14000 MILES 



were safely over the mountains, and soon were with our 

 friends. 



Our week in the cosy town of Benson, surrounded by 

 high hills, must be left to your imagination. We will 

 only tell you of a visit to Lake George. A party of fifty, 

 we started at six o'clock one morning, in all sorts of 

 vehicles. Four miles' jolting up and down steep hills 

 took us to Benson Landing, Lake Champlain, and in 

 course of time (a dozen people in a heavy two-horse 

 wagon, and two other vehicles on a scow, towed by two 

 men in a rowboat, is by no means rapid transit,) the 

 several detachments of our party were safely landed on 

 the opposite side. And then, what a ride ! We never 

 dreamed that the narrow strip of land between Lake 

 Champlain and Lake George, only four miles across, 

 could give us so much pleasure. At first we held our 

 breath, but soon learned that the driver and horses were 

 quite at home, and gave our fears to the winds as they 

 galloped up hills almost perpendicular only to trot down 

 again to the sound of the grating brakes, the wheels 

 going over great rocks on one side one minute and 

 down in a deep rut on the other side the next. We 

 many times congratulated ourselves that we joined the 

 party in the big wagon, instead of driving our good 

 Charlie, as first planned. The steepest pitch of all 

 brought us at last to the shore of the beautiful Lake 

 George, at a point about ten miles south of Ticonderoga, 

 where the boat was to meet us by special arrangement. 



Only those who have experienced it can realize what 

 we enjoyed on that bright day, as we glided over the 



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