Produced by Bruce William Miller, Cos Cob THE LEGEND OF BARKHAMSTED LIGHT HOUSE A Tale from the Litchfield Hills of Connecticut By LEWIS SPRAGUE MILLS September 5, 1874, Collinsville, Conn. -- March 7, 1965 East Hartford, Conn. 1. IN THIS LAND IS THE LOCATION, PLACE AND SCENERY OF MY STORY This legend lingers in the vale, Like a mist upon the river, And children listen to the tale, When the wind is in the chimney. In the Land of Wooden Nutmegs, In the Land of Steady Habits, In the rugged Mountain County, In the town of fair Barkhamsted Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the thrifty farmers labor From the rising to the setting Of the sun across the meadows, And the whip-poor-wills come calling, From the dark'ning fields and woodlands, Calling through the misty shadows, Till the lonely night has fallen, Lingers still this Light House Legend. In the narrow, rocky valley Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the moon above the hill-tops, Shining big and round and yellow, Lights the farmers' weary foot-steps, As they slowly leave their labors, In the fields and rocky pastures, Looking towards the homes they've builded Here beside the quiet Tunxis Where they eat their frugal suppers And retire on beds of feathers, Lingers still this Light House Legend. Midst the roaring winds of winter, Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the busy flax-wheel's turning With the yellow threads for linen, And the clanking loom is busy With the warp and woof of clothing, And the carpet loom and spool-wheel, Ever ready for the toilers, Clutter up the farmers' kitchens And the candles flicker darkly When the wintry blasts come creeping Through the drafty window casements, Lingers still this Light House Legend. In the houses of the farmers, Near the winding Tunxis River, Where 'the logs are burning slowly, In the great old-fashioned fire-place With the kettle hanging, swinging, And the wind outside is howling Roaring down the Tunxis Valley, Piling high the snows of winter On the road-way and the river 'Till the fox can hardly travel, Hunting for his chicken supper, Lingers still this Light House Legend. O'er the hill-side and the meadows Near the winding Tunxis River, Where the hawk is hunting chickens, As they scratch around the farmyard, Knowing not the hawk is sitting, Watching from the lofty oak-tree, Thinking of a juicy chicken As a royal treat for dinner, Lingers still this Light House Legend.