Waumbek, July 19 (That's Sunday), 1863.
Dear Creesh, —
Muchly refreshed was I by your letter this morning, — especially at last to
hear something about the Brookline draft. The papers are rigorously silent
thereupon. Dan Dwight! Curious that family should be so heavily drawn upon. . .
.
But let us leave these scenes, as I did yestermorn, and, my
sister, fly with me down the road to Stillins's, through the woods and out on
the New Gorham Road, take your right turn, about two miles, till you come on to
the Cherry Mountain Road, and so home across the meadows and up the hill. About
nine miles in all, and took all the morning, stopping to sketch and eat
raspberries. For if you should wish a short description of the wood-road
by Stillins's, I could give it to you in one word — viz.: Raspberries. They
are just this minute ripe; the strawberries being just this minute gone, but
the Rasps are even more tempting, being less breakback to cull, and such a
flavour! The sun kept coming out, and it kept raining; the more it shone, the
more it rained, — but by the time I came home it was hot and sultry, and sunny,
and dried up my drabbled skirts for the second or third time on the excursion.
Such a wood-road, narrow cart-path, grassy, and hung with raspberry bushes.
Israel's River rushing and tumbling alongside, brawling over the stones, — the
ground carpeted with Linnaea—(just done blossoming), — little Oxalis, Pyrola,
and all matter of moss and greenness, everything dripping with recent showers,
and so sweet-smelling. Then when you get out on the meadows, great yellow
lilies nod their heads, quantities of Orchio, Rue, and Lysimachia, — a lovely
broad meadow, with the river through it and its pretty bridge, belted with
woods, and crowned by Cherry Mountain.
In the afternoon, my legs aching a little, I snoozed and
dressed lazily, arranged my flowers in a big glass pitcher which dear Ma
Plaisted provided me and Margy with, and carried 'em into the parlour, where
they were, as usual, much admired by “our little circle.” After tea it was so
beautiful on the piazza everybody congregated there for a long time; we wound
up with Psalmody in the parlour. You will be surprised to learn that Mrs.
Thompson and I are the Choir. She has a very sweet voice, and plays readily. We
have no books, but between us have thought of all the old things you ever
conceived of; and draw tears (?) from the eyes of the audience with “Oft in the
stilly,” “Ave Sanctissima,” etc. Mr. Frothingham (middle-aged gent, here with
wife, I don't know what sort) joined last night, and we had some very good
Brattle Street, etc. — everybody being thunder-struck at last to find it was
nearly eleven o'clock! . . . Love to all,
Yrs.,
SUSE.
SOURCE: Caroline P. Atkinson, Letters Of Susan Hale, p. 14-15
