“Explore the Scarborough Valuation Books to uncover property and personal wealth details of residents and non-residents from Scarborough’s past. A valuable genealogy and local history resource, fully indexed for easy searching; many of the books/registers have been digitized.”
Ron Romano’s The Graves of Scarborough’s Paupers: The Town Farm Cemetery, 1867–1891 offers a moving, thoroughly researched account of Scarborough’s 19th-century approach to caring for its poorest citizens. When the town purchased the Brackett Farm in 1867, it became a self-sustaining alms house for residents who were unhoused, mentally or physically unwell, or otherwise unable to care for themselves. A cemetery was established onsite, where at least 19 individuals were interred, including Deborah Dyer and Priscilla Burnham. Romano reconstructs lives often forgotten, using town reports, census data, vital records, and cemetery surveys. He details the farm’s operations, changes in overseers, and the transition of remains from the farm’s cemetery to Dunstan Cemetery around 1891. The cemetery and farm, once central to Scarborough’s welfare efforts, are now lost to development, but through this paper, their history and the names of those buried there are spoken again and remembered.
Topics include:
The 1821 Town Warrant
Scarborough’s Earliest Annual Reports
1850 & 1860 US Censuses for Scarborough
“The Poor of the Town Should Find a Home”
The Sad End of Daniel Richards
More Than Four Decades of Care for Samuel Snow
The Brackett Farm becomes the Town Farm
The First Residents of the Farm
Deborah Dyer: First to Be Buried at the Town Farm Cemetery
The Farm’s Second Keepers
Following the Paper Trail
The Whereabouts of Samuel Plaisted’s Remains
Through the 1870s
Through the 1880s
More Burials at the Town Farm Cemetery
Into the 1890s
The Longest-term Resident of the Farm
Curiosities in the 1892 Town Report
Checking Records Through 1899
The Overworked Matron
The End of the Farm
Lingering Questions…
…and Summary Thoughts
The Paupers’ Field at Dunstan Cemetery
There are also four appendices:
Appendix A: Those who died at the Town Farm, 1867 to 1891, and arebelieved to have been interred at the farm cemetery.
Appendix B: Overseers of the Town Farm, 1867 to 1900(As recorded in Town Annual Reports).
Appendix C: Number of Residents at the Town Farm, 1867 to 1900(some years unreported).
Appendix D: Others who died while under the town’s care and may beburied at Dunstan Cemetery’s paupers’ field.
Ron Romano’s Letting Out the Poor uncovers the mid-19th-century system of poor relief in Scarborough, Maine, through the logbook of Ebenezer Libby, Overseer of the Poor from 1857–1867. The paper explains how impoverished residents were “let out” to townspeople—essentially placed in homes where their room and board would be covered by the town in the lowest possible amount—highlighting the lives of individuals such as Augusta Lowell, Priscilla Burnham, and Theodore Libby. Romano contextualizes this practice within broader social norms and evolving attitudes toward poverty. The paper preserves the humanity of the town’s forgotten residents and includes a full transcription of Libby’s detailed log entries.
Nestled along the scenic Cape Shore Drive near Scarborough’s Spurwink River stood a humble shack with a simple sign: “Clams.” For over a decade, Ivory Kilborn lived and worked there, earning a reputation as a master digger and shucker of clams—the finest clams that the clean, sandy flats of the Spurwink could provide. In an era when coastal clamming was both a livelihood and a tradition, Kilborn embodied the independence, hard work, and community spirit that defined life in Scarborough. This article from the early 20th century provides a vivid glimpse into Kilborn’s daily life, his booming clam business, and the enduring charm of Scarborough’s shoreline culture.
(This article was taken from the Lewiston Journal, Magazine Section, front page, April 4, 1925.)
The Life of a Clam Digger on the Spurwink
By Alfred Elden
[Written for the Lewiston Journal.]
Just before coming to ‘Mitchell’s erstwhile famous roadhouse, on the popular Cape Shore Drive a house closed, this year, but noted for half a century for its shore dinners, down thru the fields toward the glistening Spurwink River, there stands a little building. There is a grassy driveway to it from the road and at the entrance a plain sign in black and white bears the single word “Clams.” But that sign means a lot to these who have made the acquaintance of Ivory Kilborn, the proprietor and occupant of the little house. It means that there they can get the real thing in clams.
And to the visiting motorist there is something about that sign that gives him pause and finally induces him to turn his car into the driveway. The entire picture is suggestive of the fact that here one may find clams that are clams. If it is low tide there is the clean, sandy bed of the Spurwink River, a shimmering, winding estuary, which twists itself around a wooded peninsula a half mile distant and then merges its waters with those of the open Atlantic at the very easterly end of Higgins Beach.
Here, surely, one will find clams free from the taint of sewer and rubbish infected flats, clams of the variety of those that generations ago made Scarboro famous.
And thousands upon thousands who have bought clams of Ivory Kilborn have found their expectations fully realized. For twelve years summer and winter this clam man has lived most of the time absolutely alone in his little house. It is as scrupulously clean as the inside of one of Uncle Sam’s lighthouses, for Kilborn has the time and ‘the inclination to keep things neat. There is a small living and sleeping room combined, altho during the day the couch bed gives no indication of the use to which it is put at night. There is a smaller kitchen and, until this year, that was all. Seeing the possibility or augmenting his clam business with a side line Kilborn added another room where he keeps cool drinks, cigars and cigarets. He also changed the location of his front door and enlarged the piazza. In a little shed-like inclosure at the rear he shucks out his clams.
“Yes,” admitted Kilborn to a question, “I have lived here all alone for a dozen years. Get lonesome in winter? Bless you, no! There are plenty of neighbors back up the road there. I call on them and they call on me. We play cards, listen to talking machines and even radio just as you folks in the city do. As long as we get a decently open winter I don’t mind it. But one like we had two years ago! Whew! I think I’d move into town if I thought we would have another one. Everything was frozen up, even the river here clear to its mouth and it is some cold winter when it will do that. Couldn’t clam, couldn’t do anything except shovel a path to the road, pile fuel on the fire and read and smoke. This winter wasn’t so bad and last winter—why, a man could work half the time in his shirt sleeves. I dug clams almost every day and sent them into market by a neighbor who called for them.
Asked where he got his clams and how many he dug brought forth some interesting information from Kilborn.
“I dig ’em all from a point opposite Mitchells to the mouth of the river. Not more than a quarter of a mile, I should say. Getting scarce? Bless you, no. I been digging ’em winter and summer for 12 years and I don’t see but there are just as many as there ever were. I don’t plan to take anything less than two and a half inches and most of them go bigger than that. They tell me and f’m my observation I guess it’s right, that a clam will grow from the seed to full size in about three years. And there’s a lot of clams in the Spurwink here.
“They really are wonderful good ones, too. Better than those they get out of the Nonesuch River beyond here, meatier and a little sweeter, I think.”
In reply to a query as to whether he ever sold as much as a bushel a day to passing automobllists, Kilborn looked up quizzically and then, seeing that the question was asked in good faith, laughed as he answered:
“Of course this isn’t a clam factory but I average more than five bushels a day and on Sundays I sell between twenty and thirty bushels. Dig ’em alone? Generally, altho I’ve got a feller helping me during the rush months last summer. But I’ve dug from four to six bushels lots of days. A good many folks buy clams for steaming but there’s also a bunch of ’em likes ’em fried or made into stews so I have to do a lot of shuckin’. A bushel of clams such as I get will shuck out just twelve full, solid quarts ”
A little mental computation here Indicates possibilities in Kilborn’s industry. Accepting his minimum of five bushels a day. Supposing he shucks out half of that amount. If each bushel nets 12 quarts of clams that would mean six quarts of shucked bivalves per bushel or thirty quarts a day. At 40 cents a quart that would total $12. Then there are the other half of the day’s dig sold for steaming at 40 cents a peck, four pecks to the bushel, and Sundays when twenty to thirty bushels are sold, and—but what’s the use! Kilborn is naturally not giving out many statistics, but living expenses can’t be very great in the little house and the upkeep of a small skiff and a few clam rakes and baskets isn’t overwhelming. So it is fairly sure that he isn’t worrying about any wolf sneaking across the flats and in thru his back door.
Possibly this line of reasoning is what induced two yeggs to sneak up on him one dark night two years ago, knock him unconscious and escape undetected with his roll of more than $100. That taught him not to keep money in the house with him for its location is just far enough from the neighbors so as absolutely to isolate him at night.
“If I cared for gunning I could get plenty of black ducks, old squaws, coots, sheldrakes, whistlers and the other varieties in the fall,” said Mr. Kilborn. “Right across the river there, back of the woods is Great Pond. That’s where the Great Pond Gun club is. Lot of city folks from Boston and New York own it and have the rights to the shooting. They get a heap of birds. It’s a wonderful place, too, for pond lilies. One chap makes a pretty penny during the summer getting lilies and taking them in to Portland where he sells them on the street or around at the houses.”
Not such a bad life in summer, for the little clam house really occupies a charming site and in fair weather every few minutes brings customer-vistors. And even in winter, unless, as Kilborn said, it happens to be too bitter, it might be much worse. After all this clam man is absolutely independent and making all he needs. What more can mortal ask?
Sitting at the triangle of Black Point Rd, Winnocks Neck Rd, and Old County Rd, the historic McCullum (Hunnewell) House—also known as the “Red House”—holds a special place in the town’s story. Believed to be one of the oldest houses in Cumberland County, it was long associated with the Hunnewell family, particularly “One-Arm” Roger Hunnewell, a veteran of Louisburg.. This 1915 news article from the Narragansett [Times] explores the house’s construction, its changing ownership, and its connection to Captain Roger Hunnewell, who was killed in 1703 during a skirmish at Black Point. The “Red House” still stands as a symbol of Scarborough’s past, conflicts, and early Scarboro history.
The house shown above stands at the head of Plummer’s Neck in Scarboro, and is known as “the red house,” formerly for many years as the McCullum house, and at an earlier day as the Hunnewell house, since “One-Arm Hunnewell” spent most of his life there. It is now owned and occupied by Edwin E. Daniels.
The sloping appearance of the north corner of the house is not a freak of the | camera, but is in the house itself,1 which apparently was built that way, having perhaps first stood on a side hill.
Curiously enough, although this is perhaps the oldest house in Cumberland county, there is even greater interest in telling what is not than what it is. It is not the house, nor the land it stands on with the house on the land, of the noted Hunnewell, the famous old military man and Indian-killer. The evidence of the wonderfully complete manuscript records of the Mr. M. P. Hunnewell, is that he lived on the1 Bowley farm, (the home of the ancestors of the late Elder Peter Libby of Buxton and Master Joseph Libby of Portland), and deeds are on record where grandsons of Capt. Hunnewell sold large tracts of land northerly of the Bowley house to the Libbys.
An unmistakable proof is the town record of the laying out of the piece of road from the house where Mr. Lyons now lives to Mr. Bowley’s house. The road from Portland formerly went straight past Mr. Lyons’s house and •entered the Black Point road about where the Fogg road does now, while
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the Fogg road, instead of coming out as now, kept south up Poak’s Hill and came out on the north side of the graveyard. (At a still earlier day, back of 1760, the Fogg road kept straight down and came out near Joseph Fogg’s house.)
The town vote referred to was at a meeting held May 2, 1796, and reads as follows:
“By the Request of a sufficient Number of freeholders and Inhabitants of the town of Scarborough we have laid out a Road as follows Viz. Beginning a Little to the South of Hunwells old home so called and Run South Eighty Degrees east across Leat Thomas Libbys land to catch and join that leads over the Causeway. Said Road to be four Rods in width.”
Wm. Tompson ] Selectmen Peter Libby ] of Per Stalely ] said town
Excepted by the Town May 2, 1796 Voted to Discontinue a Road from where said highway begins till it comes to William Thompson’s land.
That the people of Scarboro in 1796 knew where “Hunewell’s old home” was and not to be disputed is shown. The Indian Killer was one of the most famous of Scarboro’s inhabitants, and the house he had lived in was within one half mile of Black Point village, and from “One-Arm” Roger Hunnewell, who was living at the time this vote was recorded.
The site of the house cannot now be exactly located, as the slight knoll on which it stood has been excavated for
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sand, and the traces of the old foundation have been removed. It stood where the excavation now is at the bend in the present road, across the road from Mr. Lyons’s house.
Capt. Hunnewell was killed Oct. 6, ; 1703, with a large party of Black Point ; and Biddeford Pool men, who had joined their strength to venture into the woods to drive out their cattle. Only one man escaped, and he without I knowing what became of the others. I While their bones lay bleaching , through the winter, Capt. Hunnewell’s I widow, a refugee in Boston, did not lose her faith in his prowess to believe he still lived. Her pitiful petition, dated March 20, 1704, is printed at page 333 of the records of the General Court at Boston.
It should be a sufficient quietus to the false story, started by the careless statements of some $5-per newspaper writer, to say that 55 years elapsed after Capt. Hunnewell’s death before any Hunnewell ever owned the land where the red house stands.
The deed to his grandson, Roger Hunnewell, who had lost his right arm in the taking of Louisburgh, bears date 1758. This deed was from Moses Plummer, for two acres of land, without buildings, the price £5, 6sh., 8 p. Eleven years earlier, 1747, he had bought from James Libby seven acres of land on the opposite side of Nonesuch river, next north of the Causeway bridge and road, “with the house and barn and fences thereon situate.’’ Three years after buying the Plummer two-acres he gave a deed of it, for £50, to James Libby, Moses Plummer and his brother, Richard Hunnewell “together with the dwelling house and barn standing on said land.” This was a deed of trust, or for security.
But it must not be supposed that the red house was built between 1758 and 1761. An aged Scarboro man, Mr. Plummer, used to attribute great age to this house, saying that he had been told it was built at the same time with an old house on Plummer’s Neck. Also it is said that the beams of the house show holes for guns, which would have been needless in Scarboro in a house built so late as 1758. It seems quite likely that the house was first built near Jamaica mill and was moved across the river by Mr. Hunnewell, who was given a license to retail liquors, as with only one arm he could hardly support his family. In Oct. 1757 the Boston and Portland post road was removed from the Causeway Bridge, where it passed the land and buildings bought from James Libby, and laid out over Oak Hill, very near where the newly macadamized state highway now passes. It may be that the house was moved so as to convenience the patronage of the many families then living on Plummer’s Neck.
The circumstances of Hunnewell’s losing his arm have been lost from memory, but certainly his Colonel, John Tyng, was good to him. Perhaps Col. Tyng owed a good deal to Hunnewell’s courage. At any rate he obtained the legal title to Hunnewell’s property, gave a life lease of it good for the lifetime of Mr. Hunnewell and his wife, and the property was held in the Tyng family over fifty years. In 1811 the Tyng heirs, after Mr. Hunnewell and his wife had both died, deeded the property to their son, John Hunnewell, who soon sold out, the land on the east of Nonesuch river to Richard Libby, while Capt. Cyrus Libby acquired the house and house lot. From Capt. Cyrus Libby the title can be easily traced to Hugh McCullum, and from him to the present owner.
ENDNOTES
[i] The clipping says the paper is “The Narraganset,” but the remainder of the paper is cut off. Ads on the back page side are for Portland, Maine businesses. My query of ChatGPT indicated “The Narragansett Sun was published in Portland, Maine, from 1892 to 1916. This weekly newspaper served the local community during that period.”
The back side also provides a date of “BER 16, 1915” suggesting it was published in the Fall of 1915.
