Class _E 5-- Book__jL_2X Copyi'ightN^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr /9Sr VACATION INPpESSIQNS C. ARTHUR LONGWELL AUGUST, 1902 a'st li 9 1 ■3 OO-J a* •'o?*-* a »» J o » r -w. 'J -'inl '" Ti$ pleasant ySiire, to see one's name in print; A book's a book^although there's nothingin't." r OON0R€S$, I CcTflllOHT PTtt* 3LA8e Oo' XXo. Wo COPY B. ' . L Copyright 1902 By C. A. LONGWELL New York Dedication *-> " Is he my friend who loves me ? He may yet not understand me. Is he my friend who understands me ? He may yet not love me. But who understands me because he loves me, who loves me because he understands me — he verily is my friend." To such friends as these Hvho stayed at home, or found their recreation in other directions through the summer, this little book is dedicated. ' There I will choose some eyrie in the hills, Where I may buiid, like a lonely bird, And catch the whispered music heard Out of the noise of human ills." c 7 c/lugusi Vacation days are mine ! :: :: Sixteenth With much of the feeling the small school boy has when the last lessons of summer have been said, but with mind too tired to direct and muscles less inclined to exe- cute the frolics that usually follow his dismissal, I am comfortably esconced on the steamer, " North Star," of the Maine Steamship Line, with Portland as my first destination. The usual scurrying around of passengers, as though this were to be the all-important event of their lives, and each must be first to have his wants supplied, marked the first hour of our departure. But now finding there is provision for all, our ship's company has settled down to the lull that follows a stormy departure. How seriously we Americans take our pleasures. We rush to the theatres and down the aisles, casting off wraps on the way, as though it were the first and likely to be the last play we shall ever see. We hurry to trains and boats and with unseemly impet- uosity dive into crowds at risk of life or limb, and to receive what ? Perhaps a seat that is cast aside ten minutes after we are on board. " Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise My footstool earth, my canopy the skies." 8 The man who trails along afterward usually gets a friendly nod from porters and pursers and the best accommodations as a "reward of merit" for his calm behavior and his trust in those who are expected to provide for his comfort — especially if a coin occasionally sees the light of day. The new steel wonder in process of construction over East River has been passed. Hell Gate, with its treacherous rocks has been safely threaded and we are out on the undulating swell of Long Island Sound. The sun hangs low in the sky with every promise of giving us a picture at setting, the charm of which never seems to grow old. Too far now on our way to be recalled and no communication with land until to-morrow afternoon, we settle down to freedom from business cares, the final click of the roll-top desk still sounding like music to the ear in the knowledge that it is not to be opened for two whole weeks. The boat is well equipped and new, having been placed in commission last season. Her service is neatly attired and courteous. Our company seems made up of men and women gentle born, .so to deck I hie me with a book — the never failing friend of man — to beguile away the hours. 9 Two thirty A. M., but ere I seek my berth to be rocked in the cradle of the deep, I must record two real luxuries — a glorious sun-set followed almost immediately by a moon so calm and restful as to put our entire company in sentimental groups over the decks. At an early hour our elders disappeared one by one leaving the younger element to enjoy the moon in interesting groups of twos and fours. Long after everyone had sought the seclusion that the cabin grants, I sat alone and drank in the beauties of night. The ship's lights out, except those prescribed by marine law, we have churned along with measured stroke and no sound save the cutting of the water and noise of engine and pro- pellers. Now too, I say ' ' good night " and go to sleep in anticipation of a pleasant to-morrow. " The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And nature must obey necessity." Sunday The piercing light of the sun sifting cNsghi through the shutters of the state- room window told of another day, and though drowsy with sleep from the night's vigils, it seemed wicked to idle away a sun-lit morning, so I arose to find our ship out of sight of land, on a gently undulating sea, a firm breeze — mainly from the ship's impetus — while the sun covered the broad expanse in bright flashes of light. Every one seemed to be in good humor and as the ship's bell told off the hours and the heat of the day increased, the passengers grouped themselves on the broad upper deck in various attitudes repre- senting a genuine abandon to the day's sail. While in this semi-somnolent state, the sharp short blowing of the whistle brought every one to his feet and to the vessel's star-board side in time to see a huge whale, not over three hundred yards away, give us a glimpse of his monstrous brown back and then plunge to the depths of the sea, lashing the water into a foam with his tail as he descended. Our eyes then on the alert, were further rewarded by the spoutings of several of these deni- zens of the deep. II An hour later we were again summoned, this time to the port side, to see, not more than a hun- dred yards away, another of these monsters, who seemed to lift his body above the surface of the sea, then roll to one side, disclosing to our view a por- tion of his head and nearly the entire length of his huge body. Quickly realizing that he was gazing upon no friendly companion of the deep, he plunged below, flinging out his colossal tail and churning the water as he went. At three in the afternoon we entered the beauti- ful harbor of Portland, with its rocks, its islands and light-houses standing out in picturesque relief, and after some delay in docking, our company was quickly disbanded, each to carry out some vacation plan, for every one seemed on pleasure bent. Baggage having been checked through, I had only to saunter leisurely around to the Falmouth Hotel — a hostelry quite famous in the history of Maine, and having the name by which the town of Portland was once known. On registering, the genial clerk told me that a trolley-ride on the belt line would prove an innocent diversion for what remained of the Sabbath afternoon, in this " Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale." puritanical and prohibition town, and in the even- ing, especially with the promise of a moon on the harbor, a boat trip to Peak's Island — there to hear a concert, would rob the hours of a heaviness that one feels while " waiting in transit." Both of these suggestions were carried out in timely precision, in ample enjoyment and with a later earnest of my appreciation of the clerk's prowess as a promoter of pastimes — in the shape of a "night -cap" taken with him behind closed doors, the laws of the city making us feel like murderers, who might be pounced down upon at any moment by a bailiff in ruff and high cocked hat. 13 c4ttgust Eight thirty A. M. and we are leav- Eighteenth ing the quaint old city of Portland under conditions most inviting-. A glorious morning, cold with bracing air, the sky a perfect canopy of blue, except here and there a fleecy cloud shifting lazily in heaven's dome to convince us that it is really sky we are seeing, and not the vast dome of a cathedral. Under and over all the rich, warm sun filters its light and on every face about me there rests the smile of content for the hour and hopeful anticipation for the day. We cross sundry railroad tracks — around the edge of the old town — raising an imaginary skirt over the usual mundane conditions that encompass every city, and almost without warning we are plunged into a panoramic glimpse of dense wood- land, fields of growing things, and green pastures enclosed within stone fences that seem to run up small hills, only to disappear in some forest be- yond. Now the train rounds a curve in the well bal- lasted road and a miniature lake — a pond, lies before us like a Florentine mirror in its irregular lines and with its fringe of ferns and under-brush that " By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals." 14 come to the water's edge, with an occasional pine tree that springs from the green underneath and spreads its severe layer-like top branches against the sky in relief beyond. Frequently I see reminders of the loving re- membrance in which the memory and influence of Longfellow are held by these sturdy New Englanders who were fortunate enough to have this grand character as a towns-man. Yea, and more: — as a kins- man. His old house in Portland is preserved with furniture intact, and is shown to tourists with marked manifestations of pride. At the intersection of two shaded streets, there stands a magnificent monument representing the poet in sitting posture holding in one hand a book and in the other a pencil. Just now the train stops at a small village and a canopied-top wagon stands there to take travelers to " Standish Cottage" — the driver having pre- sumably been dispatched as a John Alden by the timorous Miles who awaits at home the result of this interview, but with less sentiment perhaps than graced the anticipations of our soldier lover of the long ago. So has the commercial spirit invaded the land, and our sentiment is attacked as an easier entrance to our pocket books. 15 On we speed and the smaller garden-like beauty is giving way to the more rugged aspect of the landscape. The train is already, only an hour out, commencing to puff and blow with the labor of hill- climbing. Now occasionally we can look up and down as well as over the scene. Acres of tall pines stand like " Druids of Old " on hillside and hollow. One moment we fancy that only birds and animals are the inhabitants of these woods ; that if you were to see a skin-clad Indian crawl out from some ledge of rock, fitting a flint-tipped an*ow on the string of his bow, you would feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The next, we dart across a well-traveled roadway indicating that there are people here, who live their lives, think their thoughts, and die their deaths in well- ordered harmony with nature — free from the bicker- ings, strife, and nervous excitement that wither the minds and bodies of the city multitude and send them "to that bourne " before their time. Small brooks steal out from leafy under-brush and dance away under the track, the glint of sun- light flashing up crystals as the water leaps over the rocks. " A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes '' i6 And now we have a more pretentions stream, in which I strongly suspect live the fleet -finned little fellows that have given Isaac Walton so many fol- lowers. This stream winds around a hill then widens into a small lake — a lake just large enough for two — and the allotment has evidently been made, for on the water's edge stands a bungalow while from a hammock a trailing bunch of white is indicative of the presence of woman. This garden , of Eden is not Adamless as he is waving his welcome from a canoe that floats idly near the shore. As the water here catches the reflection from the sky and is deepened in its color- ing by the green foliage of the adjacent hills, it reminds me of a huge sapphire, unusually brilliant under the sharp rays of the sun. An opening in the woods discloses a typical New England farm house with the tall flat chimney outlined against the end of the house — bespeaking the roaring winter's fire around which are seated the half circle of trusted faces — young and old, living in quiet content, and working out their de- pendency until the final summons that equalizes us 17 all, comes to take them hence. Whittier must have been writing of siich a house and its people in saying : ' ' Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth, Sends up its smoky curl — Who will not thank this kindly earth, And bless the farmer girl ?" Glorious moment this ; " Unto the everlasting hills do I lift mine eyes." The train has successfully climbed its way on a shelving side of highland and with an abrupt turn in the road are disclosed to view three goodly-sized mountains arranged in a semi-circle. Half way up the valley between two of them there comes seemingly from out of the sky, a torrent of water that breaks and leaps over rocks in feathery foam and glides away in a laughing turbulent stream from the base of the hills. Only a glance — too brief — but it has caused ex- clamations from my fellow passengers and has whetted our optical appetites for what we may expect to follow. Chairs are being whisked about the observation car into advantageous positions and we are settling ourselves for a kaleidoscopic glimpse of the "promised land." "To hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature. i8 New beauties are now being disclosed to our view. All the glories we have feasted upon in the shape of trees, streams and under growth now find a substantial background in frowning hills covered solidly with vegetation. The train winds in and out as though picking its way around these seem- ingly insurmountable barriers while graceful turns in the road give us occasional peeps at our Mogul engine, climbing with measured stroke an elevation of io6 feet to the mile. We reach a " breathing spot " and find here the marked encroachment of modem civilization in the form of a summer colony comfortably housed in white, standing out prominently against the green of the hills and the blue of the sky. Now our stops are frequent and we see expectant faces on platforms waiting the arrival of new re- cruits, or the letters so anxiously wished for from those left behind. Larger and more imposing grow the mountains, until all trace of woodland beauty is temporarily lost in the rugged grandeur of the vast piles, whose sides, covered with dense forests, look in the distance like a green network of garden shrubbery. '9 On we have gone and higher we have climbed until now we are approaching the only apparent entrance through this range of mountains that nature provided for railroads and modern civiliza- tion. A colossal tooth has bitten a piece out of the mountain and encroaching man has usurped the cavity and called it Crawford Notch, while the Maine Central finds it the means of railroad con- nection between Boston and Portland of the States and Montreal and Quebec of the Dominion. The railroad skirts the mountain range on one side of a deep gorge, the road bed being built on a shelving rock, blasted and leveled on the mountain side, with here and there a span of trestle-work that apparently suspends us between heaven and earth. Across the valley tower the mountains that are the commencement — the foot hills so to speak — of the famous Presidential Range. Now everything is tense with the excitement of the moment. Our train winds around curves while an occasional whistle or slowing up marks the im- portance of our undertaking. Ahead of our own gigantic steed there runs a funny little engine— all ' But on and up where nature's heart, Beats strong among the hills." alone, to pilot the way and inform us if any new dangers in the shape of a falling rock or loosening earth have set a trap since the last trip. On it runs, disappearing for a moment around a ledge of rock, then a halt and whistle, to signal us that the way is clear, as though saying. "Come on ! All's well ! 'Tis I who will guide you in safety through the mountain pass and into the land beyond where God reigns and man wonders." c/lugust How can I draw an adequate word c^neteenth picture of the location of "The Mt. Washington " that has proffered to me its hospitality for one week ? Imagine a colossal circular theatre, whose par- quette floor is six miles across (and does not seem three as distances are deceptive here), carpeted in glossy green grass, through which winds in and out the Ammonoosuc River. Whose amphitheatre seats are towering tree-covered mountains making a complete enclosure. Whose roof is the vast dome of heaven. Whose decorations thereon are the ever changing clouds, painted by the hand of Omnipo- tence, and you have some faint idea of its propor- tions. Then imagine for a stage, a plateau set up from the valley against one of these mountains, and you have the location of the Mt. Washington Hotel, newly opened, and the wonder of the world as a summer hotel. It is not likely that it has an equal anywhere in point of magnificence. When one views the scope of its conception, in- volving an expenditure of three millions, all for the luxurious comfort of a possible four months of summer hegira, it would seem as though philan- thropy and love for mankind, rather than visions of dividends, prompted the builder to such enormous expenditure. Let those who know him judge which impulse prompted the man, who is Jos. Stickney of New York, a coal magnate reputed to be worth thirty-five millions. I shall not, however, vex me with speculations on the " whys and wherefores " of hostelry making. I am here for one week of solid comfort and solitary enjoyment, the spectator of other's pleasures in and about the hotel, while mine shall be found in the fastnesses of the woods "whereof man knoweth not." Shut away from the world, in lieu of news- papers, I shall attempt to read the messages which nature vouchsafes to mankind in the trees, flowers, the hills and rocks, the mosses and ferns and mountain streams. I shall hope to catch the note of gladness from the throat of the forest birds and transfer it to my own soul ; to see the sturdy growths of stately pines, and grow with them ; to look upon the ever- lasting hills and receive strength therefrom. Thus to emerge with kindlier feeling for my neighbor, with less of the vindictive and more of the gentle in my nature, with a resolution to do my duty in whatever path it lies and with greater faith in God Almighty. 23 (A Picture ni The sun has gone behind the moun- Sunsei tains and with characteristic sud- denness a chill creeps through the air. High over the valleys, higher even than some of the clouds, there has been soaring a huge solitary bird whose occasional balancing of wings has caught and reflected the sun's rays from its glossy plumage. Now it circles about several times as though saying an adieu to the earth below, and directs its course toward yonder mountain peak whose frown- ing crest catches the reflection from the sunset clouds, while its slopes are already in the grey shadows of evening. At such an hour the heart too takes flight for home — if any home it have. Home ! what a matchless thrall hovers over that word. But let me not dwell on this, except to say that there is probably no other word in the lan- guages of all nations over which have been shed so many bitter tears. At this elevation the world lives while the sun shines. The chill of night drives people to the wel- come warmth and cheerful blaze of the birch logs that snap and crackle on the hearths of the huge open fire places. 24 Though a glorious moon and myriads of stars have done their best to allure us into the night, the charm seems only momentary, as back to our fires we go. Thus am I reminded of the words which have had numerous settings in song. " The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one, Yet the light of the whole world dies With the setting sun." And though irrelevant to the word picture, I cannot resist the temptation to repeat the companion verse for the sake of its exquisite thought and subtle expression. " The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one. Yet the Hght of a whole life dies. When love is done." ' Only let me sit The grey remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly. How I could paint were I '' — 25 To A Mysterious, immutable, awful ! SMoaniain Thou standest in all the grandeur and glory that made thee as thou art when He spake, and thou reared thy crest toward the skies to be, through countless ages, a silent, awe-inspiring specimen of His handwork. What carest thou for the sorrow and tears, the joy and laughter, the strife and vexations that fill the world which is thy footstool ? Thou mayest see all that passeth beneath thee, but thou makest no sign. Or, is thy mantle of snow which melts and feeds the streams of our valleys, after all, tears on thy cheek, cold, until touched by the sun — which is Him — causing them to flow freely to the earth below that we may drink and live — and know ? Thou art ever in touch and sympathy with the Divine Plan. Thy brow reflects the first beam of the morning sun and thou'rt the last to bid it good- night, ere it fades to mark the passing of another day. Now comes the moon, cold and pale, and verily, thou art mysterious, forbidding, terrible — and yet njost wonderful as the secrets of the night are exchanged. 26 What tales do the clouds whisper to thee as they drift past thine ear, rising on the wings of the wind from the world below ? And dost thou welcome the coming of thy news- bearer ? Alas ! we are given no chance to see as thou hidest thy face in the bosom of thy messenger while thou hearest the story. The lightnings from heaven play round thy brow, yet thou heedest them not more than we the flash of a fire-fly in the dusk of evening. So old art thou that mighty forests have covered thy sides which thou carest not for except that the winds use them as harp-strings to make night music for thee in thy silent musing over dark and terrible secrets. Man has thought to penetrate thy knowledge, to look more closely upon thy face, to read what thou knowest, and so has builded steps up thy mighty frame, but only to meet defeat. Thy lips are tightly set, thine eyes betoken no friendly sign, thy brow is cold and damp as the hand of death. He shudders as he turns from thee to re- trace his steps. We may wish, but we may not hope to know ' ' Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee." thy secrets. We may silence, but we cannot Truly thou art the work of Omnipotence, lips secrets which thou well-appointed time, look and wonder — and 27 gaze on thee in worshipful penetrate thy fastness, everlasting, never-changing who hath sealed within thy mayhap will tell to us in His It is only given us now to worship. 28 Her Letter ' ' The faint sweet f ragfrance of a cigarette. The cold grey ashes, not yet cast away — And this is all he left behind to show That he was with us only yesterday. Ah no ! not all — for he has left beside, The echo of sweet melody and song — The thought — he is our very friend indeed. The mem'ry of a hand-clasp warm and strong. 29 The Ans