IV
ON TO CHICAGO
I realize that I am giving a most unsatisfactory picture of the Eastern and Middle-West cities. Our time was limited, and space forbids my giving anything but a cursory glance, a snapshot view, of their size and beauty. And, then, most tourists visit these places and the reading public have an intimate knowledge of them.
We left Detroit, having been told at the Michigan Automobile Association that we should find excellent roads. As one prominent broker remarked, “You can drive the length of the state on macadamized roads.” Where were they? Surely not the way we went, the way described in the Blue Book. And let me state right here that we have never had much faith in that publication, and now what little we had is nihil! A few miles out of the city we struck a detour which lasted nearly to Ann Arbor. We had left at six o’clock, and when we reached the university city all places to dine were closed. We did not dine. We had pot-luck supper at a Greek restaurant, and started for Jackson to spend the night. Ann Arbor is a beautiful place, and the university buildings and fraternity houses are second to none of all we saw in other states. The road did not improve, and we arrived at Jackson very late and put up at the Otsego Hotel. It was crowded, and we were given the “sample rooms,” in which the traveling-men displayed their goods on long tables. We had comfortable beds and private baths, but you felt as if you were sleeping in a department store, with the counters covered with white cloths. Otherwise, the Otsego is a good hotel, and we were perfectly comfortable. By the time we were through breakfast, we asked to have a lunch put up, and were kindly but firmly told that it was nine-thirty, and the chef had gone home and locked up everything. We pleaded for some hot coffee and anything cooked that was left from breakfast. But no, not a sandwich nor a roll could we buy! We met this condition time after time. If we arrived at a hotel after eight o’clock in the evening, we were met with the same retort—“Chef gone and everything closed.” A dozen times and more we were obliged to go out and forage for supper—“due to the eight-hour law,” we were always told. As it was nearly ten o’clock, we trusted to luck to find a lunching-place en route. Fortune certainly favored us in the most unexpected way—not in our roads, which still were poor, but in the shape of two little girls on the wayside. As we were passing through a hamlet called Smithfield—before reaching Albion—we were attracted by two dainty girls with baskets of goodies waiting for us. Their names were Evelyn and Willetta Avery, and they proved to be fairy godmothers. Their mother owned the neighboring farm, and these children were spending their vacation in supplying lunches to passers-by. Everything was done up in fresh napkins and was real home cooking. This is what we bought from them: a quart of fresh blueberries (which Toodles, in her joy, promptly upset in the tonneau, and we walked on blueberries for days!), fresh cake, pie, honey, hard-boiled eggs, tongue sandwiches, hot bread and rolls, a pat of sweet butter, and oh! such home-made pickles, raspberry jam (a pint glass), and a bottle of ice-cold spring water, an abundance for four hungry grown-ups, and all for $2.10. We gave them both liberal tips and they smiled and waved us out of sight. That was a banner luncheon, and the best but one on the trip.
We stopped in the interesting city of Albion. The college was founded and endowed by General Fisk, of Civil War fame, whose only daughter, Mrs. P., is one of New York’s most beautiful and prominent women. That afternoon about four we came to Battle Creek, and as the Doctor’s eyes were troubling him, from the heat and dust, we drove to the sanatorium, where he could receive treatment. It is an immense place and beautifully kept up. We were sitting in the car outside, watching the crowds of patients with their friends, when a number of wagons, like popcorn wagons, came into view, pushed about by the white-robed attendants. The wagon itself and the four uprights were covered with white cloth and festooned with fresh vines and flowers. In the center, hidden from view, was an ice-cream freezer, and young girls in white, carrying flowers, were dispensing ice-cream cones at five cents each. It was as pretty a sight as I ever saw. The carts were wheeled through the grounds and everyone, sick or well, indulged. It was our first introduction to ice-cream cones, but we acquired the habit; and thereafter our afternoon tea consisted of ice cream, generally bought at a soda-water fountain in some small town along our road. It may be fattening, but it is nourishing and refreshing. Even in the tiny hamlets on the plains of Montana we found good, rich ice cream. It is certainly an American institution and a very palatable one.
We had come ninety miles over bad roads, and it was 160 miles to Chicago, so we decided to stop at Paw Paw for the night. We drove through the town and inquired which was the best hotel—our usual question—and were told that they had two, but the Dyckman House was first-class—a typical small country hotel, with little promise of comfort. We were shown into big, comfortable rooms with one private bath; but were told that “supper was over.” The manager was a typical small-town person of importance, but had a kindly eye, and looked amenable to persuasion. The others had given up hope; not so with me! Then and there I invented a “sob-story” that would have melted Plymouth Rock. It became our stock in trade, and many a supperless night we would have had without it. After praising up the town and his hotel, and saying that we had heard of its hospitality, and so forth; that we were strangers, and had come all the way from New York; that we were tired and hungry, and I really was not very well; and that the price was no consideration, etc., he walked out to the kitchen and caught the cook with her hat on ready to depart, gave his orders, and in twenty minutes we were doing full justice to a perfectly good supper. After we had finished, I went out into the summer kitchen and found a good-natured Irish woman, as round as she was pleasing, fanning herself. I gave her a dollar, thanked her for staying, and made a friend for life.
Even in Michigan our New York license attracted much attention. When we came out of a hotel or store, a crowd of people had invariably gathered about the car and were feeling the tires. The size seemed to astonish them. The fact that we had come from New York filled them with awe, and when, in fun, we said we were going to San Francisco, they were speechless! “Aw, gaw on!” or “By heck!” was all that they could exclaim.
Our last taste of Michigan roads was worse than the first. We went by the way of Benton Harbor, with sandy detours and uninteresting country, until we struck the strip of Indiana before coming into South Chicago. Our troubles were over for a long time. A breeze had come up from the lake, and we slept under blankets that night for the first time in two weeks. We were all familiar with Chicago, and we wished to stop out on the Lake Shore, if possible. We drove through the city, out on the North Shore Boulevard to the Edgewater Hotel, of which we had heard charming reports. A block below the hotel cars were parked by the dozens. It is built directly on the shore, with the most remarkable dining-room at the water’s edge, like the deck of an ocean liner, filled with palms, flowers, and smartly dressed people, many in evening clothes. The tables were all reserved, and so were the rooms, two weeks in advance—this was the pleasant news that awaited us! Could they take us in the next day? “No, possibly not for a week or more.” No “sob-story” to help us here! But the clerks were obliging and advised our going about ten miles farther out, to the North Shore Hotel in Evanston, which we found delightful in every way—very near the lake, quiet, furnished in exquisite taste, and good food at reasonable prices. But even here we found the eight-hour law in force; we could not get a bite after eight o’clock. We went to half a dozen restaurants—all closed! In desperation we went into what looked to be a candy store, and found they were closing up the café! They could serve nothing but ice cream and sodas. We asked to see the manager and told him our plight. He was an Eastern man, a long-lost brother. He said, “As you placed your order just before eight o’clock, of course we shall serve you.” It was quite nine by this time. He kept his face straight, and we tried to do the same. That dinner certainly did touch the spot! It was the “Martha Washington Café,” and certainly immortalized the gracious lady for all time for us. Later we went back to the Edgewater Hotel for our mail and to dine, and we were more charmed with it than before.
We had come 1028 miles from New York. Our car had to be thoroughly cleaned, oiled, and looked over; so we were without it for two days. The street-car strike was on in full force, not a surface car moving in the city. Consequently, we walked, rested, and saw but little of the city. It was quite ten years since any of us had been there; in that time Chicago had grown and been so improved that we hardly knew it. If Pittsburgh people are proud of their city, Chicagoans are the original “boosters.” Nature has done so much for its location. Its system of parks and boulevards is not equaled by any city. There is a natural, outspoken pride evinced by the people of the best class—not ashamed of a humble beginning, but glorying in the vast importance of the commercial and financial life. To quote from the folder of the Yellowstone Trail, which we picked up here and followed without any trouble to St. Paul, Minnesota, “Nothing need be said about Chicago. Chicago is the heart of America and speaks for herself.” Other cities may challenge this, but there is every evidence of its truth. In time, Chicago will give New York a good race; in fact, she is doing it now.
Our genial Doctor left us here, much to our regret. We went on, a select party of three.