On Indian Hill they found a friend, Comely Tomo, crafty chieftain, To take their part, their cause defend 'Gainst the angry Peter Barber. Secret was their quick departure, In the night-time, stealing westward-- Molly, with her cloak about her, Followed Chaugham ever closely, O'er the Talcott Mountain speeding, Crossing Farmington's broad meadows, Turning northward 'gainst the river, Till they reached an Indian village In the foot-hills of the mountains, Near the swiftly flowing Tunxis. "Indian Hill," the settlers named it, Place of Indian habitation, Site of Chieftain Tomo's village Twenty wigwams, ninety Indians Busy fishing in the river, Busy hunting in the forest, Busy farming on the upland. Even now we find the circles Of their hearth-stones on the hill-side. South by west Nepaug resided. Old and ugly was this chieftain, Short and small, wearing ear-rings, Gave his name to stream and village. South by east, beneath the oak trees, Where a winding brook made music, Stood Waquakeag's wee village Chief Waquakeag, called Cherry, Still remembered in the murmur Of the Cherry Brook's clear water. Up the stream from Cherry's wigwam Lived the Indian chieftain, Quinnaug, With his little tribe about him On the site of Canton Center, Where are store and church and chapel. Northward from, the home of Quinnaug, Midst the rocks beside the mountain, Was a group of Indian wigwams, Home of Crump, a quiet chieftain, With his Indian friends around him. Even now we find his ovens And the circles of his hearth stones. Thus we find it in the records, In the records of the Town of Canton. In those days now dim and distant, Ere the settlers came to Canton, Sturdy farmers from Massacoe Traveled westward to the river, Viewed the land and found it fertile, Ploughed and planted in the "Hop Yard " All had loaded muskets handy, And a guard was ever watching, Lest the lurking Indian scalp them Often in the lonely night-time, In their little shelter eastward, Where is now the cemetery, Lonely Dyer Cemetery, Oldest in the Town of Canton, Where to-day the silent tomb stones Stand like Ghosts in silver moon-light, Wakeful sentries heard the tom-tom In the hands of crafty Tomo Beating softly like an echo, Send a message to his watchers Up and down the Tunxis River, On the low-lands and the hill-sides Then they heard a loon replying, As he flew along the river. On the hill an owl was hooting, And a fox was somewhere barking. Far away a wolf was howling, As he wandered through the forest. Close at hand a bird was singing "Whip-poor-will," in rhythmic measure, Singing by the hill-side shelter, "Whip-poor-will," in softer accents, Like an echo from the misty lowlands, Till the air was filled with music. These were scouts of crafty Tomo, To their chieftain thus replying, Telling him of all adventures, As they scouted by the river, As they glided through the forest, As they watched the early settlers, As they listened in the darkness, Lest some foe approach the village.