The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1881-08-05
Summer Rambles.
From Portland to Waterford By Way of
the Songo.
WATERF ORD. Maine. Aupust 1 1881

WATERF ORD, Maine, August /, 1881.
To the Editor of the Press:
The enthusiastic traveller abroad, who is
young and not deeply versed in journalism,
fnds when he sends his first newspaper letter
home that the descriptions he essays are given
far more accurately and in detail in the guide
books OF the day. Does he sketch Westmin-
ster Abbey, ten to one he discovers that he is
at faults in hisihistorical statements; day in
the Louvre? his spirited treatment of the stat
uary and pain tings is marred by the reflection
that it is all far better catalogued in the PAM
phlet he holds in his hand And he learns
eventually to record simply his own impres.
sions-a mere chit chat of traveland hold his
peace concerning facts, trusting to the notion
that here and there a sympathetic reader will
find a transient pleasure in dwelling with the
writer on 'trifles light as air." Why not?
We have had enough to exhaust us in the har-
rowing news from Washington. Our summer
was far on its way to maturity before the va
cation longing seized its soul this season. and it
is quite time now to break through the solid
cares of the year and idle little by land or
water.
For locality refer you to small pink, no,
magenta, paper, folded in eight page form,
which gives you trip from Portland to Seba-
go, by the Songo river to North Bridgton, to
Waterford. Not Gradgrind account either.
This pink paper grow eloquent, quotes Whit
tier and Longfellow, mentions historical asso-
Citations and paints views from mountain tops.
Peruse this and you are in possession of the
geography of the region, and then we will be-
gin our iaunt.
The steamer "Sebago" puffs through waters
clear as glass; towards purple hills and gray
mountain tips, by distant green slopes of mead
ow and upland till you realize you are out of
doors, away from brick walls and paved streets,
near heaven and earth as it was originally GRE
ated. This last phrase must be offered with
willingness to modify i necessary according to
the last dictates of geology or the revised edi-
tion of the New Testament
have found my compagnon de yoyage at
last-a little English pug, six weeks old, as
happy as if he were not going out of fashion to
give way to the a la mode Colley or terrier.
Rescuing him, with his masters permission,
from aslat-covered box, snuggle him content
edly in my lap while ON account of the heat, he
gives additional loll to his rosy tip Of a tongue
and surrenders his SOFT cream-colored hide to
the delights Of being stroked. "B'longs to the
Africans" says an austere old lady, 81 guess"
"Pity his nose wasn't white-queer looking
thing!" In answer to the eulogy 1 offer
thereupon she observes, "I wouldn't give twen-
ty-five cents for him." satisfy myself by re-
marking, "You could not buy him for less than
twenty-five doll ars," and pat anew the uncon-
sciously snubbed puppy. Learning that his
master is taking him home to his sister, pro-
pose he should name the small canine "Puck-
er" and call him "Puck" for short, and obtain
the assurance that the suggestion shall be
made.
AT five thirty p M. we reach North Bridg-
ton and drive Of six miles through woods
brings US to Waterford-the Fet and to the
Waterford House that most comfortable,
home-like and pleasant of hotels. In the vii
lage streets sweet old fashioned damask roses
have pushed beyond the limits of the gardens
and bloomed by the roadside in the liberal
unstinted manner of country New England,
and one may gather for the asking, buds that
would rival their aristocratic Jacqueminot rel
atives. And in front of the house, yellow birds
with black wings why fifteen or twenty, hover
ing about at one time, so vividly orange, you
think of bits of sun, spots and all, scattered in
some mysterious way into tree tops. In the
woods twin flower and partridge berry, ferns,
star-fower and running vines-ah, this is out
OF doors and from Papoose pond to the North,
water lilies as moist and delicate and perfume
giving az any blossoms in the world |
Thomas pond for rowing and sailing,
Bear pond lake for its shore drive and M.
Tire'm for climb to its summit. At the top
of Bear Mountain is vertical wall of granite
through which runs wonderfully defined
gorge or fiume, containing no water however.
Mingled with the granite is a m ore porous
mineral which seems to wear away by the ac-
tion OF air and water; leaving great crack or
trap dixie as it is technically termed. Down
the side of the hill large boulders lie scattered
among white birch, beech, poplar and ash
veritable White Mountain scenery-to the
road where, on the right Bear pond stretches
its calm surface. There must of course in a
drive around this lake be a lovers lane and in
this case the hill is none too sentimental for
the low-arched boughs-the hooks where the
light only glints through near the base of the
trees and at intervals strikes the ground COW
cred with resinous, pine needles makes a
charming picture indeed.
So the days pass-one twelve hours it is off
among the Albany hills for trout, another ang-
ling on the lake for perch, and with our party,
the young lady who resolutely thrusts a hook
through wringgling worms and with firm
hand grasps and removes from the cold steel
the spiney Tapping fish receives the laurels.
There is but one pair of looms on Tom pond
and they have merited their reputation for
light-headedness by building their nest for
several Summers at the same spot so our
boys come back triumphant from an after
noons exploring tour, with TWO looms eggs.
These are blown with care, and treasured as
of great value for they are difficult to obtain
and people are glad to buy them when en-
gagged in making collection of eggs. The poor
birds cry dismally at night with more than
their usual mournfulness, and we try to con-
vince our little plunderers that they have been
cruel. They listen with an appreciative ex-
preston of solemnity which one glance at the
eggs dispels like dew before the sun.
In New England country town time is not
so valuable as in the large cities. Life may
be discussed in detail. AS sit at my window
conversation floats up to me-
Old Lady-"What started that pump?'
Farmer Giving next door)-"I did,
Old Lady-"No, what started it?"
Farmer-"I did myself, tell yer. I've just
been out here pumping"
Old Lady-"No, 1 mean what started it"
Farmer-"O, yes,-well-I poured water
down her."
Old Lady-"How much water'd yer pour
down?"- no answer. "How mach water'd yer
pour down?''-no answer, and the old lady
goes placidly into the house, in perfectly good
temper, but sorry not to have got more ihfor-
nation.
Summer speeds by all too soon, teaching us,
as it does, the marvellous lessons of creation.
Emerson says: