The village on the hill-side grew,
Thirty cabins on the hill-side,
And all worked hard to feed the crew,
Hunting, fishing, weaving baskets.
Dwelling here within the forest,
In the sunshine and the shadow,
While the years were rolling onward,
Other children came and other
Cabins rose beside the river
In the shadow of the forest,
Till the cabins made a village--
Thirty cabins on the hill-side.
Through this little Indian village,
Ran a wood-land stream a-winding
Down the side of Ragged Mountain,
Small and scarcely seen in summer,
"Mud-pie Place" for Indian children,
Playing on the mountain side--
Mighty in the early spring time,
When the winter snows were melting;
Mighty in the sultry summer
Midst the flashing of the lightning,
Midst the rolling of the thunder,
Midst the heavy driven showers
On the mountain and the valley.
Many children in the village,
Children playing on the island,
On the island in the river,
Playing 'round their mimic wigwams,
Thinking they were mighty hunters
Seeking game among the bushes.
Children climbing to the tree-tops,
Children roosting on the branches,
Playing they were sleepy chickens,
Roosting out of reach of foxes.
Many little voices crying,
Many little feet to cover
When the winter snows were falling.
Many baskets to be woven
To exchange for food and clothing.
Many fishing in the river,
Seeking food for hungry children.
Many hunting in the forest,
Many making bows and arrows
For the hunting of the squirrel
And the lovely wood-land pussy.
Walking bravely through the forest,
That the village may not suffer,
That the food may be sufficient.
28. TRAIL-LIKE ROAD FOR WHITE MAN
TRAVEL.
The trail 'became a winding road,
Leading past the Indian village,
For man and beast with heavy load
Toiling through the gloomy forest.
In the year of seventeen hundred
Seventy-two was built a road-way,
First of all the winding road-ways,
Past the cabins on the hill-side,
Trail-like road for white man travel.
Nailed across the cabin windows
Were the skins of coons and foxes,
Hides of catamounts and beaver.
Through these shaggy window curtains,
Where small holes were burned for day-light,
Dimly lighting up the cabins,
Nightly shone the crackling fire-light
From the wood-fire in the fire-place,
Cheerful signs of habitation
To belated trav'lers toiling
On the road beside the river
'Neath old Ragged Mountain's shadow,
Thus the trav'lers tell the story
In their books about the Light House.