For all their seeming permanence they might as well have been buffaloes--or the buffalo laprobes that grew bald in patches and used to slide from the careless drivers' knees and hang unconcerned, half way to the ground.

The stables have been transformed into other likenesses, or swept away, like the woodsheds where were kept the stove-wood and kindling that the "girl" and the "hired-man" always quarrelled over: who should fetch it.

Horse and stable and woodshed, and the whole tribe of the "hired-man," all are gone.

They went quickly, yet so silently that we whom they served have not yet really noticed that they are vanished.
So with other vanishings.

There were the little bunty street-cars on the long, single track that went its troubled way among the cobblestones.
At the rear door of the car there was no platform, but a step where passengers clung in wet clumps when the weather was bad and the car crowded.