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 h.o.a.ry 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 woodc.o.c.k'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d the Whiteman worshipped Were the same, the great Creator Of the Whiteman and the Indian.

Then he weekly called a.s.sembly, Talked of Manito, the Mighty, And the G.o.d 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.