Project Gutenberg's Legend of Barkhamsted Light House, by Lewis Sprague Mills

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

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

Author: Lewis Sprague Mills

Release Date: August 1, 2011 [EBook #36935]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEGEND OF BARKHAMSTED LIGHT HOUSE ***

Produced by Bruce William Miller, Cos Cob

THE LEGEND OF BARKHAMSTED LIGHT HOUSE
A Tale from the Litchfield Hills of Connecticut

By LEWIS SPRAGUE MILLS
September 5, 1874, Collinsville, Conn. —
March 7, 1965 East Hartford, Conn.

1. IN THIS LAND IS THE LOCATION, PLACE AND SCENERY OF MY STORY

This legend lingers in the vale,
Like a mist upon the river,
And children listen to the tale,
When the wind is in the chimney.

In the Land of Wooden Nutmegs,
In the Land of Steady Habits,
In the rugged Mountain County,
In the town of fair Barkhamsted
Near the winding Tunxis River,
Where the thrifty farmers labor
From the rising to the setting
Of the sun across the meadows,
And the whip-poor-wills come calling,
From the dark'ning fields and woodlands,
Calling through the misty shadows,
Till the lonely night has fallen,
Lingers still this Light House Legend.

In the narrow, rocky valley
Near the winding Tunxis River,
Where the moon above the hill-tops,
Shining big and round and yellow,
Lights the farmers' weary foot-steps,
As they slowly leave their labors,
In the fields and rocky pastures,
Looking towards the homes they've builded
Here beside the quiet Tunxis
Where they eat their frugal suppers
And retire on beds of feathers,
Lingers still this Light House Legend.

Midst the roaring winds of winter,
Near the winding Tunxis River,
Where the busy flax-wheel's turning
With the yellow threads for linen,
And the clanking loom is busy
With the warp and woof of clothing,
And the carpet loom and spool-wheel,
Ever ready for the toilers,
Clutter up the farmers' kitchens
And the candles flicker darkly
When the wintry blasts come creeping
Through the drafty window casements,
Lingers still this Light House Legend.

In the houses of the farmers,
Near the winding Tunxis River,
Where 'the logs are burning slowly,
In the great old-fashioned fire-place
With the kettle hanging, swinging,
And the wind outside is howling
Roaring down the Tunxis Valley,
Piling high the snows of winter
On the road-way and the river
'Till the fox can hardly travel,
Hunting for his chicken supper,
Lingers still this Light House Legend.

O'er the hill-side and the meadows
Near the winding Tunxis River,
Where the hawk is hunting chickens,
As they scratch around the farmyard,
Knowing not the hawk is sitting,
Watching from the lofty oak-tree,
Thinking of a juicy chicken
As a royal treat for dinner,
Lingers still this Light House Legend.

In the winter and the summer,
Near the winding Tunxis River,
Where the oxen turn the furrows,
And the house-wives do the milking,
Where the windy roads are drifted
And the spring-time mud is deepest,
When the south-wind melts the snow-banks;
Where the winters are the coldest,
And the summers are the hottest—
Listen to the locusts singing
In the trees beside the hay-field,
See the thunder-heads are rising
High above the hazy mountain;
See the sturdy farmers hasten
With the loading of the hay-carts,
Ere the coming of the shower,
Lingers still this Light House Legend.

Midst the forest on the hill-side
Near the winding Tunxis River,
Where, beside the granite boulders
Indian pipes, so white and fragile,
Bloom and blush in lovely silence,
Safely hidden, unmolested,
In the rugged Mountain County,
In their shady, woodland bowers.
Is the site of ancient cabins,
Was the home of Molly Barber.

In this Land of Wooden Nutmegs,
In this Land of Steady Habits,
In the rugged Mountain County,
In the town of fair Barkhamsted,
Near the winding Tunxis River,
Where the groaning mills and presses.
Flow with sweet and luscious cider,
In the sunny days of autumn,
Lingers yet this ancient legend,
Told by fathers to their children,
Gathered round the supper table,
When the candle-light is feeble
And the wind is in the chimney—

In this Land of toil and business,
In this land of sun and shadow,
On the slope beside the river,
Is the place and true location,
Of this ancient Light House legend.

2. DWELT A PEOPLE PARTLY INDIAN.

Where the Tunxis wanders down,
Twixt the mountains, rolling southward,
In beauty through Barkhamsted Town,
Dwelt a people partly Indian.

In a narrow vale sequestered,
Through which flows the winding Tunxis,
North of peaceful Pleasant Valley
And the grassy fields of "Moose Plain,"
In the gate-way to the County,
Gate-way to the "Mountain County"—
Ragged Mountain to the eastward,
Rugged Woodruff to the westward,
Guarding well the narrow valley,
In the town of fair Barkhamsted,
Where now grow the birch and alder,
Hardy maple, oak and walnut,
Graceful hemlocks, lofty pine trees,
Spreading up the shady hill-side,
Hill-side stony, steep and rocky,
Was a group of ragged cabins,
Dwelt in by a people blended,
Partly white and partly Indian,
Partly from the early settlers,
And the vagabonds of travel.

3. LIVED THIS PEOPLE WITHOUT SYSTEM.

They dwelt beside the river's flow,
Hunting, toiling through the seasons,
Midst summer heat and winter snow,
Living in the gloomy forest.

Gathered here from many quarters,
Lived this people without system,
On produce scanty of their village,
Small potatoes near the cabins,
Scanty corn between the boulders,
Here and there a stalk of barley,
Beans and squash and hardy melons,
Eked out was it by their hunting,
When they shot or trapped the squirrel,
Or the partridge or the woodchuck,
Woodchuck plump and fat and savory,
Or the fearless woodland pussy,
Walking calmly in the night time,
Fearing not the hunters' arrows,
Or the hound that followed slowly,
Fearful of the mystic perfume,
Or the fox so sly and cunning,
Or the coon from tree top watching,
While the dogs were bravely hunting,
Running 'round and 'round in circles,
Or the rabbit and the chipmunk,
Or by fishing in the river,
Catching trout and eels and suckers,
Where the darkling waters murmured;
Or with fingers deft and nimble,
Out of splints of bending hickory,
Or the heavy strips of white ash,
Wove in fabric strong and useful,
Many ornamental baskets,
Many