JOCK KELLY AND HIS BIRCHES Sprague's Journal of Maine History. Vol. VIII AUG., SEPT., OCT. 1920 No. 2 page 119-120 JOCK KELLY AND HIS BIRCHES On the 28th day of July of this year the editor was riding over the old highway between Monson and Greenville with "Bill" Bonney, known in more polite language as the Honorable William L. Bonney of Bowdoinham, Maine, who was speaker of the Maine House of Representatives in 1917. On the summit of a hill over which this road passes in the northerly part of the town of Shirley and near the Greenville town line, is a prosperous and fine looking set of farm buildings. At this place on either side of the road is a pretty little grove of white birches, not transplanted shade trees, but standing as first planted by the hand of nature. Sufficient space was left around each to prevent the hardest hearted and most technical road-builder from slaughtering them "because, you know, they don't let the sun onto the road." They are also so far from the road-bed that it would seem no sane excuse can ever be found for their destruction. It is a charming little cluster of trees along a dusty highway, a delightful sight to any lover of nature. It attracted the attention of the ex-Speaker, who made the remark that "those trees must have been left by a wise man who had the soul of a true artist." As we sped along towards the shores of Moosehead Lake, my memory was in the past for three or four decades, and we saw the big, rugged Jock Kelly with a rough exterior and a kind heart, who left this monument to his memory to bless future generations of travellers along the old highway. We told Jock's story to our friend, who wondered why Professor Knowlton "had never made it a subject of rhyme." Thus on the following day, while under the kindly shade of the Professor's own trees at his pleasant home in Monson village, the suggestion that his muse had neglected a duty in this regard was made to him. The result was the following contribution to the Journal, highly appreciated by us: He was rugged and rough, crude in his speech, Could swear more prolific than the parson could preach; Yet down in the innermost depths of his heart Was a love for beauty in nature and art. With peavy and pole he could break the worst jam, And set it afloat with a low muffled "damn". He could see the "king log" with a glimpse of the eye, Through he never had read our Day or Bill Nye; Never heard of the Druids who worshipped the tree; Never knew of the oaks of the French Tuileries; Yet the birches so white, so tall and so trim, Were objects of beauty, and sacred to him. He never had heard of the Venus of Milo; Was much better versed in euchre and "high-low;" Yet he loved to sit mid his birches so trim, Smoke his pipe and admire each delicate limb, When he cut down the trees to make him a farm, He carefully guarded each tree from all harm. They stand there today a monument true To a man that loved nature far more than he knew. Never had heard about Bryant and the temples of God, Or the cedars of Lebanon or oaks of Ashrod; Yet he saw in his birches a temple so fine That the hand that planted them must be divine. Ye parsons who ride in you automobile, Forget for a moment your partisan zeal, And let it not ruffle a thread of your "frock" To pray for the soul of rugged old Jock. -- William S. Knowlton. (c) 1998 Courtesy of the Androscoggin Historical Society ************************************************* * * * * NOTICE: Printing the files within by non-commercial individuals and libraries is encouraged, as long as all notices and submitter information is included. Any other use, including copying files to other sites requires permission from the submitters PRIOR to uploading to any other sites. We encourage links to the state and county table of contents. * * * * The USGenWeb Project makes no claims or estimates of the validity of the information submitted and reminds you that each new piece of information must be researched and proved or disproved by weight of evidence. It is always best to consult the original material for verification.