Two doors from Emilie Loring in Blue Hill lived the Clays. Edith Clay belonged to the Blue Hill Garden Club and the League of Women Voters. She and her second husband, George, were Emilie’s Blue Hill neighbors for over thirty years.
Edith’s first husband was Francis Candage, with whom she had two children. While yet a young mother, Edith wrote a poem about “Bluehill,” as it was called then.
This was 1911, Emilie’s second full summer at Stone House, and the poetic images then were as true to life as they remain today.
Bluehill by Edith Candage
At the foot of a rugged mountain Near the head of a winding bay, Is nestled a little village, And here, at the dawn of day, As the sun rises over Long Island And sheds its glad beams all around, The light is caught and reflected From many a window in town.
It is quiet and unpretentious When the winter winds hold sway, When the earth is robed in ermine, And ice locks up the bay. Two plain, white, modest churches, Whose spires point toward the sky, Seem ever a gentle reminder Of a better house on high. And when the Sabbath quiet Steals over each heart and home, Their bells ring a glad invitation Come, worship the Saviour alone. For all through the week He has given To teach His love and tenderest care; This is my day, saith the Lord, I only claim that which is fair.
Here, too, is a temple of learning, Which by many a precept and rule Gives a better education Than that of the common school. And when in the streets of the village, My footsteps happen to stray, When the sun, just sinking in the west, Proclaims the close of the day, I meet a band of children, Then, unmindful of time and of place I try to read a future in each bright and smiling face. And, Oh! that the hearts of the teachers Be lifted to God in prayer, For wisdom, for strength and guidance For the sake of the boys and girls there.
But when the winter is over And the sun shines warm and bright, Then the trees have brand-new coats, And the frogs are heard at night. The ice drifts down by the lighthouse On its way to the open sea, The waters once more dance and sparkle, As if fairly glad to be free.
The robin returns and builds his nest, As he trills a song to his mate, And here she sits on her pretty blue eggs For she knows it's getting late. Now June has come, with its warm, bright days, And its blossoms, rich and rare, When the trees afford a friendly shade, And fragrance fills the air.
It is now we welcome the summer guests, For our hearts are filled with good cheer, We are always glad to have them back As the time comes 'round each year. Just a little way down from the village, On the shores of the little bay Many people have built them summer houses, And here they come to stay.
Through the long, hot days of summer, Far away from the din and the strife, From the hearts of the busy cities With their throngs of human life. When the roads are hot and dusty, And not a leaf stirs on the trees, Just take a drive to South Bluehill, For there's always a salt sea breeze.
Which is wafted to us from the ocean, Down below where it joins the bay, You'll find it cool and refreshing On a long, hot, summer day. You have to cross the Iron Bridge Just down at the foot of a hill, Where the rocks are covered with salt sea weed, And the water is never still.
Here millions of tons of water Flow in and out each day Up to the head of the Salt Pond, Then back again to the bay. 'Tis a natural bit of scenery, A part of His great plan, For it speaks of the infinite wisdom of God, And the littleness of man.
If you're here in the golden autumn, When the grain is garnered with care, When the leaves are changing to crimson and gold, You'd better go to the fair. For perhaps you would like the races, If not, there's a game of ball, You may have a ride on the merry-go-round, And look at the things in the hall. Then there are always the fakirs, With the latest new things to sell, Perhaps you can earn yourself a cane, If you handle the rings quite well. The hours pass by so swiftly, The night comes all too soon, Now, don't forget the baby, You'd better get him a balloon.
With the mountain to form a background, No matter, in sun or in rain, It's as fair a little village As you'll find on the coast of Maine. We may see through rose-colored glasses, For it's Home, Sweet Home, you know, And that is always dearest, No matter wherever you go.
I hope you’re all enjoying these first weeks of fall.