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. 42. DEATH OF ELIZABETH. 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 lingered In the ancient Chaugham cabin, Saw the village growing smaller, For the people were departing. Saw deserted cabins falling, And the growing desolation On the side of Ragged Mountain.