Clara E. Parmelee: Poet, Teacher, Organist

“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,

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 MethodistChurch 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