And there beside the open graveWilliam Wilson spoke of Molly,A woman grandly true and brave,Worthy of their kind remembrance.
Gathered there her childrenAnd her children's children's childrenTo the third great generation,On the side of Ragged Mountain,'Neath the branches of the oak trees,When the autumn sun was slantingWestward o'er the Tunxis River.
Aged by many years of labor,William Wilson read the Bible,Spoke of Molly's sweet devotionTo her husband and her children;Prayed that God above reward her.
Then they bore her to the graveyard,Left her there alone in silence,With a field-stone for a marker.Molly's life and work were ended.Burdened by her father's anger,She had struggled on unbroken,Hidden in the gloomy forest,On the side of Ragged MountainIn the town of fair Barkhamsted.
Had she wed a wealthy suitor,As her angry father ordered,Lived among the rich and stately,Long ago her name forgotten,Hidden in the dusty recordsOf the town beside the river,By the mighty Central River;Of her life no story written,Or her legend in the valleyIn the town of fair Barkhamsted.
39. SHE FAR OUTtlVED THE FARMER'S BRIDE.
In lowly hut on mountain side,Eating squirrel, skunk and woodchuck,She far outlived the farmer's bride,Eating beef and bread and butter.
Longer lived she in the cabin,Drinking from the Tunxis River,Pounding corn for hungry children;Longer lived she eating woodchuck,And the fearless woodland pussy;Longer lived she sleeping nightlyOn her bed of hemlock branchesThan the housewives of the farmers,Living in their boarded houses,Eating beef and bread and butter;Drinking from the oaken bucket,Sleeping on their beds of feathers,Free from father's burning angerAnd the shouting of his orders.
And then the son of Mossock came,Made his home in Colebrook River,To spear the fish and hunt for game,Fearing not the forest creatures.
After Molly's sad departure,To the Land of the Hereafter,Dwelt Elizabeth, unmarried,And a couple village children,Safely in the lonely Chaugham cabin,On the side of Ragged Mountain.
As the years were rolling onward,Few the children in the village,Scattered were the Light House people,Through the State, and through the nation,Seeking other habitations.
In the year of eighteen forty,South on Farmington's broad meadow,Dwelt a wicked Tunxis Indian,Henry, often called Manassa,Son of Solomon, the Mossock,From the realms of Satan's Kingdom,Where the Tunxis cut a channel,Southward through the granite mountain,
In the confines of New Hartford.In the year of eighteen fortyHenry came to Chaugham's cabin,On the side of Ragged Mountain,Saw Elizabeth was busy,Still he lingered at the doorway,Telling of his many troubles,Begging food and begging money,Saying that he was related;Wandered through the little village,
Speaking softly, acting kindly,Hiding all his evil customs,Seemed a decent sort of fellow.Hinted marriage was his object,But Elizabeth refused him,So he went away to Colebrook,Went to Colebrook by the River—Lovely Colebrook where the forestsAnd the meadows swarmed with partridge,Rabbit, quail and merry squirrel.
When the early Colebrook settlersBuilt their cabins in the valley,In the Colebrook River valley,In the year of seventeen seventy,Through the woodlands roamed the panther,Looking downward from the branches,Seeking unsuspecting quarry.Shyly midst the gloomy shadowsCatamounts were ever hiding.On the steep and rocky mountains,Bordered on the river valley,Bears were lurking midst the ledges.
Nightly through the winding valley,Rang the howling of the wolf-pack,Tracking deer along the meadows.
Pussy-footing through the woodlands,Seeking mice and other rodents,Were the wild cats, sleek and furry.
Here and there the busy beaversBuilt their dams and cozy housesOn the river tributaries.
To this land of wild abundanceIn the year of eighteen forty,Came the wary son of Mossock,Built his shack against a boulderOn the side of Corliss Mountain,Fearing not the forest creatures,Or the shadows in the night time,Fearing not the bears and wild cats.
Sly and crafty was this Indian,Sly and crafty like his father,Double talking with his neighbors,Hardy, early Colebrook settlers,Busy in their little village,Busy building shops and houses,Building meeting house and school house,Busy making cloth of cotton,By the sparkling Colebrook River.
There the busy store and tavern,Where the people spent their money.
On the turnpike through the village,Daily rolled the heavy stage coach,Mail and people coming, goingBy the sparkling Colebrook River.
Union Church, no longer neededFor the Sunday prayer and sermon,Soon became the village centerWhere the people met for business,Where the people met for pleasure.
All the school was filled with children,Ninety children in the school house,Happy Colebrook River childrenPlaying daily by the road side.
On each holy, Sabbath morning,All the church was filled with people.Friends and neighbors prayed together,Asking God to bless their children,Praying to God to bless their villageBy the sparkling Colebrook River.
So Uncle Barnice White was slain,"For a dead man tells no stories,"While Henry waited in the rain,"Tells no stories—tells no stories."
To Manassa's little shelter,Built against a mighty boulder,On the side of Corliss Mountain,Nightly came Manassa's comrades,Wayward youth then dwelling near him,Balcomb, Co'bb, Calhoun and Calburn,Talking, gambling, drinking cider,While Manassa, sly and crafty,Spoke of plans for raising money,"Plenty money and no working,"Saying, "Lo! The Tollgate Keeper,Barnice White, has plenty moneyFrom his cider mills and brandy,From the Tollgate on the Turnpike,"
On a night all dark and gloomy,Leaving no one in his cottage,Cottage on the lower roadway,While the noisy winds were blowing,Uncle Barnice sought the villageFor a meeting at the school house.
"Now's the time," Manassa whispered,And Calhoun and Balcomb enteredBarnice'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 ManassaAnd his lazy, wayward comrades,Saying they were thieves and robbers.
Then Manassa, 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 KeeperIn 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 boulderOn the side of Corliss Mountain,When the night was dark and heavyAnd a dreary rain was falling,Gathered Cobb, Calhoun and Balcomb,With Manassa, 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," Manassa 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 mountainTo the road to Colebrook River,But Manassa, 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 himIn the rain and dismal darknessWhile his friends, Calhoun and Balcomb,Went to see this Tollgate KeeperIn 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 parsonOf the death of Uncle Barnice;Praised his many deeds of kindnessIn the Colebrook River Village.
In the graveyard is his tombstone,By the church in Colebrook River,Where we read the fearful story—
"BARNICE WHITEwas murderedMar. 30, 1850.Aged 69."
To Elizabeth, awakenedOn the holy Sabbath morning—March the thirty-first, at sunrise—Of the year of eighteen fifty,Came the sad and fearful storyOf 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 evilEver 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 actedAs a helper in the murderOf the aged Tollgate Keeper,And he died a helpless beggarIn 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 buildedFor protection 'gainst the IndiansEver hunting in the forests,Fishing in the streams and river,Dwelling in their summer wigwamsBy the sparkling Colebrook River,Storing food and furs for winter.
In the homes along the river-Peaceful flowing Colebrook River—Children listen to the storiesOf the bears and wolves and wild cats,And the Mohawks on the meadowsLiving in their summer wigwams.
Sad their faces as they listenTo the story of ManassaIn his shack against the boulderOn the side of Corliss Mountain,Drinking brandy with his comrades,Balcomb, Cobb, Calhoun and Calburn.
Sad their faces as they listenTo the story of ManassaSinging, 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 listenTo the story of the murderOf 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 descendantsCome to study with the others,Ever dreaming, looking backwardTo 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 lingersLike a mist upon the river,Like a shadow on the mountain.
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 lingeredIn the ancient Chaugham cabin,Saw the village growing smaller,For the people were departing.
Saw deserted cabins falling,And the growing desolationOn 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 cabinSheltered Chaugham's lonely daughter.For a hundred years this shelterStood against the storms of winterAnd the sultry heat of summer.For a hundred years this shelterStood beside the rolling TunxisAnd 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 lingeredIn 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 departedTo 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.
Now forward through the years,Ever more and more descendantsAre toiling midst hopes and fears,Mingling with the nation's millions.
Joseph Elwell married Tilda,Daughter born to Polly WilsonAnd her husband, William Wilson,Dwelt on Burlington's fair hill-sideIn 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 sturdy, happy children,Known in Burlington and Canton.
Thus the story of these peopleCarries on to generationsYet 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 serviceIn their many fields of labor,So we leave it to the future,While the legends of this peopleSpread the fame of fair Barkhamsted,Far beyond our nation's borders,And the Light House on the hill-sideStands 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 WoodburyBusy 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 honorThrough the heat and sweat of summerAnd the wind and cold of winterIn the Civil War for freedomOf 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 orderAnd 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 RiverGenerations speeding onwardIn an ever widening circle,Carry far the blood of ChaughamAnd his spouse, brave Molly Barber,Down the years with Adams, Hobson,Jacklin, Lawrence, Barber, Elwell,Webster, Doty, Berry, Cockran,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 BarberAnd her spouse, the Honest Chaugham.
Onward now, and ever onwardShall they go, all through the agesTo Eternity's last borders—Sent by Peter Barber's angerAnd his daughter's resolution.
Had she yielded to her fatherOther souls would journey onward,Who is there to judge between them?
The tiger lilies blooming thereSing of ancient habitation,And lilacs' fragrance on the airBreathes a song of early settlers.
Gone the cabins from the hill-side,Friendly lights no longer twinkleThrough the skins of fox and beaver.
"On the side of Ragged Mountain,In some crevice of the ledges,In some shady, sandy hollow,Is an old sea captain's treasure."
This a legend loudly whispers,While the people tell the story—Story of an old sea captain,Spanish friend of Chaugham's father,From the confines of Block Island.
Oft he came to visit Chaugham,Loaded down with golden treasure,Often staid a week and longer,Talked of treasure ships and righting,Ship to ship upon the billows.
Oft he came to visit Chaugham,Loaded down with treasure,But departed empty handed.
Through the years the treasure huntersSearch the side of Ragged Mountain,Near the site of Chaugham's cabin,For the old sea captain's money.
All the hill-side and the graveyardHave been spaded and examined,Searching for this fabled fortune,In a pot of gold reported,Buried on the lonely mountain.
Through the years the treasure huntersSearch the side of Ragged Mountain,Searching, searching, never finding—Still they're searching for the treasure,Buried on the mountain-side.
O'er this wild romantic hill-sideWildly blow the winds of winter,Softly sigh the summer zephyrs;Sad and lonely seems the forest,Watching o'er the empty cellars.
On a boulder by the roadside,Is a worn inscription tellingBriefly of the ancient village.
Ever flowing, winding southward,Still the Tunxis River murmursOf the Light House on the hill-sideAnd the people of the village.
Standing there beside the riverEchoes of the past come floating,On the sighing breezes floating,Voices of the Light House people,From the lonely mountain shadows,Home of ageless Molly Barber.
Tiger lilies blossom yearly,Near the shallow, empty cellars,Here and there a lonely lilacFlowers gaily in the spring time,Sweet reminder of the peopleOnce residing in the village.
Here and there throughout the valleyPeople say, "The lilacs growingStrong and hardy by my windowAre descendants of the lilacsGrowing in the Light House village,Planted there by Molly Barber."
Baskets fashioned on the hill-sideBy the lonely Light House peopleStill are cherished in the valley.Thus the name of Molly BarberLives beyond her earthly journeyIn neat handiwork and flowers.
Forest shades the lonely grave yardWhere within the dim enclosureOver fifty dead are buried—Many have no standing markers.
There the grave of Molly Barber,Scarcely seen among the others,Mute reminder of the quarrelOf a maiden and her father;All the harshness of his anger,All the firmness of his daughterAnd the sorrow of her mother—Grim reminder to all fathers,"Deal more wisely with your daughter."
A hush is on the mountain side—Silent is the lonely grave yard.Asleep the Indian and his bride-Molly Barber—Honest Chaugham.
Now afar beyond the valley,In a world of toil and pleasure,In a world of joy and sorrow,
Last of all he told more slowlyAll the story of the graveyard,Many people proudly boasting,Say, ''The blood of Molly BarberAnd her spouse, the Honest Chaugham,From the Narragansett nation,And the Spanish SenoritaDaily courses through my being."
Hallowed are the Light House cabins,Once on Ragged Mountain,In the lonely Peoples' ForestBy the river in Barkhamsted.
Hallowed is the lonely grave yardWith its palisade and headstones,Though they're crude and nameless markers,And the name of Molly Barber,With her spouse, the Honest Chaugham,Known afar in song and story.
Generations yet unborn,Oft shall listen to the storyOf the famous Light House village,Home of ageless Molly Barber,By the Tunxis in Barkhamsted.Oft they'll meet the Light House children,As they journey through the ages,To the final ArmageddonWhen the age of man is endedAnd the clock of time is broken.
Sol Webster and his aged wifeOft retold the famous story,Recounting scenes of Light House lifeOn the side of Ragged Mountain.
Through the slowly rolling seasonsLived Sol Webster and his partner,Aged Mary Niles of Riverton,
Ever busy making baskets,Baskets in the Robert's homestead,Nestled on the slope of Hart's Hill,Near the Tunxis, south of Riverton,Westward o'er the shining riverFrom the storied Light House village.
Many people came to see them,Many people asking questions,Questions of the Light House Village—"Who was Chaugham? Who was Molly?"
Famous then the basket-maker,Grandson of fair Molly Barber,And her spouse, the Honest Chaugham.
Old and weak and poor they lingered,For a time beside the Tunxis,Telling each who stopped to listen,Al1 the story of brave MollyAnd her spouse, the Honest Chaugham,How he was with Spain connectedThrough the Spanish Senorita,How the Light House Village prosperedWith its two and thirty cabinsOn the side of Ragged Mountain,How the people made a living,Daily hunting, fishing, trading,Making baskets strong and useful;All the names of all the children
Of the hill-side generations.Last of all he told more slowlyAll the story of the graveyard,Southward on the sandy hill-sideWhere beneath the forest shadows,"Over fifty dead were buried."
Thus the ancient basket-makerTold the story of his people,Legend of the famous Light HouseIn a paradise of beautyMidst the hills of Litchfield County.From his lips this ancient legendOf the village on the hill-side.
To-day the place is calm and still,Save the ripple of the Tunxis,Or zephyrs sighing on the hill—Voices from the Indian village.
Ye who love the ancient legendsYe who read the ancient stories,Ye who visit ancient places,Linger in the Peoples' ForestOn the side of Ragged MountainIn the town of fair Barkhamsted.
Listen as the breezes whisper,"Molly Barber—Honest Chaugham."Wander through the lonely graveyardWhere the silent dead are resting,Pause beside the empty cellars;Listen to the Tunxis flowingSlowly southward through the forest.
Here it was on Ragged MountainYears ago that Molly Barber,With her spouse, the Honest ChaughamBuilt her home and reared her children.
On the river and the hill-sideFloat the echoes of their voices,In the murmur of the waters,In the winds that sway the branches,In the breeze that whispers sadly,In the silence of the forest.
And now we think them dead and gone,But their spirits live foreverAnd through their children carry onFar beyond this quiet valley.
Molly sleeps within the graveyard,Hearing not the robins singingIn the sweet and pleasant spring time;Feeling not the cold of winter,Or the burning heat of summer;Tasting not the woodland pussy,Or the woodchuck fat and juicy;Smelling not the scented lilacs,Or the springtime's sweet aroma;Seeing not the changing seasonsWith the sunlight and the shadows.
Molly Barber—Honest Chaugham,Resting in the lonely graveyard,All their toil and sorrow ended;Down the ages their descendantsCarry on the life they shelteredHere beside the Tunxis RiverIn their crude and lowly cabin,Forest home of Molly BarberAnd her spouse, the Honest Chaugham.
The changing seasons come and goSwiftly through the ancient valleyAnd here where Tunxis waters flowEver shall this legend linger.
Still the Tunxis River wandersSlowly 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 silenceO'er the lonely, empty cellarsAnd the graveyard in the forest.
Hardly changed the hill and valleySince 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 bowersMidst 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 creepingSoftly through the ancient valley,Come the whip-poor-wills a callingEach to each across the seasons.Undisturbed they haunt the valley,For the Light House's gone forever,And the stage coach ceased its travelsOn the turnpike by the riverWhere 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 wandersFrom the parents to the children,And from neighbour unto neighbourBy the spoken word and letterO'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 BarberAnd his wilful daughter, Molly,Shall be weighed and justly measuredBy the Ruler of the Ages.
Comely Tomo, called Servampsin,Sometimes worshipped with the Whiteman;Heard the Whiteman's prayers and sermonsHeard the Whiteman read the Bible,Heard the story of creationFor the Indian and the Whiteman,How the lands and seas were fashionedIn the distant lonely agesBy the unseen god in Heaven—This the land of the HereafterFor the Indian and the Whiteman,Autumn land beyond the sunset.
Tomo listened to the story—How the world was filled with darknessTill the coming of the sunlight,Saw the leaves come forth in springtimeSaw the grass upon the meadow,Saw the coming of the bluebird,Heard the singing of the robinIn the sunlit fields of summerFor the Indian and the Whiteman.
Saw the falling snow in winterOn the meadow and the forest,On the river and the mountain,For the Indian and the Whiteman.
Saw the ever changing seasonsMeet 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 lightningAnd the rolling of the thunder;
Found that Manito, the Mighty,And the god the Whiteman worshippedWere the same, the great CreatorOf 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 SpiritFor 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 thunderAnd the flashing of the lightningProving Tomo's words of wisdom.
All the people watched and listenedFor a silence in the heavensProving Tomo was mistaken.
Then a rolling crash of thunderShook the little Indian village,And the sky was filled with lightning,Brighter than the sun at noon-day.
Rolling thunder, flashing lightningWhen the sky was clear and cloudless,Proved their chief was not mistaken,Proved there is but one Great SpiritFor the Indian and the Whiteman.