Legend of Barkhamsted Light House Part 8

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 s.h.i.+ps and righting, s.h.i.+p to s.h.i.+p 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 fas.h.i.+oned 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 s.h.i.+ning 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, fis.h.i.+ng, 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 p.u.s.s.y, 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.