adverse waves of misfortune wending their way to the city home; but of none of these does he speak, but we may read it all between the lines.
In recent years the modern trolley cars have come nearer him than would those earlier ones, and have met for their passing just below, with their busy human freight.
Few, indeed, of all the throng have ever noticed the silent figure on the hillside, or recognized his form silhouetted against the sky. But all the time he has been lying there, stately and serene in reposeful attitude, only waiting for some one to stop in the right place, with eyes to see, camera to carry away the view, and the public print to reproduce by the modern process his leonine majesty on his rocky throne.
His audience chamber is limited to a small area on Winthrop street. His attendants, the cedars, wave their dark green plumes about him constantly, while the birches, like maids of honor in white robes, with fans of summer foliage vie in their attention and make it difficult to see him in all his royal state.
The rock ferns are thick about him, and the heavy green moss is like an emerald carpet before his throne, now ages old.
At a respectful distance, from a carefully selected point of view, because of the trees alluded to, may best be seen this boulder that requires but little imagination to be what some one has called it, the ‘Medford Lion.’
Just below Brooks street, coming toward Winthrop Square, is the place—and look up. It, with its surroundings, form a bit of natural scenery well worth seeing, but the right position must be taken.
This done, the shaggy mane and tail appear clearly, and best when the foliage is gone.