To revert a moment from hard facts to my creative imagination, in its proper limits, that old house must have been very charming when new, with its view from its knoll by the road south over the flooded marshes or the winding river, with Wellington and its old house and one or two other houses lying to the east; behind, the ploughed land and the wood lots, and westward the little settlement of Medford. Undoubtedly there was work in the clay pits close by the house, and a subdued hammering of early boat-builders off and on along the river's brim. Doubtless there was a giant woodpile in the back yard, and the ten sons had labor enough at home to keep them from lounging on the street corners. If Peter Tufts wished to go into Boston, he went along the road to Medford square, for the other end of the road to Blanchard's (Wellington) ended with the gate to that estate, which lay at that time in Malden; he then crossed the Cradock bridge and went along Main street. If he intended to ferry across at Charlestown, he went the main route to Charlestown. If, however, he wished to drive a load into town, he must turn through Harvard street, pass through Powderhouse square, go to Cambridge, over past the present stadium, into West Roxbury, and then over the neck into Boston. Probably, under the circumstances, Peter and his wife felt that home-keeping hearts were the best and that the place for children was in the home. There were fish to catch in plenty in the spring, wild duck, turkeys and geese in
