Legend of Barkhamsted Light House Part 7

"Now's the time," Mana.s.sa whispered, And Calhoun and Balcomb entered Barnice's lonely, darkened cottage, Stole his money and some cider.

When the aged Tollgate Keeper, Known to all as Uncle Barnice, Found his money had been stolen, He at once accused Mana.s.sa And his lazy, wayward comrades, Saying they were thieves and robbers.

Then Mana.s.sa, sly and crafty, Playing nightly, with his comrades, Games of cards and drinking cider, In his shack against the boulder, On the side of Corliss Mountain, Sang in accents low and solemn-- "Have you heard the ancient saying-- How a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, How a dead man tells no stories?"

Then he added in a whisper-- "Let us see this Tollgate Keeper In the darkness of the night time, In the bedroom of his cottage, Lest he tell the village people, Of the money that is stolen-- Tell them we are thieves and robbers, Only fit to be arrested."

March the thirtieth it happened, In the year of eighteen fifty.

In the shack against the boulder On the side of Corliss Mountain, When the night was dark and heavy And a dreary rain was falling, Gathered Cobb, Calhoun and Balcomb, With Mana.s.sa, drinking brandy, Playing cards, while all were thinking, "How a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, How a dead man tells no stories."

'Till the brandy jug was empty, And the game they played forgotten-- All the time the rain was falling.

"Better go," Mana.s.sa whispered, "Go to see this Tollgate Keeper, In the bedroom of his cottage, For a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, For a dead man tells no stories."

So they stole across the mountain To the road to Colebrook River, But Mana.s.sa, sly and crafty, Sly and crafty like his father, Sprained his ankle on the hill-side; Limped along in seeming anguish, Reached the slope on Woodruff hill-side,

Said he could no farther travel, Wanted Cobb to stay beside him In the rain and dismal darkness While his friends, Calhoun and Balcomb, Went to see this Tollgate Keeper In the bed room of his cottage, Where they slew him in the darkness, Slew the aged Tollgate Keeper, "For a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, For a dead man tells no stories."

Thus they murdered Uncle Barnice, March the thirtieth it happened, In the year of eighteen fifty.

In the meeting house in Colebrook-- Meeting house in Colebrook River-- Where the people gathered weeping, April third of eighteen fifty, Sadly spoke the aged parson Of the death of Uncle Barnice; Praised his many deeds of kindness In the Colebrook River Village.

In the graveyard is his tombstone, By the church in Colebrook River, Where we read the fearful story--

"BARNICE WHITE was murdered Mar. 30, 1850.

Aged 69."

To Elizabeth, awakened On the holy Sabbath morning-- March the thirty-first, at sunrise-- Of the year of eighteen fifty, Came the sad and fearful story Of the awful deeds of Henry, Son of Solomon, the Mossock, And his friends, Calhoun and Balcomb.

Then she wept in shame and sorrow.

Said it was a thing of evil Ever to have seen this Henry, Ever with him to have spoken, For he acted like the Ruler, Of that dread and awful kingdom, Where the savage sinners gather, By the Tunxis in New Hartford.

Quickly Henry was arrested, With his friends, Calhoun and Balcomb, Tried and led away to prison, Prison by the Central River.

Later Henry won a "pardon"

When 'twas found he only acted As a helper in the murder Of the aged Tollgate Keeper, And he died a helpless beggar In the Farmington red Town House.

Thus we find it in the records, Records of the ancient Light House, Records of the Town of Colebrook, Written by the early settlers, Telling of the roving Mohawks; Telling of the forts they builded For protection 'gainst the Indians Ever hunting in the forests, Fishing in the streams and river, Dwelling in their summer wigwams By the sparkling Colebrook River, Storing food and furs for winter.

In the homes along the river- Peaceful flowing Colebrook River-- Children listen to the stories Of the bears and wolves and wild cats, And the Mohawks on the meadows Living in their summer wigwams.

Sad their faces as they listen To the story of Mana.s.sa In his shack against the boulder On the side of Corliss Mountain, Drinking brandy with his comrades, Balcomb, Cobb, Calhoun and Calburn.

Sad their faces as they listen To the story of Mana.s.sa Singing, while he drank and gambled,-- "Have you heard the ancient saying, How a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, How a dead man tells no stories?"

Sad their faces as they listen To the story of the murder Of the aged Tollgate Keeper, Barnice White of Colebrook River, On that fearful night of horror, In the year of eighteen fifty.

To the school at Colebrook River, Where the happy children gather, As the years are rolling onward, Daily Barnice White's descendants Come to study with the others, Ever dreaming, looking backward To that awful night of horror.

Up and down the Colebrook River, In the homesteads of the people, And across the wooded hill-sides, Where they labor in the forests, Still this ancient story lingers Like a mist upon the river, Like a shadow on the mountain.

42. DEATH OF ELIZABETH.

The cabin home was bare and cold, And the winter winds were howling, When Elizabeth, all sick and old, Died at night, alone in darkness.

Few the people on the hill-side, As the years went rolling onward, Yet, Elizabeth still lingered In the ancient Chaugham cabin, Saw the village growing smaller, For the people were departing.

Saw deserted cabins falling, And the growing desolation On the side of Ragged Mountain.

Few the people in the village, In the little Indian village, Founded by her kindly parents, In the year of seventeen forty.

Still this ancient mountain cabin Sheltered Chaugham's lonely daughter.

For a hundred years this shelter Stood against the storms of winter And the sultry heat of summer.

For a hundred years this shelter Stood beside the rolling Tunxis And was viewed by many people.

Cold the cabin in the winter, For the winds were whistling through it.

Damp the cabin in the summer, For the roof let in the water, And the ancient floor had settled, Yet Elizabeth still lingered In the shaky mountain cabin, For she had no other shelter.

Calmly watching as the seasons, Came and went across the hill-side, Here Elizabeth resided, Caring for the mountain cabin, Since her parents had departed To the Land of the Hereafter; Daily mending, sewing, cooking, On the side of Ragged Mountain, 'Till she reached the age of eighty-- Died in eighteen four and fifty, Died at eighty, still unmarried, Died alone at night in darkness, When the winter wind was howling, And was buried in the grave yard, Southward in the lonely graveyard, On the side of Ragged Mountain.

43. MOLLY'S LIFE AND WORK ARE ENDED.

Now forward through the years, Ever more and more descendants Are toiling midst hopes and fears, Mingling with the nation's millions.

Joseph Elwell married Tilda, Daughter born to Polly Wilson And her husband, William Wilson, Dwelt on Burlington's fair hill-side In a little forest cabin, Making baskets for the people, Sold them often in the village-- Collinsville beside the river.

Many dogs, awake and watching, Guarded well the home of Elwell, Through the daytime and the night time, Warding off intruding strangers.

Tilda, versed in healing powers, Found in many plants and flowers, Helped to cure the sick and wounded, Brought relief to ailing people.

Tilda's younger sister, Eunice, Married thrifty farmer Warner, Lived a useful life of service, Rearing st.u.r.dy, happy children, Known in Burlington and Canton.

Thus the story of these people Carries on to generations Yet unborn--an endless story.

Endless is the Light House story, All the lives of all the children, All adventures and achievements, To the eighth great generation- Others coming in the future-- All their names and all their service In their many fields of labor, So we leave it to the future, While the legends of this people Spread the fame of fair Barkhamsted, Far beyond our nation's borders, And the Light House on the hill-side Stands secure in song and story.

Ever onward still they travel, Father, son and grandson marching, Generations pressing forward, Down the vista of the ages.

Molly Barber and James Chaugham-- Dead and buried--gone forever: Scattered now are their descendants.

Some are in the Town of Woodbury Busy digging graves and hunting; Some in Riverton and Colebrook, Some in Harwinton and Winsted, Some in Michigan are living.

Some there are who fought with honor Through the heat and sweat of summer And the wind and cold of winter In the Civil War for freedom Of the toiling colored people.

Others later 'gainst the Axis, Fought beyond the nation's borders, World War First and World War Second; Suffered in the deadly battles, On the sandy dunes of Tunis, On the plains of Central Europe, On Pacific's sultry islands; Gave their lives for peace and order And the things they thought were holy, Even as their mother, Molly, Sacrificed her life for honor, In a Ragged Mountain cabin.

Coming from the hill-side cabin, On the side of Ragged Mountain, In the town of fair Barkhamsted, By the rolling Tunxis River Generations speeding onward In an ever widening circle, Carry far the blood of Chaugham And his spouse, brave Molly Barber, Down the years with Adams, Hobson, Jacklin, Lawrence, Barber, Elwell, Webster, Doty, Berry, c.o.c.kran, And the thousands yet to follow.

Through the ages still they journey, Ever more and more descendants, From that Ragged Mountain cabin, Home of fearless Molly Barber And her spouse, the Honest Chaugham.