I happen to be particularly fond of Puddingstone, the conglomerate rock found around Boston. It’s also the official rock of Massachusetts; specifically Roxbury Puddingstone.

_ College Road Trip ipod_ It’s a nifty looking rock, or rather a collection of different rocks within a sedimentary rock.

Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol video

It also has some fantastical elements:

Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote a poem entitled The Dorchester Giant that describes Boston’s puddingstone being the result of the abandoned children of a giant flinging plum pudding about:

What are those lone ones doing now,

The wife and the children sad?

Oh, they are in a terrible rout,

Screaming, and throwing their pudding about,

Acting as they were mad.

They flung it over to Roxbury hills,

They flung it over the plain,

And all over Milton and Dorchester too

Great lumps of pudding the giants threw;

They tumbled as thick as rain.

Puddingstone is also to be imbued with magical and protective powers. Herfordshire Puddingstone was used to cover the top of witch’s coffin to prevent her to escape in death.

**Update: **Here’s the whole poem:

**The Dorchester Giant

By Oliver Wendell Holmes (1830)

**

There was a giant in time of old,

A mighty one was he;

He had a wife, but she was a scold,

So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold;

And he had children three.

It happened to be an election day,

And the giants were choosing a king;

The people were not democrats then,

They did not talk of the rights of men,

And all that sort of thing.

Then the giant took his children three,

And fastened them in the pen;

The children roared; quoth the giant, “Be still!”

And Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill

Rolled back the sound again.

Then he brought them a pudding stuffed with plums,

As big as the State-House dome;

Quoth he, “There’s something for you to eat;

So stop your mouths with your ‘lection treat,

And wait till your dad comes home.”

So the giant pulled him a chestnut stout,

And whittled the boughs away;

The boys and their mother set up a shout.

Said he, “You’re in, and you can’t get out,

Bellow as loud as you may.”

Off he went, and he growled a tune

As he strode the fields along

‘Tis said a buffalo fainted away,

And fell as cold as a lump of clay,

When he heard the giant’s song.

But whether the story’s true or not,

It isn’t for me to show;

There’s many a thing that’s twice as queer

In somebody’s lectures that we hear,

And those are true, you know.

. . . . . .

What are those lone ones doing now,

The wife and the children sad?

Oh, they are in a terrible rout,

Screaming, and throwing their pudding about,

Acting as they were mad.

They flung it over to Roxbury hills,

They flung it over the plain,

And all over Milton and Dorchester too

Great lumps of pudding the giants threw;

They tumbled as thick as rain.

. . . . .

Giant and mammoth have passed away,

For ages have floated by;

The suet is hard as a marrow-bone,

And every plum is turned to a stone,

But there the puddings lie.

And if, some pleasant afternoon,

You’ll ask me out to ride,

The whole of the story I will tell,

And you shall see where the puddings fell,

And pay for the punch beside.