APRIL 28, 1936
CONCORD, N.H.—Here we are at St. Paul's School in Concord, New Hampshire. Arriving at three thirty, we went first to a garage on the edge of town to fill up with gas, oil and water so as to be ready to start out bright and early tomorrow morning. There we found that we had passed the school, and so we retraced our steps.
I have never seen St. Paul's School. My father came here for one year and then he was taken ill and sent off to Texas. My cousins, the Douglas Robinsons all came here and since then my nephews, Henry and Daniel Roosevelt have been here. Danny is President of the Sixth Form this year, and so he and Dr. Drury invited me to come up. It is a far larger school than Groton, where my own boys went, and therefore different I was shown some lovely buildings, including the Chapel this afternoon and walked along the lake on which the Lower School was rowing and two stately swans were preening themselves. The grounds and the trees and so much water make the place most attractive, and because the buildings are widely scattered, you are not really as conscious of a great many boys around you as at Groton.
We had a beautiful drive over from Albany where we spent last night and only one difficulty which took us somewhat out of our way. We found that the bridge on Route 9 between Brattleboro and Keene was down so we had to go back to Brattleboro and take a detour which took us some ten or twelve miles out of the way. We saw considerable flood damage still being repaired, but the scenery all the way was beautiful, much of the road wound through the hills or through woods and along brooks and rivers and small lakes. We found a place where two brooks met to eat our lunch in the warm spring sunshine.
There are places, however, in these mountains which remind me a little of parts of the Adirondacks in New York State. The houses and fields look so poor that you wonder what kind of lives the people live in those bleak little homes. We came through Hillsboro which always makes me think of Dorothy Canfield Fisher's "Hillsboro People" but the mountain farms made me think of Edith Wharton's "Ethan Frome."