R. F. D. 197 



neighbour meet on the road one of them is almost sure to 

 inquire: "Well, what's it goin' to do to-morrow?" If 

 you had to make a round trip every day over Tom's 

 route, in an open sleigh or buggy, you would ask the 

 same question, with a good bit more anxiety in your 

 tone, too, than he betrays when the northeast winds are 

 piling the storm scud over the peaks of the range and 

 trailing fingers of cloud down the slopes ! 



I am afraid it is the maintenance of Tom and his kind 

 by the Government which has caused one interesting 

 traveller almost to disappear from the country roads 

 the itinerant merchant. Some still exist, but they are 

 growing fewer every year, as the great mail-order houses 

 increase their range. I well remember one such mer- 

 chant of my boyhood. He kept his wagon, between 

 trips, in my grandfather's barn, and he was always 

 familiarly known as "Mr. Wanamaker." This wagon, 

 painted a gay red and yellow, was shaped like a huge 

 box. A lid lifted behind the driver's seat, and dis- 

 closed such bulky objects as washboards, boxes of soap, 

 and the like. The back of the wagon, however, was the 

 fascinating part. Climbing out, "Mr. Wanamaker" 

 (whose real name was Lovejoy, and he had ample Burn- 

 side whiskers which gave him a most benevolent expres- 

 sion), came around to the rear, like a butcher, and threw 

 open a double door, while the farmer's wife, his daugh- 

 ters, and all and sundry female visitors, as well as the 

 children, gathered in an eager group. Behind the doors, 



