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.

29. THERE'S A LIGHT HOUSE IN BAKKHAMSTED

And when the stage came through the night,
Past the lonely Indian cabins,
The driver, seeing rays of light,
Shouted gladly, "There's the Light House!

More and more the white man traveled,
So the road-way by the river
Was improved for stage coach service
In the year of sev'nteen hundred-
Eight and ninety—turnpike road-way
Past the lonely Light House Village,
Turnpike road-way for the coaches,
Albany and Hartford coaches,
Coaches on the Greenwoods Turnpike,
Turnpike by the Tunxis River.

Far from Albany the coaches,
Rolling nightly through the forests,
Passed the home of Molly Barber.
And the stories of the cabins
On the side of Ragged Mountain
Spread from city unto city.

Passing on the lonely turnpike,
On the turnpike by the river
In the year of eighteen hundred,
And the years that slowly followed,
Through the dim and fearful shadows,
Where the mists hung dark and heavy,
When the great owls hooted sadly,
Nightly came the stage a-creaking
On its journey to New Hartford.

Seeing light within the forest,
"There's the Light House!" cried the driver,
"Five more miles to reach New Hartford!"

Light House for the stage coach traffic,
For the ocean waves were rolling
Sixty miles away to southward,
And no ships were on the river,
Sailing past the Indian cabins.

Thus was named the ancient village,
Village of Barkhamsted Indians,
On the side of Ragged Mountain,
By the winding Tunxis River.

30. CHAUGHAM DWELT ALL UNMOLESTED.

When Chaugham saw New Hartford's doom,
Pictured 'gainst the clouds of ev'ning,
His signal fire lit up the gloom,
Warning of impending danger.

Ever friendly to the white man,
Chaugham dwelt all unmolested
In his cabin on the mountain.

Once he read in smoke-cloud signals,
As the twilight shadows gathered,
Indian plans at Satan's Kingdom
To attack and burn New Hartford.
Hast'ning to the mountain summit,
Up the trail so steep and rugged,
Midst the rocks and jagged boulders,
To the lofty granite lookout,
"Chaugham Rock" atop the mountain,
Chaugham lit the danger signal.
Leaped the flames against the darkness.
Answered then New Hartford's signal
From the top of Town Hill flaming,
And the people of New Hartford
Saw the fire and met the danger,
Saving barns and homes and cattle,
While the women and the children
Rested safely in the fortress,
On the top of Town Hill standing,
Guarded by New Hartford's bravest;
Fortress built of mighty timbers
From the pine trees of the Mast Swamp,
For protection 'gainst the Indians,
Indians of dread Satan's Kingdom,
Thus we find it in the records.

Friendly were the early settlers
To the lonely Light House people,
Dwelling in their lowly ca'bins
On the side of Ragged Mountain.

Round and round the yearly cycle
Rolled the ever changing seasons,
With the coming of the robins,
In the sweet and pleasant spring times;
With the sunshine and the shadows
In the sultry days of summers;
With the robins flying southward
Midst the falling leaves of autumn;
With the lonely desolation
In the cold and dreary winters.

THE SEASONS PASSED AND YEARS GREW OLD.

With summer heat and winter cold,
Changed the river's nightly cadence,
As seasons passed and years grew old
In the valley of the Tunxis.

With the changing of the seasons,
Changed the river's nightly cadence.
In the sumlmer and the autumn,
Quiet was the Tunxis River,
Just a murmur of the waters
As they wandered ever southward
Through the sultry shadows flowing,
Making music in the night time
For the people of the village.

In the cold and dreary winters,
Flowing in its ice-bound channel,
Hardly was the river's murmur
Heard within the little village;
Yet the sleepers oft were startled,
When the northern lights were shining,

In the cold and frosty night-time,
By the sudden cracking, snapping,
Of the ice along the river,
Breaking thus the star-lit silence
Of the river and the village.

When the air of spring grew warmer,
Black and low the storm clouds gathered,
Driven by the east wind's power,
Swept across the darkened sky-ways,
Pouring rain upon the valley,
'Till the river, slowly swelling,
Moaning 'neath its heavy bondage,
Burst its hard and icy fetters.
Raced the swirling billows foaming,
Sweeping southward through the forest.;
Tossing logs and jagged ice-cakes,
With a mighty roar of waters,
Crashing on the rocks and boulders,
Tossing spray across the hill-side,
'Till the people of the village
Trembled at the river's power,
Fearing for their habitations.

32. CHAUGHAM'S SPIRIT LEFT THE HILL-SIDE,

And Molly Barber labored bravely on,
Strong and stately, hale and hearty,
Until brave Chaugham's life was gone,
And they laid him in the grave-yard;

Wisely, kindly Molly Barber,
Long the wife of Honest Chaugham,
As is written in the records,
Moved about among her children,
Strong and stately, hale and hearty,
Loved by all her children's children.

Though the children grew like rabbits,
Still she taught them how to cipher,
How to read and write a little—
Thus we find it in the records—
Taught the prayers she learned from mother,
In her father's stately mansion,
Near the mighty Central River,
Long ago when she was little

And her world was filled with gladness.
Sped her years to five and eighty,
From her birth beside the river,
By the mighty Central River,
In her