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61]
used by
Thomas Rand, whose grandsons drove the cows there and gathered wild rose leaves for distilling.
Old residents remember a small, round pond, with an island and solitary pine tree, just beyond Cedar street on the left.
John Tufts set out the pine tree, it is said, and the place was a playground for the boys of the neighborhood.
As is often the case, at one time they wished to build a fire.
The tree was still small, and, with unusual thoughtfulness, they inverted a barrel over it to protect it from the heat.
Pond, tree, and island are now things of the past, and looking at the spot, now built over with houses, it is difficult to see where a local poet drew his inspiration for the following poem, one of many dainty productions from the pen of a lifelong resident of Somerville, nearly, Lewis C. Flanagan:—
Tis even so; within our city's bounds
We have a pond; not one with bottom paved
And edges curbed with stone, but rough and plain
From Nature's hand; nor large, nor deep, yet still
A pond; and equi-distant from its shores
An island stands; and though a modest lump
Of earth, that may not be compared with those
On which the salt waves lay their angry hands,
By geographic rule as much an isle
As
Cuba's slope or
Iceland's stormy pile.
The urchin small, when asked to give at school
Description of an isle, forgets his text;
At which the teacher leads his truant mind
To this, the spot which he himself has seen
That very day; and though the growing boy
Soon scorns to build upon domestic ground,
But names some vasty pillar of the sea,
The teacher tries again with younger minds,
And smiles, perhaps, to see the lads refuse
To own the step they once did gladly use.
