The changing seasons come and go
Swiftly through the ancient valley
And here where Tunxis waters flow
Ever shall this legend linger.
Still the Tunxis River wanders
Slowly through the gloomy forest.
Still the music of its water,
In the quiet days of summer,
Sings of peace and sweet contentment.
Gentle-flowing Tunxis River,
Tranquil in the sultry summer,
Quiet in the golden autumn,
Peaceful in the hoary winter,
Mighty in the early spring-time.
In the cold and dreary winters,
Snows lie deep upon the hill-side,
Scarce a sound to break the silence
O'er the lonely, empty cellars
And the graveyard in the forest.
Hardly changed the hill and valley
Since the day that Molly Barber,
With her spouse, the Honest Chaugham,
Made her home on Ragged Mountain.
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.
Saw the falling snow in winter
On the meadow and the forest,
On the river and the mountain,
For the Indian and the Whiteman.
Saw the ever changing seasons
Meet the Indian and the Whiteman.
Saw the fox and busy beaver,
Saw the deer along the meadow,
Fashioned by the Great Jehova.
Saw the trout within the river,
Made by Manito, the Mighty,
For the Indian and the Whiteman.
Heard the Great Jehova speaking,
Like Great Manito, the Mighty,
To the Indian and the Whiteman,
In the flashing of the lightning
And the rolling of the thunder;
Found that Manito, the Mighty,
And the god the Whiteman worshipped
Were the same, the great Creator
Of the Whiteman and the Indian.
Then he weekly called assembly,
Talked of Manito, the Mighty,
And the god the Whiteman worshipped,
Saying, "Listen, O my children,
Lo! There is but one Great Spirit
For the Indian and the Whiteman,
Let us worship him together."
"If you doubt my words of wisdom,
If you think I am mistaken,
Watch and listen when I'm dying.
If you hear the rolling thunder,
If you see the flashing lightning,
Know that I am not mistaken.
If you hear no rolling thunder,
If you see no flashing lightning,
Know that I have spoken vainly."
In the year of seventeen sixty,
In the warm and pleasant autumn,
When the yellow leaves were falling,
When the sun was bright at noon-day,
And the sky was clear and cloudless,
Aged Tomo died at ninety.
All the people watched and listened,
Waiting for the rolling thunder
And the flashing of the lightning
Proving Tomo's words of wisdom.
All the people watched and listened
For a silence in the heavens
Proving Tomo was mistaken.
Then a rolling crash of thunder
Shook the little Indian village,
And the sky was filled with lightning,
Brighter than the sun at noon-day.
Rolling thunder, flashing lightning
When the sky was clear and cloudless,
Proved their chief was not mistaken,
Proved there is but one Great Spirit
For the Indian and the Whiteman.