In 1870-1 the land about the pond and also “Great Hill” was sold by George H. Davis, the son of Nymphas Davis, to the Falmouth Land and Wharf Company, and remained in its possession several years, later becoming the property of G. Edward Smith, the president of the company.
In 1888 Mr. Smith sold the beach, extending from the line of the Falmouth Wharf Company west to the land now covered by the harbor, to George H. Davis.
One of the old rivers had long since been filled and the other changed its course so often through the beach that the town was obliged to set stone posts to define the middle line and establish a definite boundary.
When the land was finally acquired by the State, the channel was cut through the land of the widow of George H. Davis on the eastern side and a small triangular piece on the western side belonging to Henrietta F. Goodnow.
On February, 18, 1909, the harbor and Land Commissioners advertised another hearing in regard to the “Improvement of Deacon’s Pond Harbor” and still another on February 24, 1910.
After these hearings had been held and improvements made, the channel was wide and deep enough to permit schooners to enter.
However, the sand drifted in and on March 11, 1911, there was another hearing called in regard to removing a “shoal at the entrance to the harbor” and about 32,000 cubic feet of earth was then removed.
Since then other deepenings have been made until now, during the summer season, it is a common sight to see some sixty boats of all descriptions lying in the water.
In 1921 the harbor was further improved by extending the jetty on the west side about 200 feet into Vineyard Sound.
There’s a gently flowing river,
Bordered by whispering trees,
That ebbs and flows in Nobscussett
And winds through Mattacheese.
Surely the Indian loved it
In the ages so dim and gray,
River beloved of the Pale Face
Who dwell near its banks today.
Lovely it lies in the moonlight,
A silver scroll unrolled,
And glorious when the sunset
Turns it to molten gold.
Yet we love it when the mist clouds
Hang over it like a pall;
No less when the hand of the Frost King
Holds it in icy thrall.
In all of its moods and changes
We joy in its billows salt,
With the deep strong love of a lover
Blinded to every fault.
Always its gleaming beauty
Raises our thoughts from the clod;
Up, up to the crystal river,
That flows from the Throne of God.
They pass on,—the generations,—
Thou stayest, while men depart;
They go with thy lovely changes
Shrined in each failing heart.
Beautiful old Bass River!
Girt round with murmuring trees;
Long wilt thou flow in Nobscussett.
And wander through Mattacheese.