So long New Hampshire (and Vermont and Maine) ...

So long New Hampshire (and Vermont and Maine), it's been a fun week or so. Here's a little farewell from Robert Frost:

She's one of the two best states in the Union.
Vermont's the other. And the two have been
Yokefellows in the sap yoke from of old
In many Marches. And they lie like wedges,
Thick end to thin end and thin end to thick end,
And are a figure of the way the strong
Of mind and strong of arm should fit together,
One thick where one is thin and vice versa.
- From "New Hampshire" by Robert Frost (from the classic 1923 collection, New Hampshire)

Who knew there was a Disneyland for ice cream? Ben & Jerry's Factory, Waterbury, VT

Good morning Mt Sunapee

What a spirit of adventure, what wild ambition! Sarah Orne Jewett form A White Heron

"A White Heron" from A White Heron and Other Stories by Sarah Orne Jewett

What a spirit of adventure, what wild ambition! What fancied triumph and delight and glory for the later morning when she could make known the secret! It was almost too real and too great for the childish heart to bear.



He can make them rich with money; he has promised it, and they are poor now. He is so well worth making happy, and he waits to hear the story she can tell. No, she must keep silence! What is it that suddenly forbids her and makes her dumb? Has she been nine years growing and now, when the great world for the first time puts out a hand to her, must she thrust it aside for a bird’s sake? The murmur of the pine’s green branches is in her ears, she remembers how the white heron came flying through the golden air and how they watched the sea and the morning together, and Sylvia cannot speak; she cannot tell the heron’s secret and give its life away.



I'd read Jewett's Country of the Pointed Firs (often considered her best work) a number of years ago. A significant figure in American regionalist literature, she lived and worked in Maine, just across the water from Portsmouth, NH where I'm spending some summer vacation.

Sarah Orne Jewett (September 3, 1849 – June 24, 1909) was an American novelist, short story writer and poet, best known for her local color works set along or near the southern seacoast of Maine. (Wikipedia)

Photos on this page from the Sarah Orne Jewett Historic Site, South Berwick, Maine

... on the lonely coast of Maine stood a small gray house facing the morning light. - Sarah Orne Jewett, "By the Morning Boat"

Selections from two stories in Strangers and Wayfarers by Sarah Orne Jewett

THE QUEST OF MR. TEABY
In such weather I found even the East Wilby railroad station attractive, and waiting three hours for a slow train became a pleasure; the delight of idleness and even booklessness cannot be properly described.

BY THE MORNING BOAT.
On the coast of Maine, where many green islands and salt inlets fringe the deep-cut shore line; where balsam firs and bayberry bushes send their fragrance far seaward, and song-sparrows sing all day, and the tide runs plashing in and out among the weedy ledges; where cowbells tinkle on the hills and herons stand in the shady coves,—on the lonely coast of Maine stood a small gray house facing the morning light. All the weather-beaten houses of that region face the sea apprehensively, like the women who live in them.

 * * * * * 

(Pictures above are from the Sarah Orne Jewett Historic Site, South Berwick, Maine)

I'd read Jewett's Country of the Pointed Firs (often considered her best work) a number of years ago. A significant figure in American regionalist literature, she lived and worked in Maine, just across the water from Portsmouth, NH where I'm spending some summer vacation.

Sarah Orne Jewett (September 3, 1849 – June 24, 1909) was an American novelist, short story writer and poet, best known for her local color works set along or near the southern seacoast of Maine. (Wikipedia)

To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek, / To catch the sound of dusky flapping sail - Celia Thaxter

To feel the wind, sea-scented, on my cheek,
To catch the sound of dusky flapping sail
And dip of oars, and voices on the gale
Afar off, calling low, -- my name they speak!

O Earth! Thy summer song of joy may soar
Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave
The sad, caressing murmur of the wave
That breaks in tender music on the shore.
-- From "Land-Locked"

Celia Laighton Thaxter (June 29, 1835 – August 25, 1894) was an American writer of poetry and stories born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Thaxter grew up in the Isles of Shoals, first on White Island, where her father, Thomas Laighton, was a lighthouse keeper, and then on Smuttynose and Appledore Islands. (Wikipedia)

Across the lonely beach we flit, / One little sandpiper and I - Celia Thaxter

Across the lonely beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I,
And fast I gather, but by bit,
The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I.
- From "The Sandpiper"

(NOTE: the bird at the right is not a sandpiper)

Celia Laighton Thaxter (June 29, 1835 – August 25, 1894) was an American writer of poetry and stories born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Thaxter grew up in the Isles of Shoals, first on White Island, where her father, Thomas Laighton, was a lighthouse keeper, and then on Smuttynose and Appledore Islands. (Wikipedia)

Sweet sounds on rocky shores the distant rote; / O could we float forever, little boat, / Under the blissful sky drifting alone! - C Thaxter

"Off Shore"

Rock, little boat, beneath the quiet sky,
Only the stars behold us where we lie, -
Only the stars and yonder brightening moon



On the wide sea to-night alone are we;
The sweet, bright summer day dies silently,
Its glowing sunset will have faded soon.

Rock softly, little boat, the while I mark
The far off gliding sails, distinct and dark,
Across the west pass steadily and slow.

But on the eastern waters sad, they change
And vanish, dream-like, gray, and cold, and strange
And no one knoweth whither they may go.

We care not, we, drifting with wind and tide,
While glad waves darken upon either side,
Save where the moon sends silver sparkles down

And yonder slender stream of changing light,
Now white, now crimson, tremulously bright,
Where dark the lighthouse stands, with fiery crown.

Thick falls the dew, soundless on sea and shore:
It shines on little boat and idle oar,
Wherever moonbeams touch with tranquil glow.

The waves are full of whispers wild and sweet;
They call to me, - incessantly they beat
Along the boat from stern to curvéd prow

Comes the careering wind, blows back my hair,
All damp with dew, to kiss me unaware,
Murmuring "Thee I love," and passes on.

Sweet sounds on rocky shores the distant rote;
O could we float forever, little boat,
Under the blissful sky drifting alone!
-- "Off Shore"

Celia Laighton Thaxter (June 29, 1835 – August 25, 1894) was an American writer of poetry and stories born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Thaxter grew up in the Isles of Shoals, first on White Island, where her father, Thomas Laighton, was a lighthouse keeper, and then on Smuttynose and Appledore Islands. (Wikipedia)

Sarah Orne Jewett's "On Star Island" ... and being on Star Island (Isles of Shoals)

I'd read Jewett's Country of the Pointed Firs (often considered her best work) a number of years ago. A significant figure in American regionalist literature, she lived and worked in Maine, just across the water from Portsmouth, NH where I'm spending some summer vacation.



Sarah Orne Jewett (September 3, 1849 – June 24, 1909) was an American novelist, short story writer and poet, best known for her local color works set along or near the southern seacoast of Maine. (Wikipedia).

I took a short day trip out to Star Island and Jewett pretty much captured the experience, from the little chapel, the little graveyard, the clusters of people on holiday,

Here's Jewett's poem, "On Star Island":

 High on the lichened ledges, like
    A lonely sea-fowl on its perch,
Blown by the cold sea winds, it stands,
    Old Gosport's quaint, forsaken church.

No sign is left of all the town
    Except a few forgotten graves;
But to and fro the white sails go
    Slowly across the glittering waves.



And summer idlers stray about
    With curious questions of the lost
And vanished village, and its men,
    Whose boats by these same waves were tossed.

I wonder if the old church dreams
    About its parish, and the days
The fisher people came to hear
    The preaching and the songs of praise!

Rough-handed, browned by sun and wind,
    Heedless of fashion or of creed,
They listened to the parson's words --
    Their pilot heavenward indeed.



Their eyes on week-days sought the church,
    Their surest landmark, and the guide
That led them in from far at sea,
    Until they anchored safe beside

The harbor-wall that braved the storm
    With its resistless strength of stone.
Those busy fishers all are gone --
    The church is standing here alone.

But still I hear their voices strange,
    And still I see the people go
Over the ledges to their homes:
    The bent old women's footsteps slow;

The faithful parson stop to give
    Some timely word to one astray;
The little children hurrying on
    Together, chattering of their play.

I know the blue sea covered some,
    And others in the rocky ground
Found narrow lodgings for their bones --
    God grant their rest is sweet and sound!

I saw the worn rope idle hang
    Beside me in the belfry brown.
I gave the bell a solemn toll --
    I rang the knell for Gosport town.

Heading into the open Atlantic ... To the Isles of Shoals

"Certainly there is no nobler field for human effort than the insurance line of business — especially accident insurance." - Mark Twain #QotD

SPEECH ON ACCIDENT INSURANCE
DELIVERED IN HARTFORD, AT A DINNER TO CORNELIUS WALFORD, OF LONDON

GENTLEMEN: I am glad, indeed, to assist in welcoming the distinguished guest of this occasion to a city whose fame as an insurance center has extended to all lands, and given us the name of being a quadruple band of brothers working sweetly hand in hand — the Colt’s Arms Company making the destruction of our race easy and convenient, our life insurance citizens paying for the victims when they pass away, Mr. Batterson perpetuating their memory with his stately monuments, and our fire-insurance comrades taking care of their hereafter. I am glad to assist in welcoming our guest — first, because he is an Englishman, and I owe a heavy debt of hospitality to certain of his fellow-countrymen; and secondly, because he is in sympathy with insurance and has been the means of making many other men cast their sympathies in the same direction.

Certainly there is no nobler field for human effort than the insurance line of business — especially accident insurance. Ever since I have been a director in an accident-insurance company I have felt that I am a better man. Life has seemed more precious. Accidents have assumed a kindlier aspect. Distressing special providences have lost half their horror. I look upon a cripple now with affectionate interest — as an advertisement. I do not seem to care for poetry any more. I do not care for politics — even agriculture does not excite me. But to me now there is a charm about a railway collision that is unspeakable.

 There is nothing more beneficent than accident insurance. I have seen an entire family lifted out of poverty and into affluence by the simple boon of a broken leg. I have had people come to me on crutches, with tears in their eyes, to bless this beneficent institution. In all my experience of life, I have seen nothing so seraphic as the look that comes into a freshly mutilated man’s face when he feels in his vest pocket with his remaining hand and finds his accident ticket all right. And I have seen nothing so sad as the look that came into another splintered customer’s face when he found he couldn’t collect on a wooden leg.

I will remark here, by way of advertisement, that that noble charity which we have named the HARTFORD ACCIDENT INSURANCE COMPANY — [The speaker is a director of the company named.] — is an institution which is peculiarly to be depended upon. A man is bound to prosper who gives it his custom.

No man can take out a policy in it and not get crippled before the year is out. Now there was one indigent man who had been disappointed so often with other companies that he had grown disheartened, his appetite left him, he ceased to smile — life was but a weariness. Three weeks ago I got him to insure with us, and now he is the brightest, happiest spirit in this land — has a good steady income and a stylish suit of new bandages every day, and travels around on a shutter.

I will say, in conclusion, that my share of the welcome to our guest is none the less hearty because I talk so much nonsense, and I know that I can say the same for the rest of the speakers.

From The Complete Works of Mark Twain: The Novels, short stories, essays and satires, travel writing, non-fiction, the complete letters, the complete speeches, and the autobiography of Mark Twain (Kindle Locations 46565-46568).

"I have to spend August and September in Hartford which isn’t San Francisco." - Mark Twain #QotD

Letter to: Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

Feb. 6, 1868. MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,
I have to spend August and September in Hartford which isn’t San Francisco. Mr. Conness offers me any choice out of five influential California offices. Now, some day or other I shall want an office and then, just my luck, I can’t get it, I suppose. They want to send me abroad, as a Consul or a Minister. I said I didn’t want any of the pie. God knows I am mean enough and lazy enough, now, without being a foreign consul.

In The Complete Works of Mark Twain: The Novels, short stories, essays and satires, travel writing, non-fiction, the complete letters, the complete speeches, and the autobiography of Mark Twain (Kindle Locations 122448-122452).

"Susy died in the house we built in Hartford ... to me it was a holy place and beautiful." Mark Twain #QotD

From "The Death of Jean"

Susy died in the house we built in Hartford. Mrs. Clemens would never enter it again. But it made the house dearer to me. I have entered it once since, when it was tenantless and silent and forlorn, but to me it was a holy place and beautiful. It seemed to me that the spirits of the dead were all about me, and would speak to me and welcome me if they could: Livy, and Susy, and George, and Henry Robinson, and Charles Dudley Warner. How good and kind they were, and how lovable their lives! In fancy I could see them all again, I could call the children back and hear them romp again with George — that peerless black ex-slave and children’s idol who came one day — a flitting stranger — to wash windows, and stayed eighteen years. Until he died. Clara and Jean would never enter again the New York hotel which their mother had frequented in earlier days. They could not bear it. But I shall stay in this house. It is dearer to me tonight than ever it was before. Jean’s spirit will make it beautiful for me always. Her lonely and tragic death — but I will not think of that now.

In The Complete Works of Mark Twain: The Novels, short stories, essays and satires, travel writing, non-fiction, the complete letters, the complete speeches, and the autobiography of Mark Twain (Kindle Locations 72630-72638).

"At the time of the building of one of the finest residences of Hartford ..." Mark Twain #QotD

"Mental Telegraphy"

At the time of the building of one of the finest residences of Hartford, which is still a very new house, a local firm supplied the wallpaper for certain rooms, contracting both to furnish and to put on the paper. It happened that they did not calculate the size of one room exactly right, and the paper of the design selected for it fell short just half a roll. They asked for delay enough to send on to the manufacturers for what was needed, and were told that there was no especial hurry. It happened that the manufacturers had none on hand, and had destroyed the blocks from which it was printed. They wrote that they had a full list of the dealers to whom they had sold that paper, and that they would write to each of these and get from some of them a roll. It might involve a delay of a couple of weeks, but they would surely get it.

From The Complete Works of Mark Twain: The Novels, short stories, essays and satires, travel writing, non-fiction, the complete letters, the complete speeches, and the autobiography of Mark Twain (Kindle Locations 54023-54028).

Good morning to the Connecticut State Capitol

Maple cone at the North Hadley Sugar Shack

Hello Northfield, Mass.

So long Dexter's Inn, Sunapee, NH

Stop! Be prepared! Ask yourself these questions...

Suitable for all occasions...