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We got around in a sleigh or pung. All the
roads had good snow cover, even the Main Road, now the Boston Post Road.
Then came spring with its slush and mud, and we discarded runners
for wheels and lurched along our rough course to the village or
wherever else we happened to be going. As soon as the roads became dry
enough the town's horse-drawn scraper would fill in the ruts, and when,
a day or so later, the steam roller came puffing up the street to pack
down the scraped gravel, it was a good indication that spring had really
come and that summer would soon be on its way.
In summer we were visited by peddlers and hurdy-gurdies, and also
gypsies who camped a mile and a half up the street. They peddled baskets
and read palms and I was always a little afraid of
them. Once a week Foppiano's fruit wagon came past our driveway. You
always knew when he was coming because you could hear him calling out
his wares from a long way off, and as his decrepit old
horse, all skin and bones, shuffled along very slowly, there was ample
warning of his approach. He would stop at the end of our driveway
while we bought peanuts and any fruit the
cook happened to need. Russell's butcher cart, a wagon with an arched
white canvas top, came all the way from Wayland once or twice a week,
and as the horse stood patiently, swishing away the flies with its tail,
the butcher would lower the rear panel, select a
cut of meat, weigh it and trim it and throw the scraps aside for
our dogs. Mr. Russell had excellent meat, and after my father's
altercation with the Waltham market we traded with him almost
exclusively. Looking very much like Russell's
cart was Mr. Heard's fishwagon that came by every Thursday.
Then there were Mr. Foote's ice carts, painted a bright yellow, |
