village justice,
When softly rang the curfew bell,
Side by side they hastened westward.

Secret was their hasty marriage,
By a trusted village justice,
Loyal friend of Molly Barber.

In the month of June their wedding,
In the year of sev'nteen forty,
In the warm and joyous spring-time,
When the winter snows were over,
With the coming of the south-wind.
Big canoes were safely sailing
On the Mighty Central River,
For the ice had floated southward
And the fields were gay with flowers—

Green leaves growing in the forest;
Green the grass across the meadows;
Robin Red-breast gayly singing
"Welcome to the joyous spring-time."

17. THEY REACHED AN INDIAN VILLAGE.

On Indian Hill they found a friend,
Comely Tomo, crafty chieftain,
To take their part, their cause defend
'Gainst the angry Peter Barber.

Secret was their quick departure,
In the night-time, stealing westward—
Molly, with her cloak about her,
Followed Chaugham ever closely,
O'er the Talcott Mountain speeding,
Crossing Farmington's broad meadows,
Turning northward 'gainst the river,
Till they reached an Indian village
In the foot-hills of the mountains,
Near the swiftly flowing Tunxis.
"Indian Hill," the settlers named it,
Place of Indian habitation,

Site of Chieftain Tomo's village
Twenty wigwams, ninety Indians
Busy fishing in the river,
Busy hunting in the forest,
Busy farming on the upland.
Even now we find the circles
Of their hearth-stones on the hill-side.

South by west Nepaug resided.
Old and ugly was this chieftain,
Short and small, wearing ear-rings,
Gave his name to stream and village.

South by east, beneath the oak trees,
Where a winding brook made music,
Stood Waquakeag's wee village
Chief Waquakeag, called Cherry,
Still remembered in the murmur
Of the Cherry Brook's clear water.

Up the stream from Cherry's wigwam
Lived the Indian chieftain, Quinnaug,
With his little tribe about him
On the site of Canton Center,
Where are store and church and chapel.

Northward from, the home of Quinnaug,
Midst the rocks beside the mountain,
Was a group of Indian wigwams,
Home of Crump, a quiet chieftain,
With his Indian friends around him.
Even now we find his ovens
And the circles of his hearth stones.

Thus we find it in the records,
In the records of the Town of Canton.

In those days now dim and distant,
Ere the settlers came to Canton,
Sturdy farmers from Massacoe
Traveled westward to the river,
Viewed the land and found it fertile,

Ploughed and planted in the "Hop Yard "
All had loaded muskets handy,
And a guard was ever watching,
Lest the lurking Indian scalp them

Often in the lonely night-time,
In their little shelter eastward,
Where is now the cemetery,
Lonely Dyer Cemetery,
Oldest in the Town of Canton,
Where to-day the silent tomb stones
Stand like Ghosts in silver moon-light,
Wakeful sentries heard the tom-tom
In the hands of crafty Tomo
Beating softly like an echo,
Send a message to his watchers
Up and down the Tunxis River,
On the low-lands and the hill-sides

Then they heard a loon replying,
As he flew along the river.
On the hill an owl was hooting,
And a fox was somewhere barking.
Far away a wolf was howling,
As he wandered through the forest.
Close at hand a bird was singing
"Whip-poor-will," in rhythmic measure,
Singing by the hill-side shelter,
"Whip-poor-will," in softer accents,
Like an echo from the misty lowlands,
Till the air was filled with music.

These were scouts of crafty Tomo,
To their chieftain thus replying,
Telling him of all adventures,
As they scouted by the river,
As they glided through the forest,
As they watched the early settlers,
As they listened in the darkness,
Lest some foe approach the village.

To this little Indian village,
Twenty wigwams in a circle,
Midst the foot-hills of the mountains,
Came fair Peter Barber's daughter
And her Indian husband, Chaugham.

For a moon and more they tarried,
Tarried with these friendly Indians
Living in their twenty wigwams,
Oval houses midst the forest,
Lofty pine trees, oaks and hemlocks
On the westward sloping hill-sides,
Looking eastward to the sunrise,
Looking westward to the sunset.

Lying west of Indian Hill-top,
'Twixt the river and the village,
Was an open, rolling up-land,
Cultivated by the Indians
In those days now dim and distant.

Here the golden corn was planted
In the soft and pleasant spring-time.
Here the golden ears were gathered
When the harvest moon was yellow.

Sheltered from the winds of winter
Were the twenty Indian wigwams
By the circle of the mountains,
Rising westward, northward, eastward,
And beyond the rolling up-land,
Was an inlet from the river,
From the swiftly flowing Tunxis.
Still and deep this inlet water
Where the trout were ever plenty
In the cove below the meadows
'Neath the bank so steep and rugged.

In the warm and pleasant summer,
Here canoes were safely floating.
Farther westward rolled the Tunxis,
And the ripple of the waters
Ever filled the place with music.

Where this Tunxis tribe of Indians
Dwelt in peace upon the hill-side,
Have been found their pots for cooking,
And their hatchets, knives and arrows
Made of stone from Hedgehog Mountain.

Where the Indians built their wigwams,
Safely hidden midst the mountains,
Guarded by the Tunxis River,
Now the whiteman has his cabins,

Summer cabins near the river,
Sheltered by the ancient forest,
Midst the glory of the sunrise
And the splendor of the sunset.

Where the light canoes were floating
Are the wild ducks swimming, diving.
And above the pines and hemlocks
Crows are calling through the seasons.

Dressed in dirty Indian fashion,
Chaugham mingled with the others,
Seemed a member of the village.

Molly, stained all dark and dusky,
Crudely clothed in Indian garments,
And her hair all greased and blackened,
Combed out straight as was the custom
Practiced by the Indian women,
Carried water from the river,
Pounded corn and mended blankets,
Seemed a simple Indian woman.

Thus they dwelt among, the Indians,
Thus they tarried in the village.
For a moon and more they lingered
Waiting for the dread pursuers,
Sent by angry Peter Barber,
Hunting by the Central River,
Hunting up and down the meadows,
Hunting eastward towards the sunrise,
Hunting through the western woodlands,
Hunting for his wayward daughter.

18. ANSWERED THEN THE SHERIFF, SAYING, 'WE HAVE COME TO CAPTURE WHITE GIRL'

The Constable and Sheriff came
To the little Indian village
Presenting Peter Barber's claim
For his