Whistler; or, The Manly Boy

by Walter Aimwell

“I know it,—but he won’t go off,” replied the man. “We leave the door open purposely, and let him have the run; he never leaves the premises.”

“O, I didn’t think of that,” stammered Clinton, a slight blush mantling his cheeks.

“Never mind; I’m just as much obliged to you as though he had broken out,” added the man. “You intended to do an act of kindness, and you ought to have the credit of it. Won’t you walk in and look at the birds? We’ve got a pretty large collection.”

Clinton thankfully accepted the invitation, and found a large room entirely filled with birds, this being the sole article in which the man dealt. The collection embraced birds of almost every description, from an eagle to a Java sparrow. Many of them were very rare and beautiful. The singing birds seemed to vie with one another, to see which should make the loudest noise; and the deafening clatter was by no means improved by the occasional rough and discordant note of some unmusical member of the family. In addition to the living birds, there were also many stuffed ones, for the owner of the collection was a taxidermist. A taxidermist is one who is skilled in preparing and preserving the skins of birds, or other animals, so as to represent their natural appearance.

After walking an hour or more about the business portion of the city, examining the sights in a leisurely way, Clinton suddenly found himself approaching the beautiful Common, of which Boston is justly proud. It took him some time to reconcile his mind to its unexpected location, for it seemed to him that he ought to be going from it instead of towards it. However, there it was, and there was no disputing that. And he was not very sorry, either, for he began to feel tired, and there are plenty of seats and acres of soft grass on the Common. Entering the grounds at the gate opposite Park-street Church, he threw himself upon the grass, in the shade of a large tree, on a spot which commanded a view of the greater part of the enclosure.

The Common contains forty-eight acres, the surface of which is agreeably diversified, much of it being broken into gentle swells. A vast amount of money has been expended in beautifying it. A tall and handsome iron fence surrounds it, which is nearly six thousand feet long, and cost upwards of a hundred thousand dollars. Nicely gravelled walks, shaded by trees, run around the enclosure, and cross it in various directions. These walks are lit by gas, at night. The trees number nearly two thousand, and comprise eighteen or twenty varieties, but about half of them are elms. Scattered over the Common are several cast-iron hydrants, from which streams of Cochituate water are always flowing, for the refreshment of the thirsty. There is also a beautiful pond,—the “Frog Pond” of olden times,—which is supplied with one of the finest fountains on the continent.

Such was the scene spread out before Clinton, as he sat upon the grass. Add to the picture the scattered groups of well-dressed people who were threading the walks or lounging on the seats, the merry children gambolling upon the grass, and the birds flitting among the trees, and you have made up a sight well worth seeing.

As Clinton sat enjoying the scene, a huge column of water suddenly burst forth from the pond, with a noise plainly perceptible, even at his distance from it. It was the fountain. Forgetting everything else, he ran with all speed towards it, for he had never seen it; and, as it was allowed to play but seldom, owing to a scarcity of water at that time, he had hardly dared to hope that his curiosity would be gratified. His haste was needless, however, for it kept on playing, and he had ample leisure to examine and enjoy it. It sent up a tall jet, which tapered almost to a point, while a cloud of spray and vapor rose from the base. The water sparkled gloriously in the sunlight, and the hues of the rainbow danced among the mists. Clinton sat down under a tree, and drank to his fill of the beautiful scene.

This fountain has a dozen or more different jets. The highest one rises to the height of ninety-eight feet, under favorable circumstances, and is fed through an open pipe three inches in diameter. A pipe six inches in diameter throws the water about eighty feet high. Another, with the whole breadth of twelve inches, reaches but about forty feet. There is a jet which is set at an angle, designed to play against the wind. There are also jets which represent a variety of figures. One is called the “willow,” from its resemblance to that tree. Another is the “lily,” which sends out three side jets, representing the petals, and an upright one in the centre, forming the pointal of the flower. Another is the “vase,” and very graceful and picturesque it is. The amount of water consumed by the fountain when it is in play is almost incredible. The water rushes out with immense force; and some of the larger jets, if kept in operation perpetually, would nearly or quite exhaust the regular daily supply from Lake Cochituate. Of course the luxury can be indulged in only occasionally, and for a few hours at a time.