CHAPTER IX. 



BOSTON, WHITE MOUNTAINS AND VERMONT. — A SIX 

 HUNDRED MILE DRIVE. 



In self-defence we must tell you something of our 

 seventeenth annual "drive," for no one will believe we 

 could have had a good time, "on account of the weather ;" 

 and really it was one of our finest trips. We regret the 

 sympathy, and pity even, that was wasted on us, and 

 rejoice that now and then one declared, "Well, I will not 

 worry about them, for somehow they always do have a 

 good time, if it does rain." 



If two friends, with a comfortable phaeton and a good 

 horse, exploring the country at will, gladly welcomed and 

 served at hotels hungry for guests, with not a care 

 beyond writing to one's friends, and free to read to one's 

 heart's content, cannot have a good time, whatever the 

 weather may be, what hope is there for them? 



Why has no one ever written up the bright side of dull 

 weather? The sun gets all the glory, and yet the moment 

 he sends down his longed-for smiles, even after days of 

 rain, over go the people to the other side of the car, the 

 brakeman rushes to draw your shutter, the blinds in the 

 parlor are closed, and the winking, blinking travelers on 

 the highway sigh, "Oh, dear, that sun is blinding," and 

 look eagerly for a cloud. Then, if the sun does shine 

 many days without rain, just think of the discomfort and 

 the perpetual fretting. Clouds of dust choke you, every- 

 thing looks dry and worthless, the little brooks are mop- 



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