Lying west of Indian Hill-top,
'Twixt the river and the village,
Was an open, rolling up-land,
Cultivated by the Indians
In those days now dim and distant.
Here the golden corn was planted
In the soft and pleasant spring-time.
Here the golden ears were gathered
When the harvest moon was yellow.
Sheltered from the winds of winter
Were the twenty Indian wigwams
By the circle of the mountains,
Rising westward, northward, eastward,
And beyond the rolling up-land,
Was an inlet from the river,
From the swiftly flowing Tunxis.
Still and deep this inlet water
Where the trout were ever plenty
In the cove below the meadows
'Neath the bank so steep and rugged.
In the warm and pleasant summer,
Here canoes were safely floating.
Farther westward rolled the Tunxis,
And the ripple of the waters
Ever filled the place with music.
Where this Tunxis tribe of Indians
Dwelt in peace upon the hill-side,
Have been found their pots for cooking,
And their hatchets, knives and arrows
Made of stone from Hedgehog Mountain.
Where the Indians built their wigwams,
Safely hidden midst the mountains,
Guarded by the Tunxis River,
Now the whiteman has his cabins,
Summer cabins near the river,
Sheltered by the ancient forest,
Midst the glory of the sunrise
And the splendor of the sunset.
Where the light canoes were floating
Are the wild ducks swimming, diving.
And above the pines and hemlocks
Crows are calling through the seasons.
Dressed in dirty Indian fashion,
Chaugham mingled with the others,
Seemed a member of the village.
Molly, stained all dark and dusky,
Crudely clothed in Indian garments,
And her hair all greased and blackened,
Combed out straight as was the custom
Practiced by the Indian women,
Carried water from the river,
Pounded corn and mended blankets,
Seemed a simple Indian woman.