direct course.
The road from Pittsfield to Lenox is a famous drive, one of the
wonders of that little world. It is not bad, neither is it good.
Compared with the superb State road over the mountain, it is a
trail over a prairie. As a matter of fact, it is just a broad,
graded, and somewhat improved highway, too rough for fast speed
and comfort, and on the Saturday morning in question dust was
inches deep.
The day was fine, the country beautiful; hills everywhere, hills
so high they were almost mountains. The dust of summer was on the
foliage, a few late blossoms lingered by the roadside, but for the
most part flowers had turned to seeds, and seeds were ready to
fall. The fields were in stubble, hay in the mow and straw in the
stack. The green of the hills was deeper in hue, the valleys were
ripe for autumn.
People were flocking to the Berkshires from seashore and
mountains; the "season" was about to begin in earnest; hotels were
filled or rapidly filling, and Lenox--dear, peaceful little
village in one of nature's fairest hollows--was most enticing as
we passed slowly through, stopping once or twice to make sure of
our very uncertain way.
The slowest automobile is too fast for so delightful a spot as
Lenox. One should amble through on a palfrey, or walk, or, better
still, pass not through at all, but tarry and dream the days away
until the last leaves are off the trees. But the habit of the
automobile is infectious, one goes on and on in spite of all
attractions, the appeals of nature, the protests of friends.
Ulysses should have whizzed by the Sirens in an auto. The
Wandering Jew, if still on his rounds, should buy a machine; it
will fit his case to a nicety; his punishment will become a habit;
he will join an automobile club, go on an endurance contest, and,
in the brief moments allowed him for rest and oiling up, will swap
stories with the boys.
With a sigh of relief, one finishes a long day's run, thinking it
will suffice for many a day to come; the evening is scarce over
before elfin suggestions of possible rides for the morrow are
floating about in the air, and when morning comes the automobile
is taken out,--very much as the toper who has sworn off the night
before takes his morning dram,--it just can't be helped.
Our way lay over October Mountain by a road not much frequented.
In the morning's ride we did not meet a trap of any kind or a
rider,--something quite unusual in that country of riders and
Here's a piece of wisdom on driving or cute car quote to study:
Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car. ~E.B. White, One Man's Meat, 1943
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