the proof, writing across 
 it that " It is the Court House — and a very 
 good one." So we do not know whether he re- 
 ferred to the drawing or the edifice. 
 
 Upon leaving Taunton for Fall River, an ice 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 wagon told us that we would have to make a 
 detour, as the road was in process of reconstruc- 
 tion. But we did not heed its warning, for ice 
 wagons are proverbially slow, and the repairs 
 might have been completed since it last covered 
 the ground. 
 
 Ice wagons are not only slow, but conventional. 
 It is the only kind of vehicle that has not changed 
 its outline within my memory. Even the surrey 
 of m}'^ youth had summers with and without 
 fringe about its top, and sometimes you got in 
 from the front, squeezing yourself into the back 
 seat, or leaped in directly from a low step. You 
 always get on at the back if you enter an ice 
 wagon, which you are warned not to do by a 
 threatening sign of " Danger " swinging aloft. 
 
 But, as children, we paid small attention to 
 these signs, and as grown-ups on the road to Fall 
 River, we continued in spite of a gloomy notice 
 to the effect that we did so at our own risk. Con- 
 sidering that everything we do in life is at our own 
 risk, and that the county is not any more re- 
 sponsible for the traveller on a good road than 
 on a bad one, I took exception to this grim 
 washing their hands of us. 
 
 There is only one meaner trait, and that is the 
 " I told you so," which comes after we have done 
 something at our own risk, and the act, by pure 
 -8- 268 -f- 
 
.-V 
 
 f 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■:^ -"^^r^ 
 
 
 . ^ ''I 
 ^-^ 
 
 11 "^«HTO«» Oct 3'' ^\ 
 
 TH?: COURT HOUSE AT TAIXTOX 
 
 J 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 chance, has not turned out well. Road-menders, 
 hard men by profession, who, as a rule, would 
 never do anything for you at their own risk or 
 yours, possess this attribute to such a degree as 
 to put to shame even mothers and school-teachers. 
 They gathered about us on the road to Fall 
 River, when we found ourselves in what would 
 appear to be the bed of a dried mountain stream 
 full of boulders, and taunted — no, tanted us with 
 " I told you SOS," until I was ready to burst into 
 tears. 
 
 The Illustrator was braver than I. He did 
 not cry, and he tormented the captain of the 
 road-menders by assuring him that we had seen 
 much worse thoroughfares, and thought we would 
 continue. Labourers along the way are like 
 plumbers. They like to tear everything up and 
 leave it in as horrible a condition as possible. It 
 hurt this man to suggest that he had not done 
 his best to create discomfort to automobiles. But 
 he was a Yankee, with that humour known as 
 dry, because it is withering in its results. 
 
 He said we had a good car — a trained car. 
 He could tell that by the number of gaits it ex- 
 ercised w^hen going over the boulders. But he 
 doubted if it was a jumper. Now the bridge 
 was down a few yards on, and if it could jump 
 twenty-three feet, " go right on, go right on " 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 He was a very tiresome man and we did not 
 hear him out, cutting straight into a pumpkin 
 field as though it were ours, and gaining a narrow 
 lane (hefore the real pumpkin man saw us) 
 which led us down to the Taunton River. 
 
 We rejoined the main road here. There was a 
 lovely old house at this corner, and along the 
 highway, which followed the river-bank, came a 
 party of schoolgirls, marching gaily and singing. 
 Some boys on bicycles carried their coats, at 
 least they carried them as far as our car, when 
 they shamefacedly rebelled, thinking to establish 
 their claim to manhood by refusing to " lug " for 
 girls any further. 
 
 " All but ]Mamie's," they said. They were 
 willing to continue being slaves to Mamie. I 
 endeavoured to pick out Mamie among the lot. 
 I could see her in my mind as the village charmer, 
 amiable to the other girls, smiling, doing nothing, 
 and getting all the boys without the appearance 
 of effort. But she was a little lame girl, limping 
 along in the rear, her deformity denying her full 
 share in the sports of life, while she received, in 
 their place, the compensations of the fragile. 
 
 The girls went on a-carolling, and the boys 
 went on a-caracoUing, the river was blue, and 
 green trees arched over the road, and, all of a 
 sudden, I was back in Sicily, looking through grey 
 
AMONG THE TURITANS 
 
 olive trees to the purple sea. A tiller of the field 
 nearby was singing an improvised canzonetta, 
 such as Mascagni has put into his operas, and a 
 girl was laughing at him. 
 
 But, just as this scene in INIassachusetts re- 
 minded me of Sicily, so did Sicily, then, recall 
 a picture which has never filled my real vision, 
 for the picture was of ancient times when Greek 
 girls and boys walked among these olive groves, 
 which run down to the sea. Just as we lurched 
 along the road in Sicily, I with the sensation of 
 living in classic days, just so, now, I w^as far re- 
 moved from the boys and girls walking by 
 Taunton River. I think it is youth which re- 
 news these glad visions. Is it not a lovely 
 thought to enlighten a tired face that our souls 
 remain unalterably young! 
 
 It is hard to dip suddenly into megaphones 
 after this flight of fancy. But, as we were about 
 to pass the bridge instead of crossing it to get 
 into Fall River, a quiet voice, from nowhere 
 seemingly, told us to go over it. The purveyor 
 of this news was an obliging old man some dis- 
 tance away, with one of these valuable instru- 
 ments in active use, and we crossed the bridge 
 waving wireless thanks. 
 
 W — — immediately wished for a megaphone as 
 part of our equipment. We could then inquire 
 -i- 271 -*- 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 the way of countrymen rocking on far-off porches 
 and ask them to reply by definite nods, negative or 
 positive, if we were right. I had once pursued 
 some such a course in Germany, for my desire was 
 to Hmit the volley of directions which I could not 
 understand to Ja or Nein, and I learned care- 
 fully: "Answer me yes or no, otherwise I do 
 not understand you." And this worked to a 
 charm, economising both vocal expenditure and 
 time. But I grant that the Illustrator's idea for 
 a megaphone was electrifying, and I spent the 
 next half hour planning what I could pack into 
 it. 
 
 Fall River, except in time of strikes, we think 
 of only as a place where the boats stop — and 
 start. But we found it a town of so many mean 
 streets, given over to factory hands, that one 
 should imagine those living in the fine houses of 
 the broad avenues would feel endlessly guilty. 
 The main street is lined with cheap shops, con- 
 taining tawdry clothing. One wishes that the 
 poor could get more comfortable values for their 
 money, but the aim at present is to copy as 
 cheaply as possible the garments of the prosper- 
 ous. Possibly a feather in a hat may mean more 
 than a warm body, and a brass bracelet express 
 a stirring after the ideal which, while formless, 
 is in all our hearts. 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 A newsboy from whom we bought a New York 
 evening paper (with a beating in our breasts at 
 the pink sheet) had his ideal of an automobile. 
 "Gotta self-starter — Yep?" he asked. And 
 when we were forced to reply, " Haven't got 
 one — nope," he lost all interest. It depressed us. 
 I was glad to leave Fall River, the name is not 
 optimistic, and my last picture of the town was 
 a baby in arms being fed a dill pickle. It was 
 a sickly child. 
 
 We were now on the right of the river, going 
 toward Tiverton, which is the door to Newport. 
 It is a very sporty door, and if any automobilist 
 is too puritanical to inquire the way of a drink- 
 ing-place, he will never get any further, as all 
 Tiverton is roadhouses. We compromised on a 
 wharf cafe, exhibiting a greater array of fish 
 than bottles, and found that we must traverse the 
 bridge, and, immediately, on the other side, we 
 would find Newport beginning. 
 
 It began slowly, but in a most dignified man- 
 ner. We passed miles of fine farms with the 
 houses (inversely, for the American farmer) 
 larger than the barns. Blooded horses were in 
 the paddock, bored oxen in the pastures, and 
 chickens, with family trees to roost upon, walked 
 in and out of their steam-heated apartments. 
 
 On the outskirts of the tovm we were sur- 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 prised to discover that here was a district of new 
 frame residences, a terrible combining of the 
 Georges with Queen Anne, tempered to decency 
 by red mission roofs. They were the kind we 
 see in every growing Western town, and the 
 homes, I suppose, of the prosperous tradesmen 
 of the town. One never thinks of any one living 
 in Newport except a few old, impoverished fam- 
 ilies, and the rich cottagers, who come for the 
 summer. 
 
 We did our duty by the great palaces, indus- 
 triously pointing out the houses of the great to 
 our indifferent chauffeur, who seemed chiefly in- 
 terested because he knew some of the men from 
 their various garages. One cannot motor along 
 the front of these palaces, but a wise law, created 
 many years ago, makes the edge of the water the 
 right of way for any one who has legs to walk. 
 And, armed with a guidebook, one can correctly 
 pick out the establishments, providing he begins 
 at the right end. I once rode backward in a 
 diligence through the Tyrol, following in my 
 Baedeker the various old castles marked at the 
 right and left of us. I found every one of them, 
 nor was my satisfaction any the less complete 
 when I realised that my right-hand ones were 
 really those on the left in the guide. 
 
 There is a Handbook of Newport with a pic- 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 ture on the cover of two Puritans sitting under 
 a tree, while an Indian stands back of them, 
 watching the bathers in the abbreviated attire 
 of to-day passing down to the beach. They all 
 three look rather glum, but they need not if they 
 are true disciples of Roger Williams. It was in 
 1638 that this excellent man, exasperated by the 
 bigotry of Boston, fled to Rhode Island, purchas- 
 ing the country round about here from the In- 
 dians for forty fathoms of white beads, ten coats, 
 and twenty hoes. It is difficult to estimate the 
 length of forty fathoms of white beads, but if the 
 amount is in any way proportionate to ten coats 
 and twenty hoes the i^urchase would be termed 
 by a Wall Street man as a " good buy." 
 
 This is one of the reasons that the Puritans 
 need not look so sadly at the gay bathers, all of 
 whom must give untold fathoms of beads for a 
 single acre of Roger Williams's purchase. More 
 than that, any bather jpresent on the frontispiece 
 would give his suit then and there — if permitted 
 — and all his clothes left in the bathhouse to claim 
 direct descendance from those under the tree, or 
 even from the Indian with the hoe, for Indians 
 are older in ancestry than Puritans. And, more 
 than all that, the mingling of redskin and early 
 settler and modern bather, together with the 
 thri^nng shopkeepers of the ugly frame houses, is 
 .-+• 275 H- 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 but a carrying out of the plan of Roger Williams. 
 He offered freedom to all people, and the perse- 
 cuted of the Colonies came to him, even as in 
 Newport of this day there is a varied assortment 
 of classes who, from reasons of pleasure or profit, 
 find the port a shelter. 
 
 Sympathetic as we were with those who take 
 their pleasure by acquiring profits, we settled in 
 the hotel on the Square, far from the fashionable 
 portion, fearing terribly that we would be un- 
 comfortable and rejoicing exceedingly that we 
 were not. It was quite early in the day and 
 there was some talk of our going on, but so 
 violent a dispute arose between a bell-boy and a 
 maid, cleaning the brass strips on the hall steps, 
 over the hours of the ferries to the mainland, that 
 it was too late to take anything — except rooms — 
 by the time they had finished. 
 
 The argument was not varied, settling down to 
 a " five-thirty " from the maid, with every rub 
 of the brass work, and " six " from the bell-boy, 
 when he had a moment to give to it. " Five 
 tliirty — six. Five thirty — six " they went on, 
 until we decided to have the baggage taken off. 
 They ceased then, so the argument may have 
 been occasioned by a previous arrangement with 
 the proprietor. 
 
 I whisked around into the shopping street of 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 the town to do my usual amount of looking. 
 This was not Bellevue Avenue, which is patro- 
 nised only by the summer visitors, but a narrow 
 way that the city once hoped to widen, but a 
 woman owning one of the buildings refused to 
 have her house moved, and as chivalry was still 
 extant in those days, and " condemning " un- 
 known, the thoroughfare has remained as delight- 
 ful as Waterport Street of Gibraltar. 
 
 Like Gibraltar it was full of sailormen of all 
 nations, starting in to celebrate Saturday even- 
 ing, after the usual formula. Our own Jackies 
 lend a tone, for three forts and a torpedo-boat 
 station are within gunshot of the town, a battle- 
 ship always in port, and sailors from many 
 yachts add to an excessive cleanliness of appear- 
 ance, although the purity does not extend itself 
 to speech. 
 
 As though there was need for it, the Salvation 
 Army gathered in the Square, singing to cymbal 
 and cornet. This was after dinner, as we sat in 
 the broad window, under a sort of arch of chamois 
 gloves, which I had washed out and pinned to 
 the curtains. The cabbies were below counting 
 over their fares for the day, and anathematising 
 this new desire of Americans to walk. 
 
 " Oh, j^ou must be a lover of the Lamb," 
 shrilled the Army, " or you can't go to Heaven 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 when you die," the threat gathering a fair com- 
 plement of sailors and their girls. How well I 
 remember the hoots that assailed the first en- 
 deavours of these uniformed men and women, 
 of their arraignment by the clergy, of their con- 
 demnation as pubhc nuisances. Now they are 
 accepted by the noblest dame and the meanest 
 roisterer with a respect which is granted the 
 highest mission. 
 
 The deep whistle of a boat divested the Army 
 of many of its audience. The cabbies leaped to 
 their perches, and we left our bower of gloves to 
 join the nightly rush to see the Fall River boat 
 come in. The smell of autumn was in the air, 
 long lines of covered broughams and victorias 
 were waiting to be rolled on board and carried 
 down to New York. Passengers were going on, 
 attended by ladies'-maids and footmen, and ham- 
 pered by jewel-cases held firmly in their hands. 
 
 On a level with the dock was the storage deck, 
 and hundreds of barrels of fish, packed in ice, 
 were going down to the city in a whirlwind of 
 haste to see the sights. The boatswain stood with 
 watch in hand as the stevedores ran back and 
 forth with their trucks. They were given so 
 many minutes to store away the morning's catch. 
 The grind of small iron wheels was incessant, 
 sweating bodies leaped through the air at the 
 
A BIT OK THE SHORE EIXE AT NEWPORT 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 slight rise of the gangplank; some slipped, but 
 righted themselves before the long trail was upon 
 them. I do not know what stevedores receive for 
 this hereulean labour under stress of tune, but 
 whatever it is, they deserve it. 
 
 "Do they always get through?" I asked a by- 
 stander, who looked as though he never did any 
 work in his life, but took an enormous pride in 
 the capacity of others. " Always," he answered, 
 " but they're kinda tired afterwards." 
 
 " Kinda!" 
 
 There were little eating-places on one side the 
 long causewaj^ which connects the town with the 
 dock. On the other side was the quiet water, 
 with boats at anchor, showing milk-white lanterns 
 of safety. There was not so much safety in the 
 eating-places, yet there was kindness. One of 
 the foreign tars, in the course of his meal — which 
 he must have been too muddled to enjoy — fell 
 off his high stool and lay on the floor contentedly, 
 with his fork clutched correctly in his hand, until 
 a fresh-faced waiter lifted him back, when he 
 went on with his supper as though this were the 
 proper thing to do between courses. 
 
 The scene was not Newport of the Cliffs or 
 Bellevue Avenue or the great farms, and it was 
 like our perversity to enjoy the very thing for 
 which the famous resort was least noted. But 
 
AMONG THE PURITANS 
 
 we went to rest feeling that we had " done " the 
 town more thoroughly than if we had been hedged 
 about by pomp and circumstance. And before 
 he returned to the hotel, the Illustrator, I regret 
 to say, attended the movies. 
 
 280 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A Last Sketch and a Night Run 
 
 This is the last chapter. It was my plan to 
 write thirteen, as I have faith in the lucky num- 
 ber, but my verbosity has ever been my curse. 
 
 I did not admit to W that the Fall River 
 
 boat, going down to New York, had set my heart 
 to singing, not from any love of boats, but, upon 
 analysis, from the thought that it was going to 
 New York, that it would be turning out its 
 sleepy passengers just as we were waking, and 
 that it would be back in Newport, rolling off 
 winter hats, before we had passed the police 
 station in Bronx Park — which cheerily marks the 
 entrance to the city proper. 
 
 I was finding that the deep regret occasioned 
 by the swift approaching end of our tour was 
 blended with another regret that we were not 
 ending it more swiftly. I looked at our buff 
 motor-car reprovingly, as the hotel porter was 
 packing in the things. I knew it was not its 
 fault, but ours, that we had straggled over the 
 route, yet I was unconsciously despising it be- 
 cause a Sound steamer could so outstrip it. 
 -j-281-«- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 While I did not express this uncontrollable 
 longing to get on, I noticed that the Illustrator 
 was ready earHer than usual, that he had put on 
 his best motor-coat, and that the chauffeur had 
 removed his derby from the hatbox and was 
 carrying it in a paper-bag among the pedals. 
 He made no mention of this, but he affirmed that 
 the engine was working better than ever, and he 
 thought we would make Bridgeport early. It 
 was plain that Bridgeport stood for New York, 
 and, once there, that we had but to turn the 
 corner to find ourselves before our apartment 
 house, exchanging greetings with the elevator- 
 boy — if he himself had not been exchanged since 
 our departure for another elevator-boy, which 
 was highly probable. 
 
 In spite of this, the Call of the City did not 
 outroar the Call of the Road. We had a great 
 day ahead of us, and, although it consisted, for 
 a time, of riding about on ferries in an effort to 
 get started, the joy from the revolution of the 
 wheels was not entirely occasioned by the fact 
 that we were revoluting toward home. 
 
 Our first ferry took us to Conanicut Island. 
 It would not have taken us had our motor not 
 raced to be among the first in line, for many 
 are called but few are chosen on this poorly 
 equipped route. They were not all motors that 
 -J- 282 -J- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 were waiting. Many grocery wagons were going 
 off with their families for an airing. I did not 
 take these tradesmen, who had descended from 
 the wide front seat to walk about the ferry, for 
 what they were. There was one Englisliman who, 
 in appearance, was as perfectly fitted to enter 
 the front as the back door of the great houses 
 on the Cliff. He was confident, considerate, quiet, 
 and awed by no man. I watched his wife with a 
 hke interest, and even when she regained the 
 high seat, to gather up the reins thrown upon 
 the back of their fine horse, I found her 
 entirely suited to what is generally termed a better 
 class than her own. America has done this for 
 them, and I rejoiced in my country which brings 
 assurance with success. 
 
 We outstripped the carts on the run across the 
 island to the second ferry which carried us to the 
 mainland. This was a more prepossessing ves- 
 sel with an upper deck, on which sat serving- 
 maids coming home from mass. They were at- 
 tended — a friendship of the moment, I fancy — 
 by soldiers in khahki, carrying bags of mail, and 
 all were chaffing one another, the women, as 
 usual, hitting at those who employed them, while 
 the soldiers avoided the subject in a sort of mili- 
 tary loyalty. 
 
 " It's not me that would be blacking boots," 
 -i- 283 -J- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 said a fine Irish girl, "if I served my coun- 
 try." 
 
 And while the orderly squirmed he made no 
 reply. I stared coldly at the maid who, from the 
 instinct of her race, was inciting to violence, but, 
 to my unmilitary mind, she was speaking more 
 than half the truth. 
 
 In the gay lithographs that are hung out be- 
 fore an enlisting station there are no enticing 
 scenes of a soldier valeting his superior officer. 
 He stands in the lithograph, brilliant in uniform, 
 with a gun in his hand, and sometimes a short 
 sword pendent from his belt. And while I 
 haven't an idea how they could arrange matters 
 other than they do — for I suppose a colonel must 
 have studs in his shirt — I should think it would 
 be fairer if the recruiting officer hinted upon this 
 possibility of menial service. 
 
 The Illustrator said, when I commented upon 
 the matter, that if I " put it in the book " some 
 one would write me a letter. And while I enjoy 
 letters, and love to have them shoved under the 
 hall door by the elevator-boy, with a single ting 
 of the bell, to show that it is not important, I hope 
 I shall not get one about this. But if you must 
 send me one, have it arrive with the morning's 
 mail before the Illustrator is awake. 
 
 I was troubled about it as far as Narragansett 
 -J- 284 -J- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 Pier, for I suppose we all like to be liked, and 
 for all the engaging qualities of this famous re- 
 sort my mind could have remained ill at ease. It 
 is a mistake to form too definite an idea of a 
 place. I have always imagined it a sparkling 
 pier, gay red parasols sticking up out of the sand, 
 bejewelled ladies sitting under them, and men 
 and women, like the front cover of Life in 
 August, standing sole deep in the water. We 
 saw some of these things, but not to the extent 
 that I hoped. 
 
 Perhaps I did not look about me as I should 
 when I descended from the car to make a little 
 promenade. But it was difficult to lift my eyes 
 from the ground, for I w^as seeking the diamond 
 horseshoes, pearl dog's-heads, and sapphire alli- 
 gators, which are continually being lost at Narra- 
 gansett Pier. I have never been fortunate in 
 finding things, but I figured that, with close at- 
 tention, I ought to pick up some small object 
 in proportion to the vast number of jewels that 
 the New York papers claim are disappearing 
 there daily. 
 
 Yet I found nothing, finally bumping into an 
 old gentleman wiio, at least, had a ruby nose. 
 We were at that moment in front of a huge 
 brown house, such as Thackeray would have writ- 
 ten about, if not admired, and which, upon in- 
 ~i- £85 -J- 
 
A LAST SICETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 quiry of the ruby-nosed one, was called Kenyon's 
 Folly. 
 
 He told me all about it as we edged along 
 like two crabs, I trying to get away from him 
 and he trying not to let me. I do not know 
 why I am always pursued by such unlovely types, 
 
 unless it is to drive me back to W , with a 
 
 feeling that things could be worse. So my ex- 
 perience in glittering Narragansett was limited 
 to a history of Captain Kenyon, who spent what 
 he made out of steamers on a palace that event- 
 ually served as a lunatic asylum for his exas- 
 perated family. The moral being, that sailors 
 should never go ashore. 
 
 The guidebooks say there is little of interest 
 between the Pier and Stonington. I am always 
 glad to read this, for it averts the necessity of 
 watching for monuments. The Illustrator never 
 reads up his guidebook until he has covered the 
 gi-ound, and he has a solemn way of looking at 
 me from over the top of his book and saying, 
 " Did you see the monument on the lower road? " 
 All of which forces me to answer that I did see 
 it whether I did or not, and I do not like to do 
 this, as an untruth is corroding to the soul. 
 
 With no monuments to look for I could now 
 lie back and let the first falling leaves blow into 
 my face, and give time to the wild asters and the 
 -f-286-e- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 early goldenrod. When a roadbed is good and 
 through a pleasant countryside, how can any 
 guide find it devoid of interest. " I must have 
 time to reflect," I said to myself. " I must sum 
 up matters, I must arrive at a decision concern- 
 ing such things along the way as are still un- 
 explained. About those arrows, for instance. 
 But, good heavens, there hasn't been any time 
 to think hack. It's all been noticing, admiring, 
 and going on." 
 
 Even the subject of arrows, which are put up 
 to point the way, diverges into another branch of 
 reflection. We were passing a number along the 
 shore, green in colom*, and shaped like a fish. 
 And I was now wondering if an arrow could have 
 been modelled in the first place from a fish. Not 
 a fish with much eating on it, still one with a fair 
 head and a very good tail. 
 
 Every object designed by man is not entirely 
 original with him, but suggested by some earlier 
 form. I sat back in the car and reviewed my 
 designing of clothes, and, while it was good for 
 my vanity, I was obliged to admit that every 
 frill or tuck or gusset (I say gusset to please the 
 men, as it is all they know of feminine apparel) 
 had been worn to advantage ever since there was 
 first felt a necessity for costumes. I suppose, 
 really, that the only entirely original sartorial 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 creations were those " figge-tree leaf breeches," 
 which, after 1590, were decided to be too inele- 
 gant to talk about. 
 
 I touch upon this subject as it is allied feebly 
 with the tour that we were now closing. I very 
 much want other people to follow this same route, 
 partly for their own happiness and partly out of 
 compliment to us. And I hope that you will 
 not say, " we want something original," for you 
 will not be doing anything original if you keep to 
 the road — which is the proper place for an auto- 
 mobile. We were far from the first to plan this 
 itinerary, and we are glad we were not the first, 
 as that trip was, probably, very fearful " going." 
 
 There is a good deal of sneering at the " beaten 
 track," and we all talk about wanting to get off 
 it. But the beaten track is more suggestive 
 of a level way, and ensuing motoring comforts, 
 than the unbroken trail. Besides that, I believe 
 that the beaten track embraces most of the beauty 
 spots of the country, otherwise it would not have 
 become smooth by the feet of the pilgrims. They 
 would have learned that there were more lovely 
 spots elsewhere and they would have gone to 
 them. For it is instinctive in us to find the best. 
 
 I was so intent upon this subject that I missed 
 the only monument on the way, or the only one 
 that W saw. He looked back at me, re- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 moving a leaf from his mouth before he could 
 reproach me for not observing the marking of 
 the state line between Rhode Island and Con- 
 necticut. " You are in Connecticut," he said, as 
 though this was a special blessing, but he could 
 not be severe, for it was like saying, " you are at 
 home," and no one can mouth " home " in an 
 ugly fashion. 
 
 We were nowhere near home and we knew 
 it, but Connecticut is a neighbour whom we visit 
 every Sunday, and while we did not have any 
 great affection for this far-off end of the state, 
 we held it in as much esteem as we might a second 
 cousin once removed. 
 
 The state line is at Westerly, and I may have 
 missed it by looking at acres of dahlias. The 
 labourers were cutting the blossoms, and packing 
 them in big boxes to send down to the City, and 
 again a strange rebellion rose within me that 
 they would be looking out of a Fifth Avenue shop- 
 window before I could be looking in at one. The 
 chauffeur was worse than I. He said he thought 
 dahlias were prettier in shops than they were in 
 fields, and this so savoured of the city boy that I 
 feared he would leap out at the first railway 
 station to take a train down. 
 
 As if to tempt him further, we struck a trail 
 of arrows affixed to telegraph poles, when we 
 -f-289-«- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 neared Stonington, which led us directly to the 
 " depot," and which stopped there with the last 
 arrow pointing to the ticket office. Yet this 
 misuse of an emblem which we motorists have 
 taken entirely to ourselves outraged us, and we 
 again became fierce partisans of the road, the 
 last arrow at the ticket office winning the chauf- 
 feur over to our side. I have seen a great deal 
 of money go into a driver's pocket, but little come 
 out of it. 
 
 There had been other arrows at branch roads 
 at our left, pointing toward Watch Hill. Watch 
 Hill is one of those resorts that we heard about 
 in the West, when a trip to New York meant 
 a paragraph in the social column, and going East 
 for the summer sent a reporter to your door to 
 write up your wardrobe. 
 
 I never got to Watch Hill, but my fond little 
 neighboiu' spent a month there. She had a bath- 
 ing suit to wear into the Ocean. It was dark 
 blue flannel with white braid. One could hardly 
 call it a novel suit either in material, colour, or 
 cut, but I longed for it, and I thought of her all 
 July. I dreamed myself there, in blue flannel 
 and white braid also, saving her from drowning — 
 saving every one from drowning. 
 
 When she returned the bathing suit was as 
 fresh as ever, for she had been afraid to go into 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 the ocean, and I am inclined to think that, with 
 my dreams, I had the more exciting summer 
 after all. 
 
 I have had no mental association with this re- 
 sort since, until last June, when my French pro- 
 fessor wrote, " The school is sad without you," 
 and asked for letters of introduction to Watch 
 Hill cottagers. I was obliged to admit that I 
 had known but one Watch Hill cottager, and she 
 was a young woman of ten, who had summered 
 there many years ago and didn't get her bathing 
 suit wet. It was not easy to express this in French 
 — in my French — the professor taking the pleas- 
 antry about bathing suits as the end-of-the-century 
 joke regarding ladies who pose upon the sand 
 for the benefit of mankind. Or, in the words of 
 the old song, those who " hang their clothes on 
 a hickory limb and don't go near the water." 
 
 He answered my letter in what he thought 
 was a like vein, dwelling upon the reprehensible 
 on the plage, and I so feared meeting him if we 
 followed one of the arrows, and of ensuing diffi- 
 culties of speech, that it was no temptation to 
 pass them by — and Watch Hill went out of my 
 life again. 
 
 I do not mean to speak lightly of him, for I 
 stopped at the school recently, to see if it had 
 recovered from its sadness, and found that he had 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 been among the first to go to the war — and 
 among the first to be shot. I stood for an in- 
 stant in the doorway after I had gained the street, 
 and to the astonishment of a conventional gentle- 
 man, trying to pass me, I repeated the gallant, 
 Gallic phrase this the little professor had earlier 
 applied to me: " L'ecole est triste sans vous." 
 It wasn't must of a service for the dead. 
 
 We lunched on a battlefield, for the Pequots 
 had warred with the Colonists through this part 
 of the country. The meal was not taken in picnic 
 fashion, but at the old Stonington Manor set 
 back among fine trees, which were too young 
 for the Indians to have hidden behind, but offered 
 pleasant shelter for young lovers. 
 
 It was early for luncheon, but we could not 
 withstand the charm of that old house once we 
 were within its forbidding walls. One would not 
 expect such an exquisite display of taste in fur- 
 nishings, to judge by the Victorian exterior. An 
 old negro bowed us into the house and waved 
 me up the wide staircase to the sleeping rooms 
 above " jes for a look about." The doors of 
 many of the rooms were open, and I walked in 
 and out of the unoccupied apartments, fearing to 
 awake. Here was a hotel furnished not only as 
 a hotel should be, but as a home should be. It 
 was as though the hosts had stej^ped out and 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 would return at any moment. And they would 
 be nice hosts who would enjoy my walking about, 
 and not arrest me for burglarising. 
 
 Each room was individual in its colour and 
 style, each expressing a personality, not one 
 personality for them all, but of several, as though 
 the occupant had as much right to a room to fit 
 his tastes as he had to a choice of viands at 
 table. Fresh flowers were on the mantelpieces, 
 hairpins in little tufted cushions which one can 
 stab into, and coloured pins, such as it is a sin 
 to steal, on chintz trays. 
 
 I sat down in my room — it was in deep rose — 
 and looked out of the window at the stream on 
 the estate twisting itself, like the Indians of old, 
 among the trees. How fortunate that we had 
 not begun our tour by going through Bronx 
 Park and on to Bridgeport, New Haven, and 
 Stonington. For, if we had done that I should 
 have met the rose-room earlier, and never gone 
 on at all. How unfortunate was it, on the other 
 hand, that on the last day I should see this perfect 
 bedroom, for New York was now calling me while 
 the rose draperies were softly folding me about 
 and bidding me stay. 
 
 I groped in my mind for some sustaining philo- 
 sophical thought, but none came. Only the 
 chauffeur's de^'by rose before me, an ugly thing. 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 and his proud air, when he would wear it home 
 to tell his family all about the trip. I wondered 
 if the tan bedroom with the lacquer furniture 
 would hold out any inducement to him. But I 
 felt that it would not. W — — found me there 
 after a time, and while he admired the black 
 apartment with the green parokeets, which I had 
 2)icked out for him, he tliought if I had some 
 luncheon I would feel differently about it. 
 
 After luncheon, which was on inexpensive but 
 lovely china, it occurred to me that this Stoning- 
 ton Manor was going to remain there, and 
 that some day (on that future day when there 
 would be "plenty of time") I could go there 
 and rest for a while. 
 
 We motored off, only to back back again at- 
 tracted by loud if cracked shouts from the an- 
 cient servitor, who was waving my jacket. It 
 had clung to the newell post under the impres- 
 sion that the home was ours. The barkeeper, 
 who was fleeter of foot than the old darky, ran 
 through the woods with it, and while the Illus- 
 trator claims that I have mentioned the bar- 
 keeper in this graceful fashion to set at rest the 
 mind of any future patron about the nightly 
 highball, I am sure the reader can only be grate- 
 ful to me. 
 
 We are always glad to hear of barkeepers doing 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 friendly acts like this. It gives a tone to their 
 profession and justifies us in patronising them. 
 They come out very well, nowadays, both in 
 dramas and books, running a close second in 
 popularity to thieves. And never, never have I 
 seen a barkeeper in a moving picture take a 
 drink, or offer one to others. His sole duty ap- 
 pears to be to warn mankind against the evil, 
 which gives him, of course, the " sympathy of the 
 audience," but is a little hard on the saloon keeper 
 who employs him. 
 
 W aroused me from my reverie over the 
 
 liquor business, to hope that I was going to have 
 some history in this last chapter. He has a for- 
 mula for motoring literature. It should be about 
 two-eighths road, one-eighth weather, one-eighth 
 personalities, and four-eighths history. This is 
 all very well for him who doesn't have to read 
 up on these things, and who is modestly disin- 
 terested in himself. But I am a modernist. I 
 am interested in men and women of to-day. To 
 go into it more deeply, I am a suffragist (sort 
 of a one) and am interested in women, and above 
 all I am an individualist, interested in myself. 
 It's a creed with me. And I beg, if you have 
 grown maddened by the way the I's flash along 
 like a picket fence, that you will remember this 
 is only the observance of my religion. 
 -j-295-e- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 But to please the Illustrator: do not fail, as 
 you follow this route, to observe the Pequot 
 Battle Monument at Mystic; nor, as you ap- 
 proach Groton, the splendid shaft of stone which 
 coniniemorates the battle of Groton Heights. 
 To save me, I cannot remember seeing either of 
 these. In Mystic, which is plain before me as 
 a rare old town, I was on the lookout for a friend 
 of mine who has kennels, and who sends me cal- 
 endars with adorable puppies' heads sticking up 
 over January. 
 
 I have never met this friend, but once I said 
 something in print, that she liked, about a horse, 
 and, while she was sorry it was not about dogs, 
 in which she specialises, she feels that I am an 
 animal lover, and decorates my desk yearly with 
 her welcome gift. 
 
 There is no excuse for my not seeing 
 the monument at Groton, except that I was peer- 
 ing about for the boys of Groton School. Famous 
 boys come from Groton, or perhaps I should 
 say famous men develop from boys who went to 
 Groton. While at school they were not unusual, 
 except, as a rule, being unusually bad or un- 
 usually dull. I like to see boys at this stage. 
 I feel that each one of them is a little embryo 
 monument of their day. They may never leave 
 the world anything but a small round stone, 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 which heads their grave, but, again, they may 
 mark their generation with the gift of a great 
 intelleet. An intellect that soars above our little 
 workaday minds, but which we can look up to, 
 yes, and aspire to, and point out to posterity. 
 
 That I think is a real monument, quite as great 
 as (to quote directly from the guide) "The Obe- 
 lisk — on the east side of the river (ferry 4c.) — 
 erected to commemorate the burning of the town 
 by Arnold, and the massacre of Fort Griswold on 
 Sept. 6th, 1781 (view from the top; adm. 10c.)." 
 Pretty things to commemorate! 
 
 But we saw no Groton boys, and my interest 
 was diverted from them by a fear that we might 
 miss the ferry across to New London. One al- 
 ways speaks of a ferry as the ferry, as though 
 there would never be another, and, while we do 
 not dash our heads against a subway post when 
 we miss an express, we take on the grief of those 
 with a Lost Cause when we see one of these flat 
 creatures leaving the slip. 
 
 We got the ferry, and were held up on tlie 
 other side for the long train to pass which was 
 going down to New York. We could see happy 
 New Yorkers at the windows who would get 
 there ahead of us. It was very trying to our 
 young driver. Even with a three-dollar-and- 
 fifty-cent fare, he might have deserted us but 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 that I had removed his derby from among the 
 pedals, and had my feet on it. His nostrils did 
 not quiver, for he was not the kind of a boy to 
 have quivering nostrils. If they had quivered he 
 would have been a bad chauffeur, and we still 
 would have been sitting in the Vermont mud. 
 But he scrouched down with a sort of groan, and 
 
 acting on an impulse (for W had gone to 
 
 buy the New York papers, and I could indulge 
 myself in impulses) I asked him, in a hasty 
 whisper, if he was in love. 
 
 And he was! 
 
 Of course he wanted to get back to her, and 
 of course I wanted him to, and before the New 
 York papers were plunked down at my feet I 
 had more than suggested that we reach the City 
 that night. He was at the wheel for the next 
 two hours while the Illustrator read headlines 
 with difficulty. Now and then he would look 
 at the speedometer and at the boy, who would 
 pull down the throttle hurriedly — and twitch it 
 up again by degrees. 
 
 We scarcely saw New London. We included 
 it in the itinerary because it is the home of Ameri- 
 can yachting and boat racing, where every inland 
 motorist should linger. Before this metropolitan 
 fever had swept over me I had hoped to visit 
 the little schoolhouse where Nathan Hale had 
 -^298-^- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 taught. He is one of my heroes, and frequently 
 I have a " pretend " to myself, which consists of 
 leading a small boy of my own about whose name 
 is Nathan. 
 
 Once upon a time I knew a Nathan, although 
 his last name was not that of the hero, but he 
 played his part as well, for he went into a flam- 
 ing house to save a little boy (who, I hope, was 
 worth the saving), and he got out the little boy 
 but went back for others — and thej^ found him 
 the next day. One does not need a Christan 
 name for what we call a Christian deed. And that 
 is another reason why my little boy is named 
 Nathan in my "pretend." 
 
 The Illustrator would say to me occasionally 
 (call to me with his hands hollowed, as though it 
 was impossible to be heard with all this gravel 
 flying) that he had always hoped to linger along 
 this route, and make sketches in color. This 
 was after we had swept through Lyme as though 
 it w^ere not. Some of America's greatest painters 
 go there, and at the spring exhibitions we see in 
 the galleries quiet houses bathed in moonlight, or 
 a ragged road leading to a hilltop, the picture 
 stopping there and leaving us to imagine the 
 scene on the other side — of the canvas, I suppose 
 it would be. Rich men pay many thousands of 
 dollars for them. The rich men w^ould hate most 
 -e-299-J- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 awfully to live in these houses or climb the ragged 
 roads, but still they buy the pictures, and it must 
 be, in the rush of their lives, that they find a sort 
 of vicarious peace in having them on the walls 
 of their great palaces. 
 
 Yet the Illustrator was undoubtedly enjoying 
 the pace. As I have said before, the mechanic in 
 him is ever striving to master the artist. " A 
 sketch!" cries the artist within him as we pass 
 a fine composition. "Speed on!" urges the 
 mechanic. And Art, figuratively, chmbs into 
 the back seat with me. 
 
 Art has learned that sometimes one stops for 
 gasoline. It was hoping we would do so at Guil- 
 ford, but the tank showed no disposition for a 
 drink, and before w^e knew it we saw, from afar, 
 the war monument of East Rock, and knew that 
 we were nearing New Haven. For years I have 
 seen that monument going up to Boston, and 
 seen it coming back from Boston (I mean, I 
 was going up — the monument has never stirred), 
 and on that remote, leisurely day on our way to 
 Stonington, with a stop-off for sketching at 
 Lyme, I hope to get close to that tall shaft, and 
 see what it is all about. 
 
 The guidebooks say that New Haven is known 
 as the " City of Elms," but I think it would be 
 a poor way of buying a railway ticket with this 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 destination in view. The necessary sum poked 
 under the bars at the railway station, and a re- 
 quest for " Yale," would meet with instant re- 
 sponse, and, of late, to judge by the pride of the 
 citizens, one might get a ticket to New Haven by 
 asking for " The Taft." 
 
 This would not mean our ex-President, although 
 he would not be difficult to find there; at least he 
 would not be difficult to find if he chanced to be 
 there (but that is worn-out humour). At last 
 New Haven has a hotel, a big hotel, with auto- 
 mobiles from the whole countryside gathered 
 about at tea-time, and proud mothers come to 
 visit their sons, who are unhappily doing the 
 honours. 
 
 There was no escaping gasoline in New Haven, 
 and as soon as the car settled down to its draught, 
 the young chauffeur and I witnessed the artist 
 gaining the ascendency over the mechanic. The 
 Illustrator brought out his materials. He was 
 ruddy with the rush through the sun, so that 
 he looked very unlike an artist. And he was 
 glad of that, as one never outgrows the fear of 
 the ridicule of college boys, but he was firm of 
 purpose. He stalked toward the campus, mutter- 
 ing something about the beauty of the old church 
 on the green. 
 
 He was going to make a sketch! He was 
 -?-301-f- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 going to make a sketch! There was no use in 
 opposing him. Artistic inclinations feed on op- 
 position as many a paterfamihas knows. I wasn't 
 altogether sorry, for I could walk up Hillside 
 Avenue, which, next to State Street in Portland, 
 is the loveliest in the world. But I knew the 
 young driver was grieving, and doubtless saying 
 to himself: " It's all very well for you two. 
 He's got you and j^ou've got him. But how 
 about me and her?" 
 
 ]My friends were not at home when I rang a 
 Hillside Avenue doorbell. I could have lifted 
 the great knocker, but in these days of electricity 
 it frightens the maids when the sound goes rat- 
 tat-a-tat through the house. Electricity has no 
 awe for them — that is perfectly simple. 
 
 A great football authority lives in this house, 
 and once I was taking tea with the lady of the 
 manor while he was having a conference with 
 the team. She made me go in for a moment as 
 " the boys would be so proud to meet me." I 
 thought of the thousands of girls who, with the 
 liberality of youth, would give ten years of their 
 age (old age) to meet those boys, to say nothing 
 of what my own something-over-thirty jDride was. 
 They were so delightful, shuffling uncomfortably, 
 and falling over each other, and sitting down 
 gingerly on chairs which creaked under them. 
 
New W^A«t« -S'A - 
 
 CENTER CHURCH, NEW HAVEN CREEN 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 The family were entirely given over to football. 
 I remember their huge son who, when in strict 
 training, asked at luncheon if he could have a 
 second cup of coffee, and the cold, amazed looks 
 that were turned upon him. lie was not even 
 answered. "Oliver Twist had asked for more!" 
 
 It was quite a boy-day with me, and ever my 
 heart warmed toward our young driver who had 
 never known Groton, never longed for Yale, and 
 yet, just like the rest of them, was interested in 
 this marrying business — and would see it through 
 long before the university men could man- 
 age it. 
 
 With renewed resolve I hunted out the Illus- 
 trator, who was also hunting me out. He had 
 put away his block of paper and was back 
 to his map, and he greeted me with the elaborate 
 manner which he believes to be diplomatic. He 
 asked me how I felt and I said I felt well, and he 
 told me then, yawning casually, that the whole 
 distance from Newport to New York was but 
 one hundred seventy-seven miles. I stood still, 
 but my heart kept on running. It was so splen- 
 did that he wanted to go down to New York that 
 night, and wanted me to suggest it. It was not 
 splendid that he wanted me to make tlie sugges- 
 tion. Pie had his reason for that. If anything 
 went wrong, then it would be my fault. Not that 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 he would blame me — I grant him a good sports- 
 man — but that I couldn't blame him. 
 
 So I said in a very small voice, " Let's have a 
 night ride to New York." And he pretended 
 that he couldn't believe his ears, but I pointed 
 out that we had not driven through the night on 
 our entire tour, and that it was due " the book." 
 This seemed to clinch the matter. "Of course," 
 I added, " we will have to cut out the history and 
 monuments." And he thought, striding toward 
 the car, that i)erhaps the reader would be gen- 
 erous, since riding into the night would be so very 
 pleasant for us. 
 
 In the early twilight we went toward Bridge- 
 port, taking the short cut instead of going by the 
 water's edge through Savin Rock and Wood- 
 mont. We were punished for closing our hearts 
 to the appeal of nature by suddenly and un- 
 reasonably getting lost, and finding ourselves 
 miles from Bridgeport but near Derby. To this 
 
 day W cannot solve how he managed it, but 
 
 I am inclined to believe that it was caused by the 
 chauffeur's hat — like calling unto like. The 
 way of the digressor is hard, I said to the Illus- 
 trator, who from a limited acquaintance with the 
 text thought I was quoting correctly, and said 
 there were a lot of good things in the Bible. 
 
 It made us late for dinner at the Stratford 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 Hotel, but was this not a fitting ending to our 
 little journey in the world? We had generally 
 been late. It is such a specialty of ours that a 
 householder invites us to dine a half hour ahead 
 of the other guests, and if by any chance we 
 arrive at the time given us, we have a melancholy 
 reward sitting in an empty drawing-room while 
 the hostess is getting herself fastened up. 
 
 We fought off the bell-boys, who showed an 
 inclination to take everything off the car, and 
 went in to dinner — which we determined to make 
 a good one. The chauffeur insisted upon eating 
 in an Owl Lunch across the street so that he 
 could keep his eye on the machine. Nothing but 
 the theft of the automobile could separate him 
 much longer from the home of his birth. 
 
 The Stratford owed us a good dinner. Once 
 before we had gone to Bridgeport to attend the 
 try-out of a new comedy. The playwright was 
 with us, the manager and the star, all so sick 
 with anxiety that we caught the contagion of 
 misery and could only stare at the courses as they 
 were set down before us, and make futile passes 
 Avith our knives and forks. I remember how we 
 ate our late supper at the night lunch of the 
 chauffeur, and how gay we were, now that the 
 play was over — and a " hit," and how good were 
 the onion sand^\iches. 
 
 -^-305-^- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 Yes, even Bridgeport was tinged with city 
 life. I need no longer observe, for I knew the 
 road and the people on either side of it, and 
 while we had seventy miles to go, I knew I could 
 take the train in, yet deceive the wariest reader 
 into believing that I had covered the distance 
 notebook in hand. 
 
 Here at last was the opportunity for the re- 
 sume of the trip, for figuring out about those 
 arrows, for asking why I had not given more 
 time to the scenery and less to myself, for won- 
 dering if I had really made fun of the Illustrator 
 when I — really — like the man, for mentally re- 
 tracting anything that would give offence to any 
 one. I have never been troubled with a sense of 
 pride, and I have always found that "eating my 
 words " was not a bad meal after all. 
 
 I would have time, also, to think of the mis- 
 statements I have made, the confusing of histori- 
 cal events, and that chief crime to a locality: 
 calling a good road a bad one. I grew a little 
 afraid to sit alone in the back seat, alone with 
 this responsibility, and I communicated this to 
 
 W , who suggested that he and I make the 
 
 trip together and stow away the chauffeur in 
 the rear. The boy climbed in among the folde- 
 rols, and I did not look back at him, for I knew 
 he was eating peanuts and would have to be repri- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 nianded. He was alone with peanuts and his 
 girl, and the Illustrator and I were alone, as we 
 had been so many times on night flights through 
 the Latin eountries. 
 
 One may ask why I did not sit on the front 
 seat with him earlier on the tour. And it is 
 difficult to answer this unless the reader is a 
 nervous woman herself and hopes to " hold him." 
 I have never outgrown the measuring eye. The 
 eye that sees the dog or the child or the oncoming 
 motor, and wonders just how far we can go before 
 we will have to turn out for these objects. And 
 this is not conducive to the *' rest and change " 
 for which one makes a trip. 
 
 Nor is it conducive to the good temper of the 
 driver. In early motoring days I could not be- 
 lieve that the Illustrator saw the dog or the child 
 or the oncoming motor. I alone saw them, and 
 out of kindness of heart I would tell him of these 
 objects ahead. He was always gentle about it up 
 till noon, but later in the day he would appear to 
 be talking through clenched teeth as he would re- 
 spond, " I see it, I see it," or sometimes merely, 
 "I have eyes, dear/" 
 
 As I became more skilled in motoring etiquette 
 I ceased telling him, flatly, what I saw, but re- 
 ferred to the obstacles in a veiled manner as 
 though from an affectionate interest in them, 
 -i- 307 ■<- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 " That's a curious-looking dog ahead," I would 
 exclaim; or, "What a pretty little child running 
 down the road! "; or, again, " Do look at this on- 
 coming car, what make can it be?" 
 
 But it did not deceive him, and I admit it was 
 rather mean, for in nine j^ears' motoring through 
 the crowded ways of Europe there is only the 
 toll of a dog — and the acquiring of some mysteri- 
 ous chicken feathers on the radiator. 
 
 Another sensation which I have never been able 
 to overcome, and which other motorists may 
 share, is the one that creeps over me as we pass 
 a sleek horse. I always feel that we are going 
 to take a slice off that animal's side as it pro- 
 trudes richly over the shaft. In my vanity, I feel 
 our own car to be as big as a motor bus, and that 
 nothing can hurt us. There are women who say 
 that they don't look down the road as they travel. 
 But as long as I sat up in front, it seemed to 
 be necessary to look, that we would surely run 
 into something if I didtit look, even though I 
 controlled my vocal exclamations and turned them 
 into gay snatches of song. 
 
 There was one emotion which could be classed 
 as satisfactory during those early days, and that 
 was occasioned by the relieving discovery, when- 
 ever we passed some scary object, that our car 
 didn't " shy." Although I knew the vehicle we 
 -i-308-f- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 were travelling in was propelled by mechanical 
 means, I could not help hoping, for a long time, 
 that paper would not blow up the road, nor little 
 boys yell at us. And I always felt a glow of 
 kindliness for the motor when it ran over the 
 paper with perfect sangfroid, and, restrainedly, 
 did not run over the little boys. 
 
 When we acquired a back seat I was relegated 
 to it, where I could hide behind the driver's back, 
 and enjoy the wayside scenes which, as scenes 
 ahead, might have filled me with concern. I can- 
 not recommend a back seat too strongly as a 
 method for " preserving the home." How few of 
 us realize, as we fly to all parts of the country 
 for easy divorces, that the real trouble began 
 with the first runabout ! 
 
 But at night the roads are clear, one can lie 
 with one's head on the back of the seat and watch 
 the stars Avithout feeling any necessity for watch- 
 ing for chickens. Or one can talk to the driver, 
 for the motor seems to work more quietly. The 
 headlights make a lane for us which we cannot 
 run into, no matter how fast we go. At a curve 
 in the road one might fear the light will not get 
 there in time to show the turn, but this is always 
 managed. 
 
 It was delightfully wicked — this going over 
 famous country without paying the smallest at- 
 -e-309-*- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 tention to it. There was once a member of a 
 Cook's party who came back on the boat with us. 
 She was worn out from sightseeing, for their 
 guide had kept them at it early and late. " But 
 do you know," she said with a hysterical giggle, 
 looking over her shoulder as though she expected 
 Monsieur Cook to pounce down upon her, " in 
 Geneva I didn't go into the cathedral at all ! " 
 
 One knows Geneva for its jewelled lake but 
 not for its cathedral, just as we had known these 
 little towns we were passing through for pleasant 
 places to spend a week-end. We give little time 
 to think of a shaping of a country, of the suffer- 
 ings that must be endured before these present- 
 day comforts — before this graciousness of coun- 
 try-house life — can be offered to us. 
 
 Although I had not expected it, as we sped 
 over the Boston Post Road in the quiet of the 
 night, this came to me more strongly than when 
 fortified by historical facts. Our humming motor 
 was the evolution of the post-boy on horseback, 
 of the mail-coach, and, in the wake of that lumber- 
 ing vehicle, of the rude efforts of rail and steam. 
 What will come after us, I wonder, after this 
 present day of wonders. 
 
 A gentle wind arose when we reached Norwalk 
 and we stopped for an instant before the Royal 
 James Inn to put on heavier coats. The proprie- 
 -J-310-J- 
 

 
 i M 5v^ 
 
 
 i ^-fe-"^r'!2l 
 
 
 
 W.-v.-^^ 
 
 ■•«i.i;r..,., V 
 
 
 V 
 
 k^ 
 
 ) 
 
 
 
 THE ROYAL JAMES I XX, XORWALK 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 tor strolled down to greet us, and, because I 
 didn't have to be, I grew interested in the old 
 house. The land on which it stands was a grant 
 to the James family from an English king. The 
 landlord sent us a letter with a more complete 
 history later, the main romantic facts lingering in 
 my memory that one of the Jameses had expected 
 to marry " a young lady of the town," and had 
 built this house for her, but ere it was completed 
 she had married some one else. 
 
 This proved a shock to Mr. James, who kept 
 the house closed for twenty years, which may 
 have been one of the reasons that it eventually 
 became an inn. The idea is more embracing than 
 Mr. James may have entertained, for it now gives 
 enjoyment to many happy couples instead of one. 
 The thought of the jilt must be disquieting to 
 prospective young husbands engaged in building 
 dove-cotes, especially in these days of carpenters' 
 strikes. And one would advise them to put a 
 time limit on the period of construction. 
 
 The proprietor stood under the sheltering elms 
 and waved us good-bye, as not many other pro- 
 prietors had done — altliough they usually had 
 elms to stand under. I settled back and thought 
 about elms. New Haven, the "Elm City?" 
 Every New England town has a just claim to 
 that title. How they grow for the Yankees — 
 -i-311-f- 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 these trees! How they grow for all people and 
 villages! Whoever heard of an elm forest? They 
 are like dogs, they must have human heings ahout 
 them. They are the lovely watch trees of man's 
 habitation. They are the true family trees of 
 this part of our country. They are 
 
 " Stamford " said the Illustrator. 
 
 I looked uneasily up a street which leads to 
 New Canaan. I have a confession to make to 
 the owner of a New Canaan country house. I 
 have often wondered how I could manage to 
 break the news to her, and it has occurred to me 
 that if I put it in a book she may read it, and 
 forgive me without my blundering through an 
 apology. 
 
 It all comes of raising chickens scientifically. 
 No, it comes of going to church Sunday morn- 
 ing. Or, perhaps, it comes from not being a 
 stern hostess and forcing guests to go to church. 
 While she was gone I strayed among the chick- 
 ens and some got out, and in a wild panic (not 
 the chickens in a panic, they were enjoying them- 
 selves in the flower beds) I caught them and 
 threw them over the wire nettings back into their 
 homes. But in my panic I threw the wrong 
 chickens into the wrong homes, and now there 
 is a blending of Plymouth Rocks and White Leg- 
 horn and Black Spanish on that scientific farm 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 which my hostess, with her fixed principles about 
 the rearing of everything, cannot possibly under- 
 stand. But she does from now on, and that is 
 another thing for which I hope to be forgiven. 
 
 Then came Greenwich, and Rye, with white 
 doors along the way closed for the first time 
 against us. I patted the arm of my seat affec- 
 tionately, for this staunch little car had done away 
 with the horrors of catching trains for Sunday 
 visiting; of early morning snappings at each other 
 because we had to leave on schedule time; of 
 watching the hour at country dinner-tables so 
 that we could get the crowded last train back. 
 How these annoyances have faded from our 
 memory, just as the recollection of the pale rays 
 from gas illumination has been effaced by the 
 glare of electricity! 
 
 We were now among the inns of gentle name 
 
 and vigorous hospitality. The voice of W 
 
 was heard now and then, not romantically but 
 reminiscently, as we passed them by: " Got a 
 drink there — dried your hat here — they stole the 
 wrench at that joint." Not romantic, but life, 
 and more of life before us, long stretches of life. 
 For to all death may be near to the next man — 
 but not to us. It must be a soldier's sustaining 
 thought — his own invulnerability. 
 
 I may have been thinking about the first man 
 
A LAST SKETCH AND A NIGHT RUN 
 
 who put up the first arrow to mark the way, so 
 that I did not notice the distance covered, but from 
 out the semi-gloom of Bronx Park the sharp voice 
 of an officer cried: "Headlights out!" And 
 we were in New York. 
 
 We waited for our chauffeur to leap from 
 the back seat, probably wearing the derby, to 
 do his last duty. He did not stir. I had im- 
 agined him wrapped in dreams, and so he was — 
 but with his mouth open, snoring comfortably. 
 It was trying, as I remembered his anxiety to 
 get to Her. But the Illustrator and I had re- 
 mained awake — and, on second thoughts, it was 
 rather entrancing that the middle-aged couple in 
 the front seat were more stirred than youth by the 
 warmth of swift motion, and scented darkness, 
 and far-off villages, and Fifth Avenue — ^inviting 
 us the length of its mirroring asphalt. 
 
 We did find a new elevator-boy who said, when 
 we mumbled something about ourselves, that 
 " Mistah an' Mis' Hale am out of town." But 
 we took off the baggage just the same, for Mistah 
 an' Mis' Hale am at Home. 
 
 THE END 
 
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