Again I saw, again I heard, I yielded myself to the perfect whole. THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW This poem of Longfellow's points a moral well worth the attention of every boy and girl. It is applicable in a wider sense than the mere words indicate. The poem is founded upon the fact that such a slaughter as is related here took place yearly in the village of Killingworth, Connecticut. It was the season when through all the land The merle and mavis build, and building sing Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-heart King; When on the boughs the purple buds expand, The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; And hungry crows assembled in a crowd Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, The village with the cheers of all their fleet; Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, Cassandra-like,' prognosticating woe; They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds. And a town-meeting was convened straightway And cornfields, and beheld without dismay The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds, Then from his house, a temple painted white, The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, Down the long street he walked, as one who said, "A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society!" The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, The wrath of God he preached from year to year, From the Academy, whose belfry crowned Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, And all absorbed in reveries profound Of fair Almira in the upper class, Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As pure as water and as good as bread. And next the Deacon issued from his door, His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; There never was so wise a man before; He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you so!" And to perpetuate his great renown There was a street named after him in town. These came together in the new town-hall, His air impressive and his reasoning sound; Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. When they had ended, from his place apart, Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, Alike regardless of their smile or frown, And quite determined not to be laughed down. "Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, From his Republic banished without pity The Poets; in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a Committee, The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street-musicians of the heavenly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. "The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood; The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood; Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song, "You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, |