USA > Massachusetts > Essex County > Newburyport > Waban, early days, 1681-1918 > Part 2
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A minor structure around the barn was a cook house for the pigs, where a massive cauldron boiled all the small potatoes, and it must be admitted, scalded the pigs themselves come November and killing time. That horrid festival forms a vivid memory for me to this day, nor did the pig's bladder football, cunningly inflated with a straw by Peter, the hired man, make me forgetful of the gory murder.
A sheep shed in the rear of the barn, a cow shed next to the cow yard, and a long hen house stretching away to the west, complete the catalog of what the well appointed farm should have.
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WABAN - EARLY DAYS
The farm road, a mere cart track, but the forerunner of Windsor Road, ran along the top of a gravelly ridge, with swamp on either side, and reaching the base of the hill it bore to the right, roughly following the present Moffatt Road. The whole southern slope of the hill was covered by an apple orchard, with a fringe of peach and pear trees along the eastern side of the present Windsor Road. The crest of the hill, shaggy with boulders, a typical drumlin, was the cow pasture, for our farm was planned primarily as a dairy farm.
Flagstaff Hill was encircled by the two arms of Cheese- cake Brook, which had its headwaters in the swamps lying on both sides of the present Windsor Road. To show how much the land has dried up since then, there is the fact that a horse wandered from our barn one night and became bogged down and perished in the swamp directly behind Windsor Hall, the first house on Windsor Road. Also, the eastern branch of Cheesecake Brook, coming up through the present market gar- den land to end behind the present Club House, had high banks and was a good trout stream. I have known a horse to bog down in this stream also.
Where the Waban Club now stands, the land rose in a gravelly hill on which the farm boys used to cut faggots for the kitchen fire. The top of this hill my father used as fill in the swamp below. This alternation of swamp and gravel gives the key to an understanding of the early roads and the location of the various farms.
Beacon Street, from Newton Center to its junction with Woodward Street at Waban, is of comparatively recent origin. Cold Spring swamp made an impassable barrier just east of Waban. The early settlers then came along the high sand plains of Eliot, thus making the present Woodward Street (pro- nounced Woodard in those days). This veered to the south at Waban, while a little extension ran straight to the Staples house door, in front of which was that vast and venerable elm
THE PARK - WABAN SQUARE (Junction of Beacon, Woodward and Pine Ridge Road)
Courtesy of Mr. Winthrop Rhodes
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WABAN - EARLY DAYS
which finally succumbed to the march of progress. Oh, noble tree, loved in my youth, green in my memory today, what a story of Waban you could give!
As Cold Spring swamp was a barrier to the east, so the Charles River with its bordering marshes was a bar to the south, and the west bound traveler passed through the unborn Waban on his way to the ford at Newton Lower Falls. Probably this was the earliest westward route from Boston via Newtowne (Cambridge), the ford at Watertown, Newton (Center), New- ton Highlands, Waban, and Newton Lower Falls, where traces of the fording place still remain and may be seen at low water. Probably the Worcester turnpike (Boylston Street) was a much later route.
When Beacon Street was put through it completed a tri- angle with these other two roads, and in my youth this green was of considerable size and contained some half dozen elm trees, making a pretty little lawn on which my father kept flower beds. The aforesaid march of progress has of course rectified all that!
One of the greatest beauties of Waban in my youth was the virginal stands of white pine lining both sides of Beacon Street, of which a few melancholy specimens remain today. There were also many noble oaks of massive bole, some of which fell at the coming of the railroad, or to various other engines of enlightened progress. Thus "Pine Island," a circular area of perhaps two acres rising a little above the swamp, a gem in a green meadow, and where we used to picnic on holi- days, has yielded to the more remunerative cucumber. The "Oasis," a smaller, very interesting group of Scotch pines, lay in the swamp just east of the Club.
Father's "Rock Knoll" was a group of oak and pine off Moffat Road. Between that and Windsor Road was a lovely grove of white oak where I once waged a successful battle with the gypsy moth.
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HISTORY AND TRADITION OF WABAN
THE PRESENT SITE OF THE BOSTON GARDENING COMPANY Courtesy of (Mrs.) Della Conant Stanley
Such were the features of our own farm, and doubtless a better informed chronicler than I would be able to tell equally pleasant or better tales of the other three main farms of Waban. I can give but the barest outline of them.
The Collins farm began at or near where the Cochituate aqueduct crosses Woodward Street and thence along Beacon Street to the west limits of Waban. It ran back to the Charles River and was bisected in its whole length by the aqueduct. It also was an alternation of glacial sand gravel and river swamp and was little used for farming.
There stood first the lordly Judge Collins house, then the Gould house, next the fine old Collins house as it stands today, and lastly the Queen Anne George Collins house (all demol- ished but the third) .
Across Beacon Street from the Collins farm was the New- ton City (Poor) Farm, a big rambling wooden structure with a big barn. Everyone was glad when these were demolished and the farm moved. They were torn down in 1902. {But are dealt with in detail elsewhere in the book. ] I remember one or two visits to this dreary house of charity with its institutional smell and depressing plainness.
The Wyman farm occupied the great triangle formed by Beacon, Chestnut, and Woodward Streets, with an orchard on the south side of Woodward Street from Chestnut to the aque- duct. On this farm were four small ponds, large enough for skating, however, and all the joys of wading, boat sailing, and turtle hunting in summer. Sweet flag root and wild mint grew
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WABAN -- EARLY DAYS
in the pond in the deep hollow next the old Wyman house. This house was remodelled somewhat by Prof. Langford War- ren, later by Mr. LeRoy Phillips, but still presents its old-time atmosphere.
A second Waban brook had its headwaters in the swamp south of the Wyman orchard. This crossed Chestnut Street to run through the Bacon farm, and, recrossing Chestnut Street at the Dresser farm, made its way into the Charles River. Trout . were in this stream, too.
The Woodward farm should have a chronicler of its own, but I remember that the Woodward boys' great, great aunt, Miss Hattie Woodward, then in her old age, told me that the oak beams of the frame of the house were brought from Eng- land. This is not as fantastic a tale as it appears, for it was not for lack of wood but on account of the great reputation of English oak. I also remember being told that there were Indian graves in the Woodward yard.
Another little group of houses present in my childhood, but no longer on the site, was at the crossroads of Beacon and Chestnut Streets, with one house occupying the little triangle formed by the short diagonal road.
Another fragrant memory of my youth surrounds the two glue factories, one on the south bank of the Charles and the other on the Bacon farm. These industries, feeling themselves not wholly loved, withdrew before the march of progress.
One more institution of somewhat dubious repute was relegated to the backwoods of Waban, namely the Pine Farm School for Wayward Boys, located at Chestnut and Fuller Streets. Those poor little tykes would sometimes run away from the school, only to be retrieved by some one of the farmers.
The Circuit Railroad was begun in the fall of 1884, and this marks the change from a farming community to the ulti- mate development of a village. Anent the name "Circuit," that
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HISTORY AND TRADITION OF WABAN
evidently means so little to the citizens of Newton today, with their motor cars, that there was no protest when the Boston and Albany Railroad deliberately chopped it in halves at River- side. The very purpose of the "Circuit" was to unite the Southern and Northern Newtons, and it was with this pledge that the right-of-way was donated through the adjacent farms. To carry the children to high school, and to carry the local Solons to the City Hall, were the main objects of the railroad. You should picture the Newton of those days as a ring of villages around a very large uninhabited center. I was amused at the specious arguments given at that hearing for abandoning the Circuit which originally ran from Boston to Boston, but now makes Riverside the terminal.
In laying out Windsor and subsequent roads, my father thought of beauty even more than of utility, and, in addition to planting at once as large trees as possible, he insisted on a rather narrow roadway of gravel with a wide border of grass on each side of it. This grass he kept mowed to lawn smoothness and brightened with beds of cannas and salvia, flowers which, it must be confessed, his descendants did not greatly appreciate. Indeed, in later years, the expense of making these roads con- form to city regulations in the matter of sidewalks was con- siderable, but let us dwell on the years when the road was a pleasant country lane and not a glaring, gravelly desert.
The first of Waban's modern settlers were Mr. William Saville, Mr. Alexander Davidson, Mr. Frank A. Childs, and Mr. Louis K. Harlow. Great was the excitement and elation when their homes began to rise on "Moffatt Hill." I wonder if that name is ever used today?
What new life and happiness came with the advent of those three families! Few there remain to remember the Sunday evenings in the studio of Louis Harlow when the chafing-dish was in its glory. Or who remembers the dauntless trip of the Viking Saville and his boyish crew, the first to go by motor
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WABAN - EARLY DAYS
boat from New York to Boston to win the Rudder trophy? And dear Alexander Davidson! A sweeter soul n'er breathed! It is more than two decades since he left us sorrowful. After these beginnings, there came settlers in quick succession-the Buffums, Charles and William, the Comers, Winchesters, Flints, Shepleys, and others. The names begin to crowd so that I must cease to catalog.
The development of the village was by no means rapid, even with the stimulus of the station, but its start was most auspicious and favorable. The caliber of the first newcomers determined the future course, and is responsible for what Waban is today.
During his life in Waban, my father was always a leader in the community, willingly devoting his time, energy and money to its development. Among his many interests was the building of the Church of the Good Shepherd, which still stands today and for which he gave the land, and it is fitting that the original farmhouse has now become the rectory.
His interest in the town's walks and trees and flowers is a precious heritage and a tradition to be carried on by future generations in preserving the beauty of Waban. My father built for the coming years and in that he was wise.
WABAN in the EIGHTIES
LAWRENCE WATSON STRONG
Our farm (the old Moffatt place) and the Wyman farm (the LeRoy Phillips place) comprised our world when we were children. The Wyman farm was occupied by a caretaker. whose children were almost our only playmates. On this farm there were four ponds, small, but available for skating, ducks, mud turtles, sweet flag root, boat sailing, and so forth.
The Cochituate aqueduct crosses Chestnut Street and bisects the Wyman farm. It cut off one of the three ponds back of the present library from the second pond which was the headwater of a brook running through the Bacon farm and Dresser properties into the Charles River at Newton Upper Falls. The third pond was in a corner between the aqueduct and Woodward Street, just below the Wyman house, while the fourth was in the pine woods north of the aqueduct. These small ponds were never dry, and I imagine the small boy of today would have enjoyed their skating facilities as much as we did.
I remember that Thanksgiving Day sometimes inaugu- rated the skating and sledding season, and when snowdrifts covered the stone wall in front of the house, we hopefully listened for the two strokes of a distant bell freeing us from a session at school. School for us meant Newton Highlands, reached by a jog behind Rose and the school carriage. Rose was one of the eight horses our stable contained in those days. What we did with eight horses is hard for me to imagine today. There was the pair of heavy team horses. of course, and faith- ful old Ned, the single cart horse; then Fanny, the gray mare,
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half work, half harness, and the aforesaid Rose; and always a colt, being broken by my father, often with shattering results. The Stanley gypsies wintering in Newton Upper Falls found father a very profitable source for trading, and we usually had a couple of their so-called racing horses in the stable.
Towards dusk a small boy used to stand gazing expectantly out of the sitting room window. Presently another sturdy little figure came trotting down the road, strangely equipped with a short ladder over his shoulder and a queer glowing object in his right hand. At the apex of the triangle in front of the house this young hero of mine reared his ladder against the lamp-post, and giving a few quick pumps to a mysterious en- gine, transformed it into a furnace, belching flame. With this he ascended the ladder, and made an attack upon the lamp within the glass lantern. Presently a yellow flame popped from the lamp, and the hero disappeared into the gloom. The spirit of emulation caused me finally to get permission to accompany my idol, on which occasion he led me a pretty race around his beat, regaling me the while with scary anecdotes of nocturnal misadventures. Our circuit led up Woodward Street nearly to Newton Highlands, where we cut across the baseball field, now Eliot Station. Then we climbed the steep hill by the Cobb twins, Darius and Cyrus, of glorious memory in the fields of sculpture, painting, and song. Lest their memory be lost to the present generation, let me record that Cyrus (or was it Darius? none could tell them apart) once told me this incident: seeking a place where he could really open out his voice to its full power, he rowed to an island in Boston Harbor. Here he let himself go (probably in "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep"). While he was thus enjoying himself fully (I am sure), he observed a cow standing quite close and gazing at him. Presently a sheep . joined the cow. Not long after, some other animal, a rat per- haps (or was it a frog?) made the circle more defined. Then he realized that his dulcet tones had charmed these animals,
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WABAN IN THE EIGHTIES
e'en as Orpheus with his harp. The Cobbs were an institution which Waban cannot rightly claim, the honor belonging to Newton Highlands.
Our small lamplighter then charged down the hill into Newton Upper Falls, and turned at Chestnut Street for the homeward leg. At this point my companion produced the paper bag which had bulged his pocket, and we shared the doughnuts he had provided. Even today I remember that I found their flavor delectable, and quite strange to that to which I was accustomed at home. We parted at my door, he to continue to his home, half a mile to the west. I wonder if Bert Locke remembers? I think his stipend for the trip was a penny a lamp. I recollect three lamps, I am sure.
My father was a great lover of horse flesh, and always drove a nag who had just a "leetle" the edge over father, as numerous runaways testified. I remember when Modoc broke father's leg just west of the O'Brien house. Modoc arrived home safely. Father had a Morgan blood mare, and her son, Rob Roy, father undertook to break, sketchily, I would say. Father (to my mind, of course, an old man) would perch shakily on a high-wheeled sulky, with his legs encircling Rob Roy's hind quarters. Thus would he drive to Brighton, his other farm, and on special days, as for instance when his duties as President of the Massachusetts Horticultural Society de- manded his presence, he assumed his tall silk hat for the voyage. I fancy the sight of a silk-hatted, frock-coated, black-bearded man astride a high-wheeled sulky, behind a skittish colt, would satisfy today a Hollywood director. No charge for the sugges- tion.
My father was a Mighty Man of Battle; give him a Cause and he would spring into action regardless of difficulties. Thus he undertook to bring Commonwealth Avenue closer to Waban than its present location, although he had to contend against all too numerous plutocrats and landowners. The arguments he
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WABAN - EARLY DAYS
advanced even then seemed a little specious to me, but I was strongly on his side. The battle raged in the city council cham- ber, and father electioneered on every hand. However, after defeat I remember that a certain syndicate which acquired the City Poor Farm was composed exclusively of just these pluto- crats plus my father.
This acquisition of the City Farm went hand in hand with the development of the Brae Burn golf links. I remember it occasioned the demolition of a wooden bridge across the rail- road tracks from which bridge I and other nocturnal raiders secured the timbers needful in the construction of the Waban tennis courts. These small beginnings of such grand institu- tions as the present Country Club were naturally impecunious, and since the bridge had to go we were simply offering a help- ing hand in the going.
Waban had its local ghosts in the early days, as was natural from its deep woods and spooky roads. The recognized one haunted the ledge of pudding stone on Chestnut Street, a few rods south of the present Moffatt Road. I, personally, never encountered it, but had the thrill of expecting it anyway on the few occasions when nightfall caught me in the vicinity. For some reason I was wont to make a slight detour into the open fields before I reached that point, but our man Peter had a horrible experience one night as he was walking to West Newton. In that densely-wooded, dark, and very swampy place where Commonwealth Avenue crosses Chestnut Street (neither densely-wooded nor dark nor swampy today) he saw, swiftly bearing down upon him, a light close to the ground, and sur- mounted by a white, whirring figure, silent as the grave. "With a wild cry Peter plunged into the morass." I don't know whether he did or not; at any rate the ghost was Ned Collins on his new fangled high bicycle.
Before the golf links came into being, croquet was our chief enjoyment in summer. Father was as much enthralled by
THE STRONG HOUSE
Courtesy of Rev. Stanley W. Ellis
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the game as his children, and on gala occasions his brother, Ellsworth, from Auburndale, would drive over with our cousins, and mighty battles would follow; very often extending after the supper hour, and necessitating the use of lamps. My chief memory is of the enthusiasm of my Uncle Ellsworth, with a rotund table lamp, a replica of his own moonlike face. When one, with a smashing "croquet," hurtled an enemy ball into outer darkness, there could be seen a flitting light, as of a fire- fly, across the meadows, and distant moans proclaiming a lost ball.
An almost forgotten Boston institution of the 80's was the barque Sarah, mastered by Captain Hale, which made trips to the Azores. My eldest sister returned from such a trip with a tiny white poodle, a Maltese lap dog, if I give the breed cor- rectly, and our family, from this time, had a succession of these unfortunately short-lived little fellows. They were remarkably affectionate and intelligent, so much so that it became too pain- ful to repeat the experience of their passing. But our childhood was so intimately associated with these short lives that no story would be complete without them. Bonita was the first, and most silky-haired and beautiful. Dolce was Isabel's inseparable; and Jocinto, "the little white flower," was perhaps the bright- est. Once when the family went to drive, leaving him at home, we found on our return that he had sought refuge from the chilly twilight air in the warm ashes of the fireplace. At family prayers he and the cat took unrestricted liberties around and about my kneeling sire, one jumping into the seat of the chair which father used as a pulpit in his devotions, the other nestling across his legs or jumping on his back to coil up contentedly. This, of course, was related to us children by our mother; need- less to say our eyes were tightly closed. Mother was equally irrepressible with these other simple souls, and it might be that a buzzing fly on the window frame might require her at- tention during divine worship; or else she might remember her
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WABAN IN THE EIGHTIES
unfinished oatmeal in a saucer on the mantelpiece. How father preserved his gravity I do not know; but he did. That occasion when the playing cards used as markers by mother flew from his Bible as he stood and addressed the Friday evening prayer meeting, must have been disconcerting. When he went a little too far in berating an adversary in this weekly forum, mother was wont to seize his coat tails and protest, "Will! Will!"
Sunday was a formidable occasion, ushered in by fish balls and prayers, then lengthy preparation in the way of shoe- shining, hair-parting, and other painfully unaccustomed activi- ties. Then came the portentous departure of the entire family, crowded into the best carriage, not the humble school carriage. The trip to Newton Highlands was slow and doleful, father expounding the Gospels to the accompaniment of the clop-clop of hoofs and squealing grind of iron tires on gravel. I on the front seat with father had no escape from Biblical lore, but Isabel and Margie had an easier time on the back seat with mother.
The country services were at times enlivened by bucolic incidents. My main recollection of them is that of intermina- bility. At any rate, we returned well beyond noon to a hearty dinner of roast beef, after which father invariably coiled his full six feet on our little half sofa for his Sunday nap. But once a month inexorable fate dragged us to Communion at 3.00 P. M. Then a respite, with a raid on the pantry at six o'clock for a go-as-you-please supper, in which brown bread brewis figured largely. The receipt of this delectable viand will be furnished on application. After this repast came, of course, Sunday evening service. In our early days this was pur- sued with the unrelenting vigor of a second sermon; but in later years it was softened into a service of song, which we thought a great improvement. Sometimes we were even asked to conduct the evening service. I remember one famous time when I lost my so-called notes and had to make it all up on
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WABAN - EARLY DAYS
the spur of the moment. It seemed to go very well, I thought, but some of the elders appeared to be puzzled and failed to ask me again.
These random memories won't interest the child of today, probably, but I am very thankful that my childhood was passed upon a farm, and I also wish I might end my days upon one.
One day, Lawrence Strong and his cousin Arthur discovered a new plant by a rock on Moffatt Hill. Lawrence exclaimed, "I think that is sassafras." They dug it up and bore it home in triumph to present it to Mr. Strong, whose eyes twinkled when he saw it. "Yes, boys," he said, "that is sassafras. I planted it there."
Eleanor Dresser remembers Mr. Strong at church at Newton High- lands, starting the return trip to Waban with a very skittish horse. On such occasions, he would say quietly and calmly, "Jerry, come down. Jerry, come down." That was all; and he had the horse under perfect control.
Once when the Strong family was in the midst of moving from their house on Windsor Road, the family protested as it was raining and the furniture about to be ruined. Mr. Strong drew himself up and addressed his wife, "Jenny, haven't I always been true to my marriage vows?" She: "What if you have? I don't like moving in the rain."
Mr. Strong once saw Della Conant addressing envelopes and writing "Waban, Mass." Don't ever write 'Mass.,'" he said, "it is very improper." And to this day she always writes out "Massachu- setts."
THE GEOLOGY of WABAN
ARTHUR M. SOUTHWICK
Long before the dawn of history, so long ago that the perspective of the vastness of Time defeats the imagination, this spinning earth whirled through Space all unmindful that Waban was one day to rise up on its surface.
The first records of this community are in its rocks and soils. The basis of Waban was formed into solid rock one and a half billion years ago when this earth had cooled enough for the first rocks to form a crust. The Waltham gneiss (pro- nounced nice) rock indicates this.
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