So cool, those were the days.
Check it out:

The hooves clip-clop, the harness jingles, and the wooden cart rumbles over the street. The sounds evoke a Robert Frost poem more than garbage pick-up, but rubbish and not rhyme is the essence of this operation.

It’s a frigid Friday morning, and just as he has for the past 17 years, Patrick Palmer steers a team of heavily muscled Percheron horses through this old village to pick up trash ($5 a bag) and recycling (free).

The horses pull past Victorians, white clapboard Colonials and trim cottages on streets that were laid out more than a century ago against a steeply rising shelf of the Green Mountains.