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Peggy Swan (search for this): chapter 21
it home. Where is that bird now? It ought to be in the headquarters of the Historical Society. Sam was the son of Mrs. Peggy Swan who lived in the west half of the Bartlett house. Maybe some Swan may know of it. Our first teacher in the high Swan may know of it. Our first teacher in the high school was Mr. Forbes, a good teacher and man. The next was Isaac Ames, the best teacher I ever knew. He was a small man with a club foot, a student at law, and in after life Judge of Probate for Essex County. He was thoroughly amiable and no troubghters of Dr. Fuller, from the next house east. The drawing class was instructed by Miss Hannah Swan, daughter of Mrs. Peggy Swan and sister of Sam, he of the brazen rooster. The singing school was a large affair. It was kept in the Martin Buord, or maybe just over the edge. It was Bacon's pond in the Aberjona. Deacon Samuel Train, who lived next west of Mrs. Peggy Swan, was of very solemn aspect. He was not so portentously solemn as the Rev. Orin Fowler of Fall River, of whom after
John Howe (search for this): chapter 21
wall. The next bathing place was on the north end of the mead-ford. It was a poor place. It was central, and so far as I remember, had no other raison d'etre. But between it and High street was a building that deserves mention. This was John Howe's trunk store. In its rear, looking down on the bathing place, was his workroom where he utilized his boxes, leather and brass tacks. In the front was a large airy room with some finished goods in it, and an assortment of loafers. It was so convenient that when a Whig headquarters was wanted in 1840, for a presidential campaign, all eyes turned to Howe's front room and he let the Whigs have it. They fitted it up grandly. At least we boys thought so. Pictures of General Harrison, of Tippecanoe and Tyler too, log cabins and hard cider barrels galore hung on the walls, also others ridiculing Matty Van Buren and his Kinderhook cabbages, etc., etc. The secretary of the club was Charles Hall, chosen unanimously, and to be in charge of
Peter Chardon Brooks (search for this): chapter 21
e except at the top of the flood. Besides the ordinary water borne freight to Medford, this great wharf had a monopoly of the inward molasses bound to the distillery, and of the outward bound rum. Great casks lay everywhere, almost hissing in the sun heat, and as the molasses casks came without any bungs, its odor went to the skies almost as rummy as the rum itself. The boys did not like it, but the old salts did. Later it had a far reaching effect upon an infant industry started by Mr. Peter C. Brooks a mile and a half off at the extreme western edge of the town. He secured a lot of bees and decided to make his own honey. All went well till a far-roving bee of his happened upon Blanchard's wharf. He knew that the world had nothing better for him, and he lit. He stowed a full freight, went home, and next morning returned with all his sisters, his cousins and his aunts. All loaded, and the same thing went on till the time for the honey crop arrived and Mr. Brooks then found his
Isaac Sprague (search for this): chapter 21
ispering. If the hum was too great he would gently request silence, and always got it. When he forgot to ask for it, old Galen James of the school committee who was often present, would call out in his deep voice, Oyez, oyez. We did not know what Mr. James meant, and perhaps he did not either, but it sounded sympathetic and so we became quieter. The high school numbered far more girls than boys. I remember well Rebecca, Chastina, Garaphylia and Esmeralda, the four pretty daughters of Isaac Sprague, a leading ship builder; Caroline Blake, daughter of Oliver Blake, a dry goods merchant; Maria Fuller, daughter of George Fuller, a ship builder of South street; Harriet Stetson, daughter of Jotham Stetson, another ship builder on the same street; Mary Peck and Lucy Peck, daughters of Thos. R. Peck of the hat factory, all nice girls, but I fear none remain to hear me say so. As the high school did not fit for college James Hervey, Albert F. Sawyer and myself left it about 1843 for th
Andrew Wade (search for this): chapter 21
low grade school, and some of the pupils were very big, strong and unruly. Corporal punishment was needed, or thought to be needed, very frequently indeed. Sometimes a very big boy would fight against it, but he never was quite big enough. Andrew Wade was the biggest in school. He was a man grown and was about nineteen years old, not troublesome nor noisy, but deficient. In fact he was underwitted, but we did not know it. He would sit for hours staring at his book, but ideas did not come d by a feed hole about as large as a brick, in the heavy plank door. Inside was a fixed bunk but no bedding. There was not an article of furniture. The whole place was unutterably foul. And there, howling and roaring, was my old schoolmate Andrew Wade, now a raving maniac. At the grammar school a harmless idiot, neglect and bad treatment had brought him to this. The Medford authorities were not, I think, to be especially blamed, for this sort of thing was then universal. There were no st
Jonathan Brooks (search for this): chapter 21
Captain Stickney house on High street at the summit of Marm Simonds hill. My earliest pants were made by Miss Nabby, daughter of Marm. I learned to swim at the end of Rock Hill lane. This was prior to the advent of Mr. Hastings, and my first school was kept by Miss Lydia Symmes. The Stickney house was later the scene of the charming hospitality of the Misses Elizabeth and Lucy Ann Brooks, sisters of the historian of Medford. Next east stood the ancient homestead of their father Mr. Jonathan Brooks, with its great sycamore trees in front; next farther east was the house where Miss Lyddy lived with her brother Octave. Between her house and the Simonds house lived Noah Johnson. This hill was altogether the best coasting place in Medford, and the Smelt brook to the east of it the best boy fishing place before the diversion of its sources to Winchester reservoir. Nearly opposite the Stickney house stood an old house at the corner of the lane, where a Mr. Staniels lived at about
Matty Buren (search for this): chapter 21
, leather and brass tacks. In the front was a large airy room with some finished goods in it, and an assortment of loafers. It was so convenient that when a Whig headquarters was wanted in 1840, for a presidential campaign, all eyes turned to Howe's front room and he let the Whigs have it. They fitted it up grandly. At least we boys thought so. Pictures of General Harrison, of Tippecanoe and Tyler too, log cabins and hard cider barrels galore hung on the walls, also others ridiculing Matty Van Buren and his Kinderhook cabbages, etc., etc. The secretary of the club was Charles Hall, chosen unanimously, and to be in charge of the place all the time until election. He was a hero in Medford politics, an old bachelor, well dressed, one of the prominent Hall family, deemed himself a ladies' man and had a tremendous voice and good arguments, too. He was vox et proeterea both. All day long debates went on there, for the Van Buren men came in and talked and the Whigs hoped to convert them
Oliver Wellington (search for this): chapter 21
which extended westward as far as the lot on which Mr. David P. Kimball, a Boston merchant, built his home, the home later of Dr. C. V. Bemis. Mr. Kimball was the brother of Moses Kimball of the Boston Museum, and father of D. P. Kimball, Jr., a schoolmate of mine. Next came Miss Harmon's school. This was in the southeast room of the old fort on Governor's lane. The pupils were a size larger. I was about five, and recall the awe with which we contemplated the two oldest; one was Oliver Wellington, aged ten, and the other was Everett his brother, aged nine. They came from the Wellington farm on the east frontier of the town. Our playground was in the lane and in Mr. Dudley Hall's great barn which stood high up to the westward. I was next sent to my first public school, not a grammar school. I think it was called a preparatory. It was on the east side of Back street, which perhaps is now styled Union street. On the east the yard was fenced off from the branch canal which
Dod (search for this): chapter 21
found at this bridge and only here. It was about as large as a small smelt, silvery but with crimson tipped fins and tail. There was one more fishing place at the west edge of Medford, or maybe just over the edge. It was Bacon's pond in the Aberjona. Deacon Samuel Train, who lived next west of Mrs. Peggy Swan, was of very solemn aspect. He was not so portentously solemn as the Rev. Orin Fowler of Fall River, of whom after one of his pastoral visits a tot of a girl said, Mama, was that Dod? but he was very grave indeed. He was, however, kindly inside, liked boys and fishing, both very good symptoms in an elderly gentleman. He would come from Boston as the sun began to decline and the best fishing hour to approach, have his wagon hitched up to his quick trotter, get in front with his great pickerel rod, put Gorham, his youngest son, and myself in behind with our perch rods and worms, and whirl away to Bacon's pond just west of Symmes' corner. While Mr. Train was hitching the
Learoyd (search for this): chapter 21
rop arrived and Mr. Brooks then found his honey combs stuffed with rum and molasses. He was furious. He was said to be the wealthiest man in New England, but he could not control this situation. You will not expect me to expatiate on the merits and glories of old Medford rum. Both Daniel and his younger brother Sam Lawrence were schoolmates of mine, but they were too young to give us any of it. Its fame reached far and wide. It was known where the township was not known. When the Reverend Mr. Learoyd left his Medford parish to join one in Taunton, at the installation feast he spoke of the joy he anticipated in his new connection, but when he added my affections will for a long time be with old Medford a titter rippled along the tables of the banqueters. The last time I saw Mr. Brooks was on High street. Between the parsonage of my father and the tan yard was an orchard, lower than the street and with no road into it. A man named Tufts owned it. He had got his hay cart down to
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