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passage of vessels in and out, furnishes endless entertainment. They
know well, these laughing pleasure-seekers, crowding the piers and boats
and wharves and beaches, where to come for refreshment, and now and
then, in the history of the harbor, a solitary individual has taken
advantage of the romantic charm which is the unique heritage of every
island, and has built his home and lived, at least some portion of his
days, upon one.

Apple Island, that most perfectly shaped little fleck of land of ten
acres, was the home of a Mr. March, an Englishman who settled there with
his family, and lived there happily until his death, being buried at
last upon its western slope. The fine old elms which adorned it are gone
now, as have the fine old associations. No one followed Mr. March's
example, and Apple Island is now merely another excursion point.

On Calf Island, another ten-acre fragment, one of America's popular
actresses, Julia Arthur, has her home. Thus, here and there, one
stumbles upon individuals or small communities who have chosen to live
out in the harbor. But one cannot help wondering how such beauty spots
have escaped being more loved and lived upon by men and women who
recognize the romantic lure which only an island can possess.

Of course the advantage of these positions has been utilized, if not for
dwellings. Government buildings, warehouses, and the great sewage plant
all find convenient foothold here. The excursionists have ferreted out
whatever beaches and groves there may be. One need not regret that the
harbor is not appreciated, but only that it has not been developed along
aesthetic as well as useful lines.

We have been looking at the east, which is the harbor view. If we look
to the west we see the city of Boston: the white tower of the Custom
House; the gold dome of the State House; the sheds of the great South
Station; the blue line of the Charles River. Here is the place to come
if one would see a living map of the city and its environs. Standing
here we realize how truly Boston is a maritime city, and standing here
we also realize how it is that Dorchester Heights won its fame.

It was in the winter of 1776, when the British, under Lord Howe, were
occupying Boston, and had fortified every place which seemed important.
By some curious oversight--which seems incredible to us as we actually
stand upon the top of this conspicuous hill--they forgot this spot.

When Washington saw what they ha