chosen, and his prayer was granted.
With his companions, carrying his little bundle, he walked a hundred miles to Boston
That was in the year 1802.
In that year Thatcher Magoun
was building his first vessel on the Mystic
, and thither the young lad hurried in pursuit of work, which he at once obtained.
On the second day after his arrival he fell from the deck to the ship's bottom and was instantly killed.
All the rest of the remaining years of her life his mother was filled with a longing to visit and look upon his last resting place.
But that comfort was denied her. The hard days of the pioneers were not yet past, and a few years later she, too, was taken.
At the time my mother was three years old—too young, one would suppose, for even so sad an event to make a permanent impression, yet so heavy and sudden was the blow, and so keen was the sorrow in the household, that it remained until the day of her death, nearly ninety years later, one of the most vivid and painful of her memories.
And so the first, vessel built on the Mystic
after colonial times was baptized in the blood of this New Hampshire
boy, and as one of the results of his tragic and untimely fate I am sitting here and talking to you tonight.
When I left my New Hampshire
home fifty years later to seek, as my uncle did, my fortune, my mother exacted a promise from me that I sometime would visit Medford
, find the grave, and mark it with a stone, no matter how humble.
It was a year or two before the opportunity came.
One beautiful day in early October, in 1853, I started out from my Boston
boarding-house on my long delayed mission.
It was a day to be remembered.
The sky was clear, the air bracing, and my lightheartedness was altogether unbefitting the solemnity of my errand.
After leaving Charlestown Neck it was a plunge into the real country.
was bare of buildings, save here and there a farmhouse, and on either side were fields of corn and spacious gardens, pastures,