At the time I am writing of, the early sixties, the houses of Beacon Street extended only a short distance beyond the Public Garden. We went for long walks, across what is now the Back Bay, to the Milldam. The Brighton Road was the stretch where the Boston horse fanciers showed the paces of their famous trotters. When the sleighing was good, it was crowded of an afternoon with stately family sleighs, filled with young people, old people, and children. A prettier carnival scene it would be hard to imagine than a bright Saturday afternoon on the Brighton Road in sleighing season. Up and down the middle, the jaunty cutters raced back and forth, to the delight of the youngsters, and to the scandal of the elders; for many of them were driven by sporting characters, who had no relation with good society, as represented by the wealthy merchants and manufacturers and their families, who kept demurely to the outer edges of the “Road.” I owe these glimpses of the sleighing carnival to kind Mrs. William Gray, the mother of my playmate, Ellen, who sometimes took me in her handsome sleigh, filled with buffalo robes and children. I never remember taking a mere pleasure drive with either of my own parents. We kept horses and were all taught to ride; my father rode every day for his health, taking one of his daughters with him. He found that he could get the greatest amount of exercise in the shortest time on horseback. When he drove, it was to get somewhere, to accomplish some specific thing. I have been thankful all my life that I was not born of the class to whom the afternoon drive is as much a part of life’s daily routine as eating or sleeping. “The Rovers of Boston” was not a long-lived society; its membership was fluctuating, but it was extremely active during the few years of its life. How the city streets belonged to us! How jealously we watched any change or innovation! How we raged when the noble old Hancock House was torn down. How faithfully we reported to our elders any over vigorous pruning of city trees, or any abuse of city property. We had a sense of citizenship, of holding a stake in the community, sometimes lacking in “grown-ups.” Arlington and Berkeley streets already existed, and we waited impatiently for the naming of the other streets, which were to follow an alphabetical sequence. To us, there was something romantic in the plan. We hailed every new name as each street came into being,--Clarendon, Dartmouth, Exeter, Fairfield, Hereford, Gloucester; each one brought a new thrill. They were such distinguished names, familiar too, if one had studied English history, and so well suited to the population that was to inhabit them.