Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "The Birds of Killingworth"
“MY NATIVE TOWN” You ask about my home town, How can I half describe The beauties of this piece of ground Though here I’ve spent my life. ‘Tis here that nature has full sway, She here displays her charms, Here song-birds trill their happy lay On rocky, hillside farms. In summer-time there may be heard The robin, lark,and jay, The thrush, the cuckoo and blackbird, The bluebird’s cheerful lay. The hoarse caw of the crow is heard, Bob-white shouts out the quail The cat-like call of the cat-bird, The night hawk’s mornful wail. The humming-bird and the bee flit by In search of honey sweet, Hither and yon the swallows fly On wings that are most fleet. The cricket’s chirp, the croak of frogs Sounds loadly in our ears, The turtle’s whistle mong the bogs, Tree toads say “rain is near.” Now near the center of all this A church stands on a hill, A Congregational Church is this And here we worship still. For eighty years this church has stood Through storm and heat and cold, Its influence has been good for me Blessing both young and old.
This church has missionaries sent To lands far, far away And there their lives have all been spent In teaching men the way. Now near this church but in the rear Stands Agricultural Hall, Our great town fairs are all held here, Town meetings courts and all. And here the Y.P.S.C.E.’s Their weekly meeting hold, Here also picnics, socials, teas And festivals they hold. Here too the Grangers have their home, And semi-monthly meet, When farmers and there families come And brother patrons greet. Not far away is a country store And Post Office combined, One mail a day does it afford To satisfy our mind. A wagon-shop is near at hand A blacksmith’s shop beside, Here does the “Village Smithy” stand His anvil by his side. The street is lined on either side With houses large and small, Gardens and barn are there besides And room enough for all. Into districts the town’s divided, In all they number eight, In each a schoolhouse is provided For education’s sake.
The Methodist Church ceased to exist, Their building’s even gone, The ‘Piscopals have an edifice Where their services they perform. A paper-mill once was in town And seemed to prosper well, The mill long since burned to the ground Its ashes rest here still. Old people tell us of the day, When tan-works and shoe-shop, In operations were each day Long since their works did stop. Now when our people need new boots They to the village hie, Look O’er the merchant’s line of goods And ready-made boots do buy. Three saw-mills the town can boast, Of gristmills likewise three, Our industries are gone almost I fear soon all will be. Our hills and valleys are all here And they are here to stay, We’ve air so pure and springs so clear And these can’t run away. But boys and girls no sooner grow To men and women strong, Then to the city they all go to join the busy throng. They leave the farm to get along, In any it may, Because they rather join the throng That’s rushing on its way.
More charms has city life they think, Than quiet rural life, From pleasures cup they hope to drink And never meet with strife. It matters not where life is spent, Nor where our duty calls, Trials to to every one are sent To each a full share falls. So when old Killingworth you leave Do not expect to find, That cares, perplexities and grief Have all been left behind. This poem was written by Clara E. Parmelee Killingworth, Connecticut July, 1899