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.