Legend of Barkhamsted Light House Part 6

35. "MOTHER, 1 AM WEARY WAITING:

And from the darkness came a voice-- "Gone forever are your parents; Long years ago you had your choice, Speaking with your angry father."

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 p.u.s.s.y, 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 G.o.d 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 b.u.t.ter.

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 p.u.s.s.y; 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 b.u.t.ter; 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 MANa.s.sA.

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 Mana.s.sa, 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.

p.u.s.s.y-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 G.o.d to bless their children, Praying to G.o.d 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 Mana.s.sa's little shelter, Built against a mighty boulder, On the side of Corliss Mountain, Nightly came Mana.s.sa's comrades, Wayward youth then dwelling near him, Balcomb, Co'bb, Calhoun and Calburn, Talking, gambling, drinking cider, While Mana.s.sa, 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.