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"Have you ever had any dealing
with Mr. Freeman?" my father was asked.
"Only once," he replied.
"Would you please tell the court about it."
"Yes, my wife wanted some shavings to bed down the horses with; Mr.
Freeman said he had a lot he wanted to get rid of so I sent a man down
for them. A few days later Mr. Freeman sent me a bill
for $2.60. I've had nothing to do with him since."
One further selectman story: when the Edison Company put street
lights on Derby Lane, one of them was placed in such a
way that it shone into the bedroom window of a resident and
kept her awake. She called my father and complained.
"Why don't you pull down your shades?" he asked her.
When she explained that the light seeped in around the edges
of the shade he suggested getting something with a tighter fit.
This still would not solve the problem, and when she telephoned
the following night with more complaints my father told her
quietly, "Then why don't you go out and throw a stone at the
light? I won't tell anyone who did it."
Proceeding eastward from
Cutter's corner we soon passed the David Lane house, located in a valley
well below road level. The driveway descended in a sweeping curve
bordered by rows of tall evergreens. It was a pleasant
valley with a brook that flowed down the middle and fed an artificial
pond beside the house. All
this has gone, buried deep beneath the toll-gates of the Massachusetts
Turnpike.
Mr. and Mrs. Lane were familiar figures in town. They at-
tended all the social functions and were as lively at dances as a |
