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 or six years ago. A schoolhouse, called the Milk Row school, once stood on the front easterly corner, and it is said that a Revolutionary elm was cut down to afford room for the building. Until the summer of 1905, a remarkably large sycamore tree stood at the foot of School street. It was six feet in diameter, the largest tree anywhere around. A lady ninety-one years of age remembers willow trees and other shrubbery growing in the cemetery near the Milk Row school, which she attended in her girlhood. She also remembers the custom among the scholars of sitting under a large sycamore tree at the foot of School street to eat their dinners on pleasant summer days, and that a large orchard grew in back of it. Doubtless this was an orchard planted by John Ireland, familiarly known as ‘Johnny Ireland’ by old residents and passing travelers, who stopped for rest and refreshment at his little store at the corner of School street. Possibly the few apple trees now found in the vicinity of Landers street and Preston road, streets cut through the Ireland estate, are survivors of that orchard. The pear trees there were probably set out by George W. Ireland, a grandson, fifty years ago. He was greatly interested in pear-raising, and amateurs in the art used to come to him to name their varieties. When asked how many kinds he had, his reply was, ‘Fifty too many!’ The trees on the sidewalk were planted by him over forty years ago. They are elms and sycamore maples, alternating, the latter a variety imported from Europe about that time. A Lombardy poplar and a group of locusts also grew on the place. His daughter writes: The sycamore, or button-wood, as we used to call it, was the last of four I remember. One stood near Knapp street, and was hollow, and, as a child, I used to play in it, and remember a fine powder that covered the floor of the cave. A third stood on the other side of School street, nearly opposite Preston road, and the fourth was behind the house as it then stood, a little ways up Preston road on the right. The latter had twin trunks, and I remember that one was blown down in a storm, and nearly escaped injuring the house; then, for safety, the remaining half was cut down. I used to look out of my bedroom window at the great speckled arms of the one
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