While hearth flames danced in magic plays,
James and Molly told their children
The stories of their childhood days—
Wethersfield and Narragansett.
Molly told them of her mother,
All the kindness of her mother
And the story of her father,
Of her proud and wealthy father
And her home beside the river
Where the big canoes were floating
On the mighty Central River;
Told them of the early plowing
In the fields beside the river,
And the harvest in the autumn—
All the golden corn and pumpkins.
Told them of the holy Sabbath,—
How in church the people gathered,
Listened to the pastor's sermons,
Prayed to God for his protection.
Taught them all to say "Our Father— "
Ere they closed their eyes in slumber,
Tried to teach them to be Christians,
Even in the lonely forest.
Then she told them of the parties,
With the fiddling and the dancing,
'Till their minds were filled with wonder
As they listened to her stories.
Chaugham told them of his parents
Living in their Indian wigwam
On the confines of Block Island,
Storied "Island of Manisses,"
Rising midst the swinging ocean.
There between the storm-lashed ledges,
With the shifting sand and sea-weed,
Ever drifting all about them
Lie canoe and sailing vessel,
Broken by the wild waves' fury.
Chaugham told them of his boyhood,
Of the fishing in the ocean,
Of the hunting in the forest
And the coming of the white man.
Told them of his Indian father,
All his skill in fishing, hunting.
Told them of the forest dances,
Taught them how to pray to Manito,
How to scare the evil spirits,
Dji-bai, from the fires eternal,
Souls of wicked ones departed
From the pathways of the living
To the fires beneath the mountains,
Fires beneath the smoking mountains,
Where they surfer through the ages,
Coming, back at times in anger,
Seeking vengeance on the living.
Told them of the talking spirits,
Ghosts that wander in the night-time,
Viewing old familiar places;
Ghosts that whisper in the darkness,
Souls of those who once were with us.
Souls of honest, kindly people
Ever absent in the day-time,
Often present in the night-time;
Always peaceful, harmless spirits,
From the Happy Realms of Sunset,
From the wigwams of the Blessed,
Souls of those who have departed
Coming back to scenes deserted,
Seeking old familiar places,
Singing, talking in the darkness,
Told them of the festive dances,
In the autumn in the moonlight,
When the ears of corn were yellow
And they gathered in the harvest.
Taught them how to chant sedately,
When they met along the pathway,
"Hun-da-hun-he; Hun-da-hun-he,"
Peacefully we walk together,
"Hun-da-hun-he; Hun-da-hun-he."