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 cabin Sheltered Chaugham's lonely daughter. For a hundred years this shelter Stood against the storms of winter And the sultry heat of summer. For a hundred years this shelter Stood beside the rolling Tunxis And 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 lingered In 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 departed To 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. 43. MOLLY'S LIFE AND WORK ARE ENDED. Now forward through the years, Ever more and more descendants Are toiling midst hopes and fears, Mingling with the nation's millions. Joseph Elwell married Tilda, Daughter born to Polly Wilson And her husband, William Wilson, Dwelt on Burlington's fair hill-side In 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 people Carries on to generations Yet 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 service In their many fields of labor, So we leave it to the future, While the legends of this people Spread the fame of fair Barkhamsted, Far beyond our nation's borders, And the Light House on the hill-side Stands 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 Woodbury Busy digging graves and hunting; Some in Riverton and Colebrook, Some in Harwinton and Winsted, Some in Michigan are living.