When the autumn moon was yellow
And the forest colors fading;
When the maple leaves were falling,
Floating on the Tunxis waters,
And the birds were southward flying
In the pleasant Indian summer,
Thus 'tis written in the records,
Granny Chaugham's days were over,
All her joys and sorrows ended
For she died in eighteen twenty—
And her age—one hundred five years.
38. WILLIAM WILSON READ THE BIBLE.
And there beside the open grave
William Wilson spoke of Molly,
A woman grandly true and brave,
Worthy of their kind remembrance.
Gathered there her children
And her children's children's children
To the third great generation,
On the side of Ragged Mountain,
'Neath the branches of the oak trees,
When the autumn sun was slanting
Westward o'er the Tunxis River.
Aged by many years of labor,
William Wilson read the Bible,
Spoke of Molly's sweet devotion
To her husband and her children;
Prayed that God above reward her.
Then they bore her to the graveyard,
Left her there alone in silence,
With a field-stone for a marker.
Molly's life and work were ended.
Burdened by her father's anger,
She had struggled on unbroken,
Hidden in the gloomy forest,
On the side of Ragged Mountain
In the town of fair Barkhamsted.
Had she wed a wealthy suitor,
As her angry father ordered,
Lived among the rich and stately,
Long ago her name forgotten,
Hidden in the dusty records
Of the town beside the river,
By the mighty Central River;
Of her life no story written,
Or her legend in the valley
In the town of fair Barkhamsted.
39. SHE FAR OUTtlVED THE FARMER'S BRIDE.
In lowly hut on mountain side,
Eating squirrel, skunk and woodchuck,
She far outlived the farmer's bride,
Eating beef and bread and butter.
Longer lived she in the cabin,
Drinking from the Tunxis River,
Pounding corn for hungry children;
Longer lived she eating woodchuck,
And the fearless woodland pussy;
Longer lived she sleeping nightly
On her bed of hemlock branches
Than the housewives of the farmers,
Living in their boarded houses,
Eating beef and bread and butter;
Drinking from the oaken bucket,
Sleeping on their beds of feathers,
Free from father's burning anger
And the shouting of his orders.