Legend of Barkhamsted Light House / A Tale from the Litchfield Hills of Connecticut

by Lewis Sprague Mills

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 woodcock'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 GOD 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 god 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 grass 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.