Chapter II: Part 2

Lying on her bed at midnight, Lonely Granny Chaugham murmured, So her children have reported, "Mother, I am weary waiting For a sight of you and father And my home beside the river-- All the vines above the door-way, All the flowers in the garden-- Looking back I now am weeping In my hut on Ragged Mountain.

"Follows here the gloomy shadow From our mansion by the river, And the angry words of father In my ears are ever ringing-- Still I see your sorrow, Mother, On the day my heart was broken By the angry words of father, 'Never shall you wed this beggar.' Mother! Mother! Have you missed me?

Then in answer came a whisper, From the darkness came a whisper, Moving like a darker shadow, Like a gloomy thought of sorrow In the blackness of the night-time, Making all the world seem hopeless, Speaking sadly in the darkness "Lo! I'm dead and long departed To the land beyond the sunset."

36. FEEBLE GREW HER AGED FOOTSTEPS.

Tis ever thus when hope is gone, Feeble grow the lagging foot-steps And slow the hands that carry on, Waiting for the final shadow.

Only then her footsteps faltered, Only then she seemed discouraged, Still she labored for her children, Cooking woodchuck in the cabin, Boiling squirrels in the kettle, And the fearless woodland pussy, Broiled above the glowing embers, Browned and ready for their supper; Pounded corn in ancient mortar, In the cabin in the forest, Caring for the many children, Indian children of the Light House, Tokens of her father's anger And her own unyielding answer.

Feeble grew her aged footsteps, Toiling there beside the river. Gone her youth and all her beauty, Gone her joyous smiles and laughter, Snowy white her tangled tresses. Now her thoughts kept turning backward To the distant days of childhood, To the happy days with mother.

Clearly still she thought of father, Say her children's children's children, And his bitter words of anger, Giving her no word of kindness, When she humbly sought his blessing, On the union she had chosen, Yet her spirit lived unbroken, But the weary years were many, Saddened by the bitter quarrel, "But" she whispered very slowly, 'Though the years again roll backward, Filling life with youth and beauty, Bringing crowds of wealth suitors, Never would I wed for money, Where my heart refused to follow." "Better toil through life in freedom Than be bought by suitor's money Like a lowly slave at auction."

37. GRANNY CHAVCHAM'S DAYS WERE OVER.

When autumn lay on vale and hill, Sadness came into the cabin Where Granny Chaugham lay so still, For her troubled life was ended.

When the autumn moon was yellow And the forest colors fading; When the maple leaves were falling, Floating on the Tunxis waters, And the birds were southward flying In the pleasant Indian summer, Thus 'tis written in the records, Granny Chaugham's days were over, All her joys and sorrows ended For she died in eighteen twenty-- And her age--one hundred five years.

38. WILLIAM WILSON READ THE BIBLE.

And there beside the open grave William Wilson spoke of Molly, A woman grandly true and brave, Worthy of their kind remembrance.

Gathered there her children And her children's children's children To the third great generation, On the side of Ragged Mountain, 'Neath the branches of the oak trees, When the autumn sun was slanting Westward o'er the Tunxis River.

Aged by many years of labor, William Wilson read the Bible, Spoke of Molly's sweet devotion To her husband and her children; Prayed that God above reward her.

Then they bore her to the graveyard, Left her there alone in silence, With a field-stone for a marker. Molly's life and work were ended. Burdened by her father's anger, She had struggled on unbroken, Hidden in the gloomy forest, On the side of Ragged Mountain In the town of fair Barkhamsted.

Had she wed a wealthy suitor, As her angry father ordered, Lived among the rich and stately, Long ago her name forgotten, Hidden in the dusty records Of the town beside the river, By the mighty Central River; Of her life no story written, Or her legend in the valley In the town of fair Barkhamsted.

39. SHE FAR OUTtlVED THE FARMER'S BRIDE.

In lowly hut on mountain side, Eating squirrel, skunk and woodchuck, She far outlived the farmer's bride, Eating beef and bread and butter.

Longer lived she in the cabin, Drinking from the Tunxis River, Pounding corn for hungry children; Longer lived she eating woodchuck, And the fearless woodland pussy; Longer lived she sleeping nightly On her bed of hemlock branches Than the housewives of the farmers, Living in their boarded houses, Eating beef and bread and butter; Drinking from the oaken bucket, Sleeping on their beds of feathers, Free from father's burning anger And the shouting of his orders.

40. HENRY, OFTEN CALLED MANASSA.

And then the son of Mossock came, Made his home in Colebrook River, To spear the fish and hunt for game, Fearing not the forest creatures.

After Molly's sad departure, To the Land of the Hereafter, Dwelt Elizabeth, unmarried, And a couple village children, Safely in the lonely Chaugham cabin, On the side of Ragged Mountain.

As the years were rolling onward, Few the children in the village, Scattered were the Light House people, Through the State, and through the nation, Seeking other habitations.

In the year of eighteen forty, South on Farmington's broad meadow, Dwelt a wicked Tunxis Indian, Henry, often called Manassa, Son of Solomon, the Mossock, From the realms of Satan's Kingdom, Where the Tunxis cut a channel, Southward through the granite mountain,

In the confines of New Hartford. In the year of eighteen forty Henry came to Chaugham's cabin, On the side of Ragged Mountain, Saw Elizabeth was busy, Still he lingered at the doorway, Telling of his many troubles, Begging food and begging money, Saying that he was related; Wandered through the little village,

Speaking softly, acting kindly, Hiding all his evil customs, Seemed a decent sort of fellow. Hinted marriage was his object, But Elizabeth refused him, So he went away to Colebrook, Went to Colebrook by the River-- Lovely Colebrook where the forests And the meadows swarmed with partridge, Rabbit, quail and merry squirrel.

When the early Colebrook settlers Built their cabins in the valley, In the Colebrook River valley, In the year of seventeen seventy, Through the woodlands roamed the panther, Looking downward from the branches, Seeking unsuspecting quarry. Shyly midst the gloomy shadows Catamounts were ever hiding. On the steep and rocky mountains, Bordered on the river valley, Bears were lurking midst the ledges.

Nightly through the winding valley, Rang the howling of the wolf-pack, Tracking deer along the meadows.

Pussy-footing through the woodlands, Seeking mice and other rodents, Were the wild cats, sleek and furry.

Here and there the busy beavers Built their dams and cozy houses On the river tributaries.

To this land of wild abundance In the year of eighteen forty, Came the wary son of Mossock, Built his shack against a boulder On the side of Corliss Mountain, Fearing not the forest creatures, Or the shadows in the night time, Fearing not the bears and wild cats.

Sly and crafty was this Indian, Sly and crafty like his father, Double talking with his neighbors, Hardy, early Colebrook settlers, Busy in their little village, Busy building shops and houses, Building meeting house and school house, Busy making cloth of cotton, By the sparkling Colebrook River.

There the busy store and tavern, Where the people spent their money.

On the turnpike through the village, Daily rolled the heavy stage coach, Mail and people coming, going By the sparkling Colebrook River.

Union Church, no longer needed For the Sunday prayer and sermon, Soon became the village center Where the people met for business, Where the people met for pleasure.

All the school was filled with children, Ninety children in the school house, Happy Colebrook River children Playing daily by the road side.

On each holy, Sabbath morning, All the church was filled with people. Friends and neighbors prayed together, Asking God to bless their children, Praying to God to bless their village By the sparkling Colebrook River.

41. MURDER OF BARNICE WHITE.

So Uncle Barnice White was slain, "For a dead man tells no stories," While Henry waited in the rain, "Tells no stories--tells no stories."

To Manassa's little shelter, Built against a mighty boulder, On the side of Corliss Mountain, Nightly came Manassa's comrades, Wayward youth then dwelling near him, Balcomb, Co'bb, Calhoun and Calburn, Talking, gambling, drinking cider, While Manassa, sly and crafty, Spoke of plans for raising money, "Plenty money and no working," Saying, "Lo! The Tollgate Keeper, Barnice White, has plenty money From his cider mills and brandy, From the Tollgate on the Turnpike,"

On a night all dark and gloomy, Leaving no one in his cottage, Cottage on the lower roadway, While the noisy winds were blowing, Uncle Barnice sought the village For a meeting at the school house.

"Now's the time," Manassa whispered, And Calhoun and Balcomb entered Barnice's lonely, darkened cottage, Stole his money and some cider.

When the aged Tollgate Keeper, Known to all as Uncle Barnice, Found his money had been stolen, He at once accused Manassa And his lazy, wayward comrades, Saying they were thieves and robbers.

Then Manassa, sly and crafty, Playing nightly, with his comrades, Games of cards and drinking cider, In his shack against the boulder, On the side of Corliss Mountain, Sang in accents low and solemn-- "Have you heard the ancient saying-- How a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, How a dead man tells no stories?"

Then he added in a whisper-- "Let us see this Tollgate Keeper In the darkness of the night time, In the bedroom of his cottage, Lest he tell the village people, Of the money that is stolen-- Tell them we are thieves and robbers, Only fit to be arrested."

March the thirtieth it happened, In the year of eighteen fifty.

In the shack against the boulder On the side of Corliss Mountain, When the night was dark and heavy And a dreary rain was falling, Gathered Cobb, Calhoun and Balcomb, With Manassa, drinking brandy, Playing cards, while all were thinking, "How a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, How a dead man tells no stories." 'Till the brandy jug was empty, And the game they played forgotten-- All the time the rain was falling.

"Better go," Manassa whispered, "Go to see this Tollgate Keeper, In the bedroom of his cottage, For a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, For a dead man tells no stories."

So they stole across the mountain To the road to Colebrook River, But Manassa, sly and crafty, Sly and crafty like his father, Sprained his ankle on the hill-side; Limped along in seeming anguish, Reached the slope on Woodruff hill-side,

Said he could no farther travel, Wanted Cobb to stay beside him In the rain and dismal darkness While his friends, Calhoun and Balcomb, Went to see this Tollgate Keeper In the bed room of his cottage, Where they slew him in the darkness, Slew the aged Tollgate Keeper, "For a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, For a dead man tells no stories."

Thus they murdered Uncle Barnice, March the thirtieth it happened, In the year of eighteen fifty.

In the meeting house in Colebrook-- Meeting house in Colebrook River-- Where the people gathered weeping, April third of eighteen fifty, Sadly spoke the aged parson Of the death of Uncle Barnice; Praised his many deeds of kindness In the Colebrook River Village.

In the graveyard is his tombstone, By the church in Colebrook River, Where we read the fearful story--

"BARNICE WHITE was murdered Mar. 30, 1850. Aged 69."

To Elizabeth, awakened On the holy Sabbath morning-- March the thirty-first, at sunrise-- Of the year of eighteen fifty, Came the sad and fearful story Of the awful deeds of Henry, Son of Solomon, the Mossock, And his friends, Calhoun and Balcomb.

Then she wept in shame and sorrow. Said it was a thing of evil Ever to have seen this Henry, Ever with him to have spoken, For he acted like the Ruler, Of that dread and awful kingdom, Where the savage sinners gather, By the Tunxis in New Hartford.

Quickly Henry was arrested, With his friends, Calhoun and Balcomb, Tried and led away to prison, Prison by the Central River. Later Henry won a "pardon" When 'twas found he only acted As a helper in the murder Of the aged Tollgate Keeper, And he died a helpless beggar In the Farmington red Town House.

Thus we find it in the records, Records of the ancient Light House, Records of the Town of Colebrook, Written by the early settlers, Telling of the roving Mohawks; Telling of the forts they builded For protection 'gainst the Indians Ever hunting in the forests, Fishing in the streams and river, Dwelling in their summer wigwams By the sparkling Colebrook River, Storing food and furs for winter.

In the homes along the river- Peaceful flowing Colebrook River-- Children listen to the stories Of the bears and wolves and wild cats, And the Mohawks on the meadows Living in their summer wigwams.

Sad their faces as they listen To the story of Manassa In his shack against the boulder On the side of Corliss Mountain, Drinking brandy with his comrades, Balcomb, Cobb, Calhoun and Calburn.

Sad their faces as they listen To the story of Manassa Singing, while he drank and gambled,-- "Have you heard the ancient saying, How a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, How a dead man tells no stories?"

Sad their faces as they listen To the story of the murder Of the aged Tollgate Keeper, Barnice White of Colebrook River, On that fearful night of horror, In the year of eighteen fifty.

To the school at Colebrook River, Where the happy children gather, As the years are rolling onward, Daily Barnice White's descendants Come to study with the others, Ever dreaming, looking backward To that awful night of horror.

Up and down the Colebrook River, In the homesteads of the people, And across the wooded hill-sides, Where they labor in the forests, Still this ancient story lingers Like a mist upon the river, Like a shadow on the mountain.

42. DEATH OF ELIZABETH.

The cabin home was bare and cold, And the winter winds were howling, When Elizabeth, all sick and old, Died at night, alone in darkness.

Few the people on the hill-side, As the years went rolling onward, Yet, Elizabeth still lingered In the ancient Chaugham cabin, Saw the village growing smaller, For the people were departing.

Saw deserted cabins falling, And the growing desolation On the side of Ragged Mountain.

Few the people in the village, In the little Indian village, Founded by her kindly parents, In the year of seventeen forty.

Still this ancient mountain cabin Sheltered Chaugham's lonely daughter. For a hundred years this shelter Stood against the storms of winter And the sultry heat of summer. For a hundred years this shelter Stood beside the rolling Tunxis And was viewed by many people.

Cold the cabin in the winter, For the winds were whistling through it. Damp the cabin in the summer, For the roof let in the water, And the ancient floor had settled, Yet Elizabeth still lingered In the shaky mountain cabin, For she had no other shelter.

Calmly watching as the seasons, Came and went across the hill-side, Here Elizabeth resided, Caring for the mountain cabin, Since her parents had departed To the Land of the Hereafter; Daily mending, sewing, cooking, On the side of Ragged Mountain, 'Till she reached the age of eighty-- Died in eighteen four and fifty, Died at eighty, still unmarried, Died alone at night in darkness, When the winter wind was howling, And was buried in the grave yard, Southward in the lonely graveyard, On the side of Ragged Mountain.

43. MOLLY'S LIFE AND WORK ARE ENDED.

Now forward through the years, Ever more and more descendants Are toiling midst hopes and fears, Mingling with the nation's millions.

Joseph Elwell married Tilda, Daughter born to Polly Wilson And her husband, William Wilson, Dwelt on Burlington's fair hill-side In a little forest cabin, Making baskets for the people, Sold them often in the village-- Collinsville beside the river.

Many dogs, awake and watching, Guarded well the home of Elwell, Through the daytime and the night time, Warding off intruding strangers.

Tilda, versed in healing powers, Found in many plants and flowers, Helped to cure the sick and wounded, Brought relief to ailing people.

Tilda's younger sister, Eunice, Married thrifty farmer Warner, Lived a useful life of service, Rearing sturdy, happy children, Known in Burlington and Canton.

Thus the story of these people Carries on to generations Yet unborn--an endless story.

Endless is the Light House story, All the lives of all the children, All adventures and achievements, To the eighth great generation- Others coming in the future-- All their names and all their service In their many fields of labor, So we leave it to the future, While the legends of this people Spread the fame of fair Barkhamsted, Far beyond our nation's borders, And the Light House on the hill-side Stands secure in song and story.

Ever onward still they travel, Father, son and grandson marching, Generations pressing forward, Down the vista of the ages.

Molly Barber and James Chaugham-- Dead and buried--gone forever: Scattered now are their descendants. Some are in the Town of Woodbury Busy digging graves and hunting; Some in Riverton and Colebrook, Some in Harwinton and Winsted, Some in Michigan are living.

Some there are who fought with honor Through the heat and sweat of summer And the wind and cold of winter In the Civil War for freedom Of the toiling colored people.

Others later 'gainst the Axis, Fought beyond the nation's borders, World War First and World War Second; Suffered in the deadly battles, On the sandy dunes of Tunis, On the plains of Central Europe, On Pacific's sultry islands; Gave their lives for peace and order And the things they thought were holy, Even as their mother, Molly, Sacrificed her life for honor, In a Ragged Mountain cabin.

Coming from the hill-side cabin, On the side of Ragged Mountain, In the town of fair Barkhamsted, By the rolling Tunxis River Generations speeding onward In an ever widening circle, Carry far the blood of Chaugham And his spouse, brave Molly Barber, Down the years with Adams, Hobson, Jacklin, Lawrence, Barber, Elwell, Webster, Doty, Berry, Cockran, And the thousands yet to follow.

Through the ages still they journey, Ever more and more descendants, From that Ragged Mountain cabin, Home of fearless Molly Barber And her spouse, the Honest Chaugham.

Onward now, and ever onward Shall they go, all through the ages To Eternity's last borders-- Sent by Peter Barber's anger And his daughter's resolution.

Had she yielded to her father Other souls would journey onward, Who is there to judge between them?

44. GONE THE CABINS FROM THE HILL-SIDE.

The tiger lilies blooming there Sing of ancient habitation, And lilacs' fragrance on the air Breathes a song of early settlers.

Gone the cabins from the hill-side, Friendly lights no longer twinkle Through the skins of fox and beaver.

"On the side of Ragged Mountain, In some crevice of the ledges, In some shady, sandy hollow, Is an old sea captain's treasure."

This a legend loudly whispers, While the people tell the story-- Story of an old sea captain, Spanish friend of Chaugham's father, From the confines of Block Island.

Oft he came to visit Chaugham, Loaded down with golden treasure, Often staid a week and longer, Talked of treasure ships and righting, Ship to ship upon the billows.

Oft he came to visit Chaugham, Loaded down with treasure, But departed empty handed.

Through the years the treasure hunters Search the side of Ragged Mountain, Near the site of Chaugham's cabin, For the old sea captain's money.

All the hill-side and the graveyard Have been spaded and examined, Searching for this fabled fortune, In a pot of gold reported, Buried on the lonely mountain.

Through the years the treasure hunters Search the side of Ragged Mountain, Searching, searching, never finding-- Still they're searching for the treasure, Buried on the mountain-side.

O'er this wild romantic hill-side Wildly blow the winds of winter, Softly sigh the summer zephyrs; Sad and lonely seems the forest, Watching o'er the empty cellars.

On a boulder by the roadside, Is a worn inscription telling Briefly of the ancient village.

Ever flowing, winding southward, Still the Tunxis River murmurs Of the Light House on the hill-side And the people of the village.

Standing there beside the river Echoes of the past come floating, On the sighing breezes floating, Voices of the Light House people, From the lonely mountain shadows, Home of ageless Molly Barber.

Tiger lilies blossom yearly, Near the shallow, empty cellars, Here and there a lonely lilac Flowers gaily in the spring time, Sweet reminder of the people Once residing in the village.

Here and there throughout the valley People say, "The lilacs growing Strong and hardy by my window Are descendants of the lilacs Growing in the Light House village, Planted there by Molly Barber."

Baskets fashioned on the hill-side By the lonely Light House people Still are cherished in the valley. Thus the name of Molly Barber Lives beyond her earthly journey In neat handiwork and flowers.

Forest shades the lonely grave yard Where within the dim enclosure Over fifty dead are buried-- Many have no standing markers.

There the grave of Molly Barber, Scarcely seen among the others, Mute reminder of the quarrel Of a maiden and her father; All the harshness of his anger, All the firmness of his daughter And the sorrow of her mother-- Grim reminder to all fathers, "Deal more wisely with your daughter."

45. HALLOWED IS THE LONELY GRAVEYARD.

A hush is on the mountain side-- Silent is the lonely grave yard. Asleep the Indian and his bride- Molly Barber--Honest Chaugham.

Now afar beyond the valley, In a world of toil and pleasure, In a world of joy and sorrow,

Last of all he told more slowly All the story of the graveyard, Many people proudly boasting, Say, ''The blood of Molly Barber And her spouse, the Honest Chaugham, From the Narragansett nation, And the Spanish Senorita Daily courses through my being."

Hallowed are the Light House cabins, Once on Ragged Mountain, In the lonely Peoples' Forest By the river in Barkhamsted.

Hallowed is the lonely grave yard With its palisade and headstones, Though they're crude and nameless markers, And the name of Molly Barber, With her spouse, the Honest Chaugham, Known afar in song and story.

Generations yet unborn, Oft shall listen to the story Of the famous Light House village, Home of ageless Molly Barber, By the Tunxis in Barkhamsted. Oft they'll meet the Light House children, As they journey through the ages, To the final Armageddon When the age of man is ended And the clock of time is broken.

46. FAMOUS THEN THE BASKET-MAKER.

Sol Webster and his aged wife Oft retold the famous story, Recounting scenes of Light House life On the side of Ragged Mountain.

Through the slowly rolling seasons Lived Sol Webster and his partner, Aged Mary Niles of Riverton,

Ever busy making baskets, Baskets in the Robert's homestead, Nestled on the slope of Hart's Hill, Near the Tunxis, south of Riverton, Westward o'er the shining river From the storied Light House village.

Many people came to see them, Many people asking questions, Questions of the Light House Village-- "Who was Chaugham? Who was Molly?"

Famous then the basket-maker, Grandson of fair Molly Barber, And her spouse, the Honest Chaugham.

Old and weak and poor they lingered, For a time beside the Tunxis, Telling each who stopped to listen, Al1 the story of brave Molly And her spouse, the Honest Chaugham, How he was with Spain connected Through the Spanish Senorita, How the Light House Village prospered With its two and thirty cabins On the side of Ragged Mountain, How the people made a living, Daily hunting, fishing, trading, Making baskets strong and useful; All the names of all the children

Of the hill-side generations. Last of all he told more slowly All the story of the graveyard, Southward on the sandy hill-side Where beneath the forest shadows, "Over fifty dead were buried."

Thus the ancient basket-maker Told the story of his people, Legend of the famous Light House In a paradise of beauty Midst the hills of Litchfield County. From his lips this ancient legend Of the village on the hill-side.

47. MOLLY BARBER, HONEST CHAUGHAM.

To-day the place is calm and still, Save the ripple of the Tunxis, Or zephyrs sighing on the hill-- Voices from the Indian village.

Ye who love the ancient legends Ye who read the ancient stories, Ye who visit ancient places, Linger in the Peoples' Forest On the side of Ragged Mountain In the town of fair Barkhamsted.

Listen as the breezes whisper, "Molly Barber--Honest Chaugham." Wander through the lonely graveyard Where the silent dead are resting, Pause beside the empty cellars; Listen to the Tunxis flowing Slowly southward through the forest.

Here it was on Ragged Mountain Years ago that Molly Barber, With her spouse, the Honest Chaugham Built her home and reared her children.

On the river and the hill-side Float the echoes of their voices, In the murmur of the waters, In the winds that sway the branches, In the breeze that whispers sadly, In the silence of the forest.

48. ALL THEIR TOIL AND SORROW ENDED.

And now we think them dead and gone, But their spirits live forever And through their children carry on Far beyond this quiet valley.

Molly sleeps within the graveyard, Hearing not the robins singing In the sweet and pleasant spring time; Feeling not the cold of winter, Or the burning heat of summer; Tasting not the woodland pussy, Or the woodchuck fat and juicy; Smelling not the scented lilacs, Or the springtime's sweet aroma; Seeing not the changing seasons With the sunlight and the shadows.

Molly Barber--Honest Chaugham, Resting in the lonely graveyard, All their toil and sorrow ended; Down the ages their descendants Carry on the life they sheltered Here beside the Tunxis River In their crude and lowly cabin, Forest home of Molly Barber And her spouse, the Honest Chaugham.

49. NOW THE LIGHT HOUSE'S GONE FOREVER.

The changing seasons come and go Swiftly through the ancient valley And here where Tunxis waters flow Ever shall this legend linger.

Still the Tunxis River wanders Slowly through the gloomy forest. Still the music of its water, In the quiet days of summer, Sings of peace and sweet contentment.

Gentle-flowing Tunxis River, Tranquil in the sultry summer, Quiet in the golden autumn, Peaceful in the hoary winter, Mighty in the early spring-time.

In the cold and dreary winters, Snows lie deep upon the hill-side, Scarce a sound to break the silence O'er the lonely, empty cellars And the graveyard in the forest.

Hardly changed the hill and valley Since the day that Molly Barber, With her spouse, the Honest Chaugham, Made her home on Ragged Mountain.

Still the Indian pipes are blooming, White and fragile in the spring-time, Hiding in their leafy bowers Midst the shadows of the forest.

Still the woodcock's busy tapping, Tapping on the mighty oak trees, O'er the pine-trees screaming, Circling high above the mountain.

Still the sea-gulls scan the river, Dipping low above the water, Seeking shining fish for supper.

Still the great, blue herons linger, Wading, fishing in the river, Calling, calling through the twilight.

In the latter days of autumn, "Who?", the solemn owl is calling, "Who is in the lonely valley?"

Oft when shades of night are creeping Softly through the ancient valley, Come the whip-poor-wills a calling Each to each across the seasons. Undisturbed they haunt the valley, For the Light House's gone forever, And the stage coach ceased its travels On the turnpike by the river Where the Light House Legend whispers, "Molly Barber--Honest Chaugham."

From the storied hills of Litchfield, From the confines of Barkhamsted, From the Vale of Winding Waters, Through the world this legend wanders From the parents to the children, And from neighbour unto neighbour By the spoken word and letter O'er the plains and o'er the mountains, O'er the rivers and the oceans, Through the onward rolling seasons, Toward the final Day of Judgment, When the deeds of Peter Barber And his wilful daughter, Molly, Shall be weighed and justly measured By the Ruler of the Ages.

50. ONE GOD FOR THE INDIAN AND THE WHITEMAN

Comely Tomo, called Servampsin, Sometimes worshipped with the Whiteman; Heard the Whiteman's prayers and sermons Heard the Whiteman read the Bible, Heard the story of creation For the Indian and the Whiteman, How the lands and seas were fashioned In the distant lonely ages By the unseen god in Heaven-- This the land of the Hereafter For the Indian and the Whiteman, Autumn land beyond the sunset.

Tomo listened to the story-- How the world was filled with darkness Till the coming of the sunlight, Saw the leaves come forth in springtime Saw the grass upon the meadow, Saw the coming of the bluebird, Heard the singing of the robin In the sunlit fields of summer For the Indian and the Whiteman.

Saw the falling snow in winter On the meadow and the forest, On the river and the mountain, For the Indian and the Whiteman.

Saw the ever changing seasons Meet the Indian and the Whiteman.

Saw the fox and busy beaver, Saw the deer along the meadow, Fashioned by the Great Jehova.

Saw the trout within the river, Made by Manito, the Mighty, For the Indian and the Whiteman.

Heard the Great Jehova speaking, Like Great Manito, the Mighty, To the Indian and the Whiteman, In the flashing of the lightning And the rolling of the thunder;

Found that Manito, the Mighty, And the god the Whiteman worshipped Were the same, the great Creator Of the Whiteman and the Indian.

Then he weekly called assembly, Talked of Manito, the Mighty, And the god the Whiteman worshipped, Saying, "Listen, O my children, Lo! There is but one Great Spirit For the Indian and the Whiteman, Let us worship him together."

"If you doubt my words of wisdom, If you think I am mistaken, Watch and listen when I'm dying. If you hear the rolling thunder, If you see the flashing lightning, Know that I am not mistaken. If you hear no rolling thunder, If you see no flashing lightning, Know that I have spoken vainly."

In the year of seventeen sixty, In the warm and pleasant autumn, When the yellow leaves were falling, When the sun was bright at noon-day, And the sky was clear and cloudless, Aged Tomo died at ninety.

All the people watched and listened, Waiting for the rolling thunder And the flashing of the lightning Proving Tomo's words of wisdom.

All the people watched and listened For a silence in the heavens Proving Tomo was mistaken.

Then a rolling crash of thunder Shook the little Indian village, And the sky was filled with lightning, Brighter than the sun at noon-day.

Rolling thunder, flashing lightning When the sky was clear and cloudless, Proved their chief was not mistaken, Proved there is but one Great Spirit For the Indian and the Whiteman.

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