41. MURDER OF BARNICE WHITE.
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 money
From 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 village
For a meeting at the school house.
“Now's the time,” Manassa whispered,
And Calhoun and Balcomb entered
Barnice'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 Manassa
And 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 Keeper
In 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 boulder
On the side of Corliss Mountain,
When the night was dark and heavy
And 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 mountain
To 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 him
In the rain and dismal darkness
While his friends, Calhoun and Balcomb,
Went to see this Tollgate Keeper
In 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 parson
Of the death of Uncle Barnice;
Praised his many deeds of kindness
In the Colebrook River Village.
In the graveyard is his tombstone,
By the church in Colebrook River,
Where we read the fearful story —
To Elizabeth, awakened
On the holy Sabbath morning —
March the thirty-first, at sunrise —
Of the year of eighteen fifty,
Came the sad and fearful story
Of 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 evil
Ever 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 acted
As a helper in the murder
Of the aged Tollgate Keeper,
And he died a helpless beggar
In 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 builded
For protection‘ gainst the Indians
Ever hunting in the forests,
Fishing in the streams and river,
Dwelling in their summer wigwams
By the sparkling Colebrook River,
Storing food and furs for winter.
In the homes along the river-
Peaceful flowing Colebrook River —
Children listen to the stories
Of the bears and wolves and wild cats,
And the Mohawks on the meadows
Living in their summer wigwams.
Sad their faces as they listen
To the story of Manassa
In his shack against the boulder
On the side of Corliss Mountain,
Drinking brandy with his comrades,
Balcomb, Cobb, Calhoun and Calburn.
Sad their faces as they listen
To the story of Manassa
Singing, 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 listen
To the story of the murder
Of 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 descendants
Come to study with the others,
Ever dreaming, looking backward
To 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 lingers
Like a mist upon the river,
Like a shadow on the mountain.