To this little Indian village, Twenty wigwams in a circle, Midst the foot-hills of the mountains, Came fair Peter Barber's daughter And her Indian husband, Chaugham. For a moon and more they tarried, Tarried with these friendly Indians Living in their twenty wigwams, Oval houses midst the forest, Lofty pine trees, oaks and hemlocks On the westward sloping hill-sides, Looking eastward to the sunrise, Looking westward to the sunset. Lying west of Indian Hill-top, 'Twixt the river and the village, Was an open, rolling up-land, Cultivated by the Indians In those days now dim and distant. Here the golden corn was planted In the soft and pleasant spring-time. Here the golden ears were gathered When the harvest moon was yellow. Sheltered from the winds of winter Were the twenty Indian wigwams By the circle of the mountains, Rising westward, northward, eastward, And beyond the rolling up-land, Was an inlet from the river, From the swiftly flowing Tunxis. Still and deep this inlet water Where the trout were ever plenty In the cove below the meadows 'Neath the bank so steep and rugged. In the warm and pleasant summer, Here canoes were safely floating. Farther westward rolled the Tunxis, And the ripple of the waters Ever filled the place with music. Where this Tunxis tribe of Indians Dwelt in peace upon the hill-side, Have been found their pots for cooking, And their hatchets, knives and arrows Made of stone from Hedgehog Mountain. Where the Indians built their wigwams, Safely hidden midst the mountains, Guarded by the Tunxis River, Now the whiteman has his cabins, Summer cabins near the river, Sheltered by the ancient forest, Midst the glory of the sunrise And the splendor of the sunset. Where the light canoes were floating Are the wild ducks swimming, diving. And above the pines and hemlocks Crows are calling through the seasons. Dressed in dirty Indian fashion, Chaugham mingled with the others, Seemed a member of the village. Molly, stained all dark and dusky, Crudely clothed in Indian garments, And her hair all greased and blackened, Combed out straight as was the custom Practiced by the Indian women, Carried water from the river, Pounded corn and mended blankets, Seemed a simple Indian woman. Thus they dwelt among, the Indians, Thus they tarried in the village. For a moon and more they lingered Waiting for the dread pursuers, Sent by angry Peter Barber, Hunting by the Central River, Hunting up and down the meadows, Hunting eastward towards the sunrise, Hunting through the western woodlands, Hunting for his wayward daughter. 18. ANSWERED THEN THE SHERIFF, SAYING, 'WE HAVE COME TO CAPTURE WHITE GIRL' The Constable and Sheriff came To the little Indian village Presenting Peter Barber's claim For his wayward daughter, Molly.