Legend of Barkhamsted Light House.

by Lewis Sprague Mills.

THE LEGEND OF BARKHAMSTED LIGHT HOUSE A Tale from the Litchfield Hills of Connecticut

By LEWIS SPRAGUE MILLS September 5, 1874, Collinsville, Conn. -- March 7, 1965 East Hartford, Conn.

1. IN THIS LAND IS THE LOCATION, PLACE AND SCENERY OF MY STORY

This legend lingers in the vale, Like a mist upon the river, And children listen to the tale, When the wind is in the chimney.

In the Land of Wooden Nutmegs, In the Land of Steady Habits, In the rugged Mountain County, In the town of fair Barkhamsted Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the thrifty farmers labor From the rising to the setting Of the sun across the meadows, And the whip-poor-wills come calling, From the dark'ning fields and woodlands, Calling through the misty shadows, Till the lonely night has fallen, Lingers still this Light House Legend.

In the narrow, rocky valley Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the moon above the hill-tops, Shining big and round and yellow, Lights the farmers' weary foot-steps, As they slowly leave their labors, In the fields and rocky pastures, Looking towards the homes they've builded Here beside the quiet Tunxis Where they eat their frugal suppers And retire on beds of feathers, Lingers still this Light House Legend.

Midst the roaring winds of winter, Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the busy flax-wheel's turning With the yellow threads for linen, And the clanking loom is busy With the warp and woof of clothing, And the carpet loom and spool-wheel, Ever ready for the toilers, Clutter up the farmers' kitchens And the candles flicker darkly When the wintry blasts come creeping Through the drafty window cas.e.m.e.nts, Lingers still this Light House Legend.

In the houses of the farmers, Near the winding Tunxis River, Where 'the logs are burning slowly, In the great old-fashioned fire-place With the kettle hanging, swinging, And the wind outside is howling Roaring down the Tunxis Valley, Piling high the snows of winter On the road-way and the river 'Till the fox can hardly travel, Hunting for his chicken supper, Lingers still this Light House Legend.

O'er the hill-side and the meadows Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the hawk is hunting chickens, As they scratch around the farmyard, Knowing not the hawk is sitting, Watching from the lofty oak-tree, Thinking of a juicy chicken As a royal treat for dinner, Lingers still this Light House Legend.

In the winter and the summer, Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the oxen turn the furrows, And the house-wives do the milking, Where the windy roads are drifted And the spring-time mud is deepest, When the south-wind melts the snow-banks; Where the winters are the coldest, And the summers are the hottest-- Listen to the locusts singing In the trees beside the hay-field, See the thunder-heads are rising High above the hazy mountain; See the st.u.r.dy farmers hasten With the loading of the hay-carts, Ere the coming of the shower, Lingers still this Light House Legend.

Midst the forest on the hill-side Near the winding Tunxis River, Where, beside the granite boulders Indian pipes, so white and fragile, Bloom and blush in lovely silence, Safely hidden, unmolested, In the rugged Mountain County, In their shady, woodland bowers.

Is the site of ancient cabins, Was the home of Molly Barber.

In this Land of Wooden Nutmegs, In this Land of Steady Habits, In the rugged Mountain County, In the town of fair Barkhamsted, Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the groaning mills and presses.

Flow with sweet and luscious cider, In the sunny days of autumn, Lingers yet this ancient legend, Told by fathers to their children, Gathered round the supper table, When the candle-light is feeble And the wind is in the chimney--

In this Land of toil and business, In this land of sun and shadow, On the slope beside the river, Is the place and true location, Of this ancient Light House legend.

2. DWELT A PEOPLE PARTLY INDIAN.

Where the Tunxis wanders down, Twixt the mountains, rolling southward, In beauty through Barkhamsted Town, Dwelt a people partly Indian.

In a narrow vale sequestered, Through which flows the winding Tunxis, North of peaceful Pleasant Valley And the gra.s.sy fields of "Moose Plain,"

In the gate-way to the County, Gate-way to the "Mountain County"-- Ragged Mountain to the eastward, Rugged Woodruff to the westward, Guarding well the narrow valley, In the town of fair Barkhamsted, Where now grow the birch and alder, Hardy maple, oak and walnut, Graceful hemlocks, lofty pine trees, Spreading up the shady hill-side, Hill-side stony, steep and rocky, Was a group of ragged cabins, Dwelt in by a people blended, Partly white and partly Indian, Partly from the early settlers, And the vagabonds of travel.

3. LIVED THIS PEOPLE WITHOUT SYSTEM.

They dwelt beside the river's flow, Hunting, toiling through the seasons, Midst summer heat and winter snow, Living in the gloomy forest.

Gathered here from many quarters, Lived this people without system, On produce scanty of their village, Small potatoes near the cabins, Scanty corn between the boulders, Here and there a stalk of barley, Beans and squash and hardy melons, Eked out was it by their hunting, When they shot or trapped the squirrel, Or the partridge or the woodchuck, Woodchuck plump and fat and savory, Or the fearless woodland p.u.s.s.y, Walking calmly in the night time, Fearing not the hunters' arrows, Or the hound that followed slowly, Fearful of the mystic perfume, Or the fox so sly and cunning, Or the c.o.o.n from tree top watching, While the dogs were bravely hunting, Running 'round and 'round in circles, Or the rabbit and the chipmunk, Or by fishing in the river, Catching trout and eels and suckers, Where the darkling waters murmured; Or with fingers deft and nimble, Out of splints of bending hickory, Or the heavy strips of white ash, Wove in fabric strong and useful, Many ornamental baskets, Many useful brooms for sweeping, Which they sold for cash or barter.

On the hill side daily toiling, Found they roots and herbs for healing, Ferns to cure the poison ivy, Soft witch hazel steeped for bruises.

Many medicines they fashioned For the people of the township, Selling each for cash or barter.

4. DO YOU WISH TO HEAR THE STORY?

With one accord you ask to hear All the story of the Light House And those who dwelt with hardy cheer By the peaceful Tunxis River.

Do you wish that I should tell you?

Tell you how this people came here?

All the story of the Light House?

Of the cabins and the village?

Of this people and their labors?

Of the graveyard on the hill side?

Of the forest-sheltered graveyard?

Of this tribe who were the founders?

Of this tribe who were the children?

All the legend of the Light House By the peaceful Tunxis River In the town of fair Barkhamsted?

If you wish your questions answered, Listen to this ancient legend From the storied hills of Litchfield, From the confines of Barkhamsted, And the valley of the Tunxis.

5. PETER BARBER'S LOVELY DAUGHTER.

There was a maiden sweet and fair, Daughter of great Peter Barber, The richest man residing there, Always dignified and stately.

Far off then, in regions eastward, Of the time long past and vanished, Near the land where flows the river, Flows the mighty Central River Through rich Wethersfield a rolling Southward to the sea-born billows, Dwelt a rich and portly farmer By the name of Peter Barber, Always dignified and stately Was this wealthy Peter Barber, To this man was born a daughter, In the year of sev'nteen-fifteen, And he named her Molly Barber, Of appearance bright and comely, Fairest of the village maidens, Sunshine of her father's mansion, Loved and cherished by her mother.

Always truthful was this daughter, Honored, trusted and respected, By the people of the hamlet, Heeding well her parents' wishes.

6. SWEET AND FAIR AND MOST ATTRACTIVE WAS THIS LITHE AND GRACEFUL MAIDEN.

No fairer maid was ever seen Than this lovely Molly Barber, Who moved as graceful as a queen, Meeting all with joyous welcome.

Golden Yellow were her tresses, Banked in ringlets o'er her shoulders.

And her eyes the violets rivalled, Dancing lights like diamonds shining, Sparkling clear or laughter rippled, Glad with joy or sad with sorrow, Meeting each occasion bravely As a queen without a scepter.

Pearls from ocean's deepest waters Equalled not the shining jewels Glowing in her lips' enclosure.

Laughed she like the ringing silver, As she spoke of many matters, Shyly joking, singing, talking, Busy spinning, weaving, sewing, Ever happy, smiling gayly, Quoting often from the sagas, Ancient poems, words of wisdom, Apt replies to Cupid's arrows.

Sweet and fair and most attractive Was this lithe and graceful maiden To the crowds of beaux and daughters, Basking in the cheerful sunshine Of her smiles so sweetly beaming.

7. ONE ALONE MET HER APPROVAL.

And many came to win her hand, Using all the wiles of suitors, With all the arts at their command- One alone met her approval.

But of all the ardent suitors, Seeking for her hand in marriage, One alone met her approval, Found his eager courtship welcome, Found his visits were encouraged.

All the others were rejected, All the offers that they made her, All the flowers that they sent her, All the letters that they wrote her, All the poems that they brought her, All the presents that they gave her, All the riches that they spoke of, Failed to win her smiling promise.

8. ASKING FOR HER FATHER'S BLESSING.

With hopeful glance and gentle voice, Kneeling then before her father, She asked his blessing on her choice, Looking for a kindly answer.

Speaking shyly with her father, Molly told of her devotion, And her choice of all her suitors, Fair and honest, strong and hardy, Toiling daily for his living In the field and in the forest, Was the one her heart had chosen For her partner and her husband And the father of her children.

Kneeling there she softly asked him For his blessing on their union.