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Whitmore Brook (Vermont, United States) (search for this): chapter 22
anned the river at Auburn street as now, but the disused canal, innocent of water, was plainly visible before reaching the loop in the river near the mouth of Whitmore Brook, where once a ship was built and launched. Scattered here and there on the gentle slope from High street to the river, and on the steeper side of Mystic Hillover thirty years has been a stable one, though conducted by several proprietors. Edward Shaw with his express came not till ‘71, nor was he located beside Whitmore Brook till five years later. Cunningham's omnibus made no trips to Medford Square, nor did, indeed, till ‘76, while the bobtail car which succeeded the omnibus wouat Paddy got drunk—got drunk. Shaded by willows, and surrounded by a tangled growth (possibly suggesting the name of Brierville), its waters found a way into Whitmore Brook. The stone tower on Hastings Heights, as we call the hill now, overlooks the place; while the site of the pond is surrounded with houses, the homes of recent<
Sugar Loaf Hill (Texas, United States) (search for this): chapter 22
d Shaw with his express came not till ‘71, nor was he located beside Whitmore Brook till five years later. Cunningham's omnibus made no trips to Medford Square, nor did, indeed, till ‘76, while the bobtail car which succeeded the omnibus would at that day have been deemed a wild enterprise. Purchase street (now Winthrop), had been open some twenty-five years, and Woburn street, once the main road to Boston, was but little used, as the northern travel came not up Marm Simond's Hill. Sugar Loaf Hill had not been cut out so widely, nor yet by the action of the stone-crusher granulated and spread on Medford streets, to sweeten the experiences of travel. Purchase street was Medford's Via Dolorosa—the way to the almshouse and the silent city of the dead. Mystic Hill, rocky and bare at its top, was beginning to be invaded by dwellers, but they were few and far apart. Nestled in a little hollow on its western slope was a pond, whose denizens in the good old summer time made night melo<
China (China) (search for this): chapter 22
rse chestnut, wrenched and torn by the tornado of 1850, still stood at the end of Warren street. The old Usher house, decrepit with years, was on the present postoffice site, as was a little one-room building, in which a variety store had once been kept. Beside this was Captain Wyatt's residence, which, enlarged a little, still remains, till recently the residence of his grandson, William Cheney. The Gamage corner had not begun to take on the various additions and alterations, for neither Chinese nor yet Mikado laundry had arrived. Policeman Richardson had not yet come to engage in the livery business, which for over thirty years has been a stable one, though conducted by several proprietors. Edward Shaw with his express came not till ‘71, nor was he located beside Whitmore Brook till five years later. Cunningham's omnibus made no trips to Medford Square, nor did, indeed, till ‘76, while the bobtail car which succeeded the omnibus would at that day have been deemed a wild enter
Israel (Israel) (search for this): chapter 22
printed the Chronicle. Rev. Charles Brooks, the able historian of Medford, Rev. D. A. Wasson, the radical preacher, Abner J. Phipps of the Board of Education, and Jefferson Hascall, D. D., were then also residents. Mr. Cross was the master at the Brooks school and Miss Ellen Lane one of the teachers. Of the women of the village I can say but little, but must allude to Miss Lucy Ann Brooks and Mrs. Usher, each in their own way rich in good works, and Auntie Cheney, a veritable mother in Israel. A little later comers were B. C. Leonard, H. B. Nottage, Gardner Chapin, Herman Judkins, and others whom time forbids to mention. 1872 marked the organization of churches, and the call for more school accommodations, while a few fires emphasized the need of something more than the ancient hose carriage for protection. New dwellings and churches were built, new residents came, stores were opened, and the growing village demanded new avenues of travel. The solid stone piers and abutme
Mystick River (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 22
little shed, and the brakeman shouts, Willow Bridge. A lone passenger has raised the target beside the track, and climbing the car steps leaves the little shed alone in its loneliness, for no care-taker is there, and we move on again. Now we are in the ancient town of Medford. Possibly it is afternoon, and the western sunlight illumines the turnpike and distant marshes, and the river's course, like a ribbon of silver, winds along in their midst. The ships building along the banks of the Mystic, the nearer brickyards, with their water-filled clay pits and shed-covered and perhaps smoking kilns, or the long piles of newly-made bricks, and the bare-footed brick makers, with the great piles of cordwood beside the track are in plain sight. Perhaps it is market day and the stock yards are full of lowing cattle and bleating sheep (just unloaded from the long trains that have come down from New Hampshire) or out on the highway a cloud of dust marks the passing of a drove toward Cambrid
Middlesex Canal (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 22
ate the time announced on our program, and by the president, by some years, and ask you to take a backward glimpse of the West End, for so was that portion of Medford once called. It is not my intention to take you into ancient history, but to ask you to view the locality, first through a schoolboy's eyes. The schoolboy lived in Woburn, and the big Lippincott's Gazetteer on the teacher's desk informed him that his home town was connected with Boston by the Boston & Lowell Railroad and Middlesex Canal; it might well have added to these, the public highways. Of these latter, High and Woburn streets, as well as the canal and the railroad, passed through the West End. One hundred years before this, Medford citizens had found the most central or most convenient location for their meeting-house and first schoolhouse at the foot of Marm Simond's Hill on High street, and in 1829 the most convenient situation for the West End schoolhouse was a little way up Woburn street. For fifty years t
Spot Pond (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 22
hose denizens in the good old summer time made night melodious, informing the listener that Paddy got drunk—got drunk. Shaded by willows, and surrounded by a tangled growth (possibly suggesting the name of Brierville), its waters found a way into Whitmore Brook. The stone tower on Hastings Heights, as we call the hill now, overlooks the place; while the site of the pond is surrounded with houses, the homes of recent comers and residents. In 1870, water was introduced into Medford from Spot Pond, and building operations commenced upon the long vacant Smith estate, which for some years was called by some of the hill dwellers the Flats. Possibly they had forgotten, or, perhaps, never knew, that years before, their location was rather contemptuously called by some of their townsmen the Fag-end. Of the residents of the West End in 1870 a few words will not be out of place. I shall speak only of such as came more particularly under my notice. Coming to the village with the intent
Walnut Tree Hill (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 22
ion, which, though still on the Medford side of the line, is now called North Somerville. After passing the cattle yards a road might be seen passing below the track, and on the left toward the setting sun, loomed up the three-story hotel called the Somerville House. Farther away at the top of Quarry Hill was the old Powder House, a relic of long ago when the Medford people went thither for their grist to be ground—for it was once a windmill tower. Three buildings crowned the top of Walnut Tree Hill, as it was formerly called, the beginning of Tufts College; and the depot across the track, as was also the college site, became known as College Hill. Perhaps we have waited a few years and taken another train, and our picture has grown and improved some. We may be seated in new cars, the first of the monitor top, the metallic letters have been succeeded by painted ones, the hair-cloth seats by plush, and the windows with glass of larger size. The seat backs are locked securely, s
Alewife Brook (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 22
ings in 1870, among which the Brooks schoolhouse stood sharply out as a central figure. These formed the bulk of the West End—the West Medford of 1870. To the left of the high embankment in which is the railway arch across the Mystic, was a stretch of marsh crossed by the embankments of the old canal, and beyond these, the tall, graceful chimney of the pumping station of the Charlestown Water Works, then just completed, but now disused. Just here Menotomy River (now degenerated into Alewife Brook), finishes its sluggish course from Fresh Pond in Cambridge to the Mystic, and here it was that Governor Winthrop once spent an October night alone (in 1631), an uninvited guest in the vacant dwelling of Sagamore John. Still looking out from the car window to the left, we would see the bath houses on the river's bank, for the waters of the Mystic were clearer then than in later years; the fish were abundant, for a little farther up stream were the nets of the fishermen stretched across
Tyngsborough (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 22
were—in my memory. Come with me now (in imagination, at least,) and look on the scene, and see the picture as it appears to my view tonight. We will take one of the cars of the train in the old station at the foot of Lowell street in Boston. It is one of the old timers, with low roof and black haircloth seats, with two-sashed and four-paned windows that rattle merrily as the train rolls none too smoothly over the short iron rails laid on the stone sleepers that were boated down from Tyngsboro on the canal. Metallic letters nearly a foot high, along the outside of the car, inform you it is the Woburn Branch train; while the engine with its big smoke stack (an inverted cone) has its tender piled high with wood, for coal is not as yet used on the railway. The bell rings and we are started on our way, and after some fifteen minutes ride mainly through a deep cut the train stops at a little shed, and the brakeman shouts, Willow Bridge. A lone passenger has raised the target besid
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