14 MILES 



in the afternoon. He told us we should have to "ferry" 

 the Connecticut at Saybrook, but he "guessed our horse 

 wouldn't mind." Our old black Charlie was never hap- 

 pier than when crossing the Connecticut without any 

 effort on his part; but this Charlie has entirely different 

 ideas, and if we had known we could not cross by bridge 

 as we did at Hartford we should have deferred Old Lyme 

 until another time. But it was too late now, and we 

 would not mar our lovely afternoon drive by anticipating 

 trouble. Rivers have to be crossed ; and we philosophic- 

 ally concluded "Do not cross a bridge until you get to it" 

 is equally applicable to a ferry. Five miles lay between 

 us and the Connecticut River, and we gave ourselves up 

 to quiet enjoyment as if ferries were unknown, until we 

 reached Saybrook, when we had to inquire the way. A 

 few twists and turns brought us to the steep pitch which 

 led to the river, and at first sight of the old scow, with 

 big flapping sail, Charlie's ears told us what he thought 

 about it. With some coaxing he went down the pitch, 

 but at the foot were fishing nets hung up on a frame, and 

 he persistently refused to go farther. We were yet a 

 little distance from the shore, and the scow was still 

 farther away at the end of a sort of pier built out into the 

 river. We got out and tried to comfort Charlie, who was 

 already much frightened ; and yet this was nothing to 

 what was before him. What should we do? If it had not 

 been Sunday, there might have been other horses to 

 cross, and he will follow where he will not go alone. But 

 it was Sunday, and no one was in sight but the man and 

 boy on the scow, and a man sufficiently interested in us 

 to hang over a rail on the embankment above watching 



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