A modern history of Windham county, Connecticut : a Windham county treasure book, Volume I, Part 110

Author: Lincoln, Allen B
Publication date: 1920
Publisher: Chicago : S. J. Clarke publ. co.
Number of Pages: 930

USA > Connecticut > Windham County > A modern history of Windham county, Connecticut : a Windham county treasure book, Volume I > Part 110

Note: The text from this book was generated using artificial intelligence so there may be some errors. The full pages can be found on Archive.org (link on the Part 1 page).

B. F. BROWN

Benajmin Francis Brown, author of the volume of poems, "Life in the Country and by the Sea," was son of Benjamin and Emeline G. Brown, and born in Brooklyn, November 24, 1845, and one of nine children. He attended school in Gilbert district, about one and one-half miles from his home, the little schoolhouse

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on the hill so happily referred to in one of his poems. He also attended graded school at Brooklyn village, three miles distant. He was quick to learn and never thought school a hardship. Then, as so many young men did in those days, he tried teaching district school himself, teaching winters and farming summers. From early boyhood, he was famed among the boys and girls as a maker of rhymes, usually to their delight, but sometimes uncomfortable for them in satire At age twenty-four he decided to go to Providence, first as clerk in a grocery, then took up bookkeeping, brokerage and salesman's work, until April, 1911; then went to Michigan as secretary of the manufacturers' association in Muskegon. But office work was always irksome, and he always "kept his hand in" at writing verses, many of which brought him money as well as public favor. In November, 1912, he gave up business, and published his book of poems, and set out to sell the book by mail and personal travel, with such success that nine editions have now been published. He married October 12, 1875, Emma A. Morse of Provi- dence, who died November 11, 1897, leaving one son, Arthur L. Brown, now a chemist in Wilkinsburg, Pa., with Westinghouse Company. Mr. B. F. Brown later married Nellie Isherwood of Providence, June 7, 1907; they have no chil- dren, and make their home in Providence. In the following pages several of Mr. Brown's poems are given place.

BENJAMIN F. BROWN

THE HILLS OF OLD NEW ENGLAND

O, the hills of old New England, How the pictures come and go As my fancy paints their beauty 'Mid the scenes of long ago; The old home beneath the maples Where the happy children play, E'en now their voices reach me Till it seems but yesterday.

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On a hill of old New England By the spreading boughs of green Stands the schoolhouse of my boyhood ; Many years now roll between- Let the past become the present, Brush the mists of years away, And once more upon that hillside Life is all a holiday.

O' the hills of old New England, Rolling on 'neath summer skies, Forest-crowned or waving verdure, How their glory fills our eyes ; Many lands I've traveled over, On their sunny slopes to rest, But the hills of old New England Are the ones I love the best.

O' the hills of old New England Would you all their beauty know; See them in the winter moonlight, When their brows are white with snow ; When the Ice-King drapes their shoulders And like sentinels they stand, Ever watching, cold and silent, 'Till the morn breaks o'er the land.

THE OLD FARM HOUSE

Go a mile or so from the old grist mill On through the woods where 'tis dark and still Up the grassy road, at the top of the hill Is the old farm house alone and bare, For a century past it has stood there, And now like a tramp is devoid of care.

Go up in the garret and there you will spy Many things that were used in the days gone by, There are pots and kettles that never again Will be hung by hooks on the swinging crane, In the wide fireplace, over burning wood Where grandmother cooked-and 'twas always good !

A carpet loom by the window stands, To be used no more by the weaver's hands; Back close to the eaves is the trundle-bed, Imagine, in years that now have fled, How it held the little ones through the night Till early they woke at morning light ;

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No one of those little ones dared to go When winds around the house would blow, Up in the garret in dark of night Guiding their way by candle light, Afraid of the ghosts that might be there, Or a raggedy man on the topmost stair.

Right back of the house a barn once stood, Now boards and beams that are far from good, The garden is full of weeds for a crop Some of them climbing over the top ; A broken-down curb is over the well, What its contents are no one can tell, And the old farm house has nothing to show "T'was a happy home in the long ago. (Not far from the "wolf den")

IN THE HIGH-BACK SLEIGH

Over the hills in the high-back sleigh, Over the hills on that sunny day, Diamonds on shrubs and ice-bound trees Flashed when stirred by the morning breeze, For the winter night of mist and rain Had trimmed them over and over again.

Over the hills in the high-back sleigh With buffalo robes the cold to stay, And soap-stones hot, wrapped snug and neat In grandma's shawl to warm your feet, One hand sufficient the horse to guide, One arm free to keep close by your side.

The dearest girl you ever knew, With rosy cheeks and eyes of blue, And 'neath her hood strayed many a curl, Her smiles to wreath, your head to whirl. "Twas a joy supreme that winter day Over the hills in the high-back sleigh.

Over the hills in the high-back sleigh- When memory brings the far-away, You can almost hear the sleigh-bells ring And see the white fields hurrying By, as they did that sunny day When you rode with her in the high-back sleigh.

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BLUE FRINGED GENTIAN

Blue fringed gentian Claims attention In September hours ; Born of sunlight, 'Tis its birthright, Queen of all wild flowers.

You must travel To unravel Questions where to find it ; One year, hither, Next year, thither ; Leaves no trace behind it.

By the brookside Near the noontide, There its beauty glows ; Buds uplifted, Opened, rifted, When the sunshine flows.

Sky blue tinges, Dainty fringes 'Round their lovely bells ; Is the story Of their glory That the vision tells.

THOSE COWHIDE BOOTS

How well I remember in days of old Those cowhide boots in the village sold, How every boy must have a pair In winter days for him to wear ; Then with woolen stockings his mother knit, And bright new boots his feet to fit, He would feel as proud as any king, When towards the school he was hurrying.

And when the snows of winter came, If wet his feet, he was to blame, For beeswax, tallow and neatsfoot oil, All melted hot, was the kind of spoil He must rub on his boots, for his father said, "Boys, grease your boots 'fore you go to bed, Then put them behind the stove to dry, And do it now, not by and by."

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At morning, ere the rise of sun, The forenoon chores must all be done, Then buckwheat cakes and maple syrup Unending appetite would stir up; Next, in deep snow 'twas pure delight To wear those boots with pants tied tight Around the legs for barricade, A wise protection mother made.

From tramping in the snow till night, Those boots would shrink till awful tight, The bootjack seemed the only way To pull them off-they meant to stay. Sometimes your brother, very kind, While you with one foot pushed behind, Between his legs would take the other And pull till ended was your brother.

SCHOOLDAYS IN THE COUNTRY

In the dewy morning, over hills and dales, Merry voices ringing, shining dinner-pails ; Up the hill they scramble towards the schoolhouse door, Just as you and I did-many years before.

Little barefoot Tommy, Rob and sister Sue, Curly-headed Mary in her suit of blue. Row by row they're seated, faces all aglow- 'Cepting "Stubby Peter," sliver in his toe.

Teacher calls to order, "Class in 'rithmetic, Places at the blackboard, every one be quick." How the chalk does rattle till the problem's done ; Bennie proves the victor, calls out "Number one."

Now the writing lesson ; see them try to write, Noses near the paper, some with tongue in sight ; Little heads a-twisting, think they'll do it better; Gracious! what an effort, just to make a letter.

So the lessons follow till the noon is near ; Then a solemn stillness while they wait to hear Just a little tingle, then with rush and roar, From the desks and benches, out the schoolhouse door.

Pour the lads and lasses, bound to have some fun, Every minute precious till the clock strikes one. "School-days in the country ;" were you ever in it ? What a world of gladness pressed in every minute!

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THE OLD RING GAME

"On the carpet here we stand, Take your true-love by the hand, Take the one that you love best Before you close your eyes to rest."

There was one little girl with the auburn curl And she knew that you loved her best, For 'twas always the same in playing that game, You would take her and leave the rest. But that one little girl with the auburn curl Had a choice of her own to show, And your heart would ache when she chose to take That boy with his hair like tow.

IN THE TRUNDLE-BED

The three little tots in the trundle-bed, Would lie so still till their prayers were said, But after mother had said good-night, And tucked them into the bed-clothes tight,

They would tumble and roll till you couldn't tell Where Tommy began, or which was Nell, And Jimmie, the leader, would shout with glee While his head would bob where his feet should be.

And Tommy by poking the sheet up high Would make a white tent in which they could lie ; They frolicked and laughed, were a noisy crew, Each tried to do more than the others could do.

But tired at last, father's voice they heard, "Children, keep still," soon they hardly stirred. So the three little tots in the trundle-bed, To the land of Nod then quickly fled.

Three little tots in the trundle-bed To the land of Nod in their dreams have fled, And often a smile, while you gaze, appears Which the fairies gave to the little dears.

THE OLD PARSONAGE AT CHAPLIN By Josephine M. Robbins

Just down the road from the parish church Stood the village pastor's home, A parsonage old by the people built, Where the people loved to come.

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"Twas a quiet place, with shadowing trees, Where the weary at heart might rest, And talk for an hour, with the man of God On the themes that they love the best.

And many a time, when the cares of life Pressed heavy upon some heart, And the danger was that in a hurry and work We might miss the better part, The lessons learned in that study once Came back as it met our eye, And the peace of God stole into our hearts As we thought of the days gone by.

There were children once in the grave old house, A merry, romping band, And grandmother too, who for many years, Has been gone to the better land. And instead of the merry circle of seven, On which once the firelight shone, Only the father and mother come, When the work of the day is done.

But the house is old, and it shows the marks Which the hand of time has wrought. And to put it in order in every part, Is the loving pastor's thought. And so today, they are bidding good bye To each old familiar place, And they miss the sight, as they enter each room Of some well-remembered face.

Grandmother's bed is smoothly made, By its side stands her easy chair, But both are vacant, they show no trace Of the patient sleeper there. So they fold up her garments and lay them away, In the old time-honored chest, And they lovingly think of the aged one, In her heavenly home at rest.

They open the next; no smiling face Looks up at them as they come. Their only daughter and orphan niece, Have each found another home. They are happy homes, with the merry noise Of children at their play, But they think with a sigh, from this dear old room, They have passed forever away.

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They pause at the next. In the summer day The chamber seems cold and chill ;

For twice the foot of the Angel of Death Hath rested upon its sill.

Two boyish faces, with loving smiles, Look down at them from the wall,

The patient and grave-the merry and wild- But they answer not to their call.

Out in the hall and down the stairs, Tomorrow the workmen will come; And only the memory then shall remain Of the old-time happy home.

And when the new rooms shall grow old, And their story some pen shall tell, May it be a record of work for God. .

And of service for man as well.

SWEET FOUR-O'CLOCKS By C. B. Montgomery

Sweet little Four-o'clocks ! beautiful flowers ! With tenderest mem'ries of youth's happy hours, Dainty red blossoms, streaked with bright gold, Stories of happy days, often are told; While gazing on Four-o'clocks, sparkling and bright, Whose beauty is glorious early at night, As 'neath the old maple together we'd play, When Four-o'clocks opened at close of the day.

Sweet are the mem'ries brought to the mind, Tend'rest emotions the Four-o'clocks find Of years long ago when children together We merrily played in all kinds of weather. Some now are gone whose faces were dear, The voices are hushed we once loved to hear, But sweet little Four-o'clocks bloom as of old In crimson, in scarlet, in white, and in gold.

WATER LILY By C. B. Montgomery

At daylight's first gleaming how beauteous the sight, Of sweet water lily, so pure and so white ; As it nestles so closely in cloak of rich dyeing, In the pretty cool pool at the mountain foot lying.

How well we remember the beauteous flower That blooms in great glory at morning's first hour. How sweet the perfume that rose on the air, From the dear water lily so pure and so fair.

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Like diamonds they glisten at the rise of the sun, And show to the world a day's labor begun. They ne'er close their eyes till the sun shining bright, Proclaims to the lilies they must close until night.

Of all the flowers that grow in our land, Where is one with a beauty and mission so grand As the dear water lily ? And long may it stay, To proclaim to the world the beginning of day.

NOW AND THEN By C. B. Montgomery

Baby, on her daddy's knee,

Full of happiness and glee,

Wouldn't change with king her throne,

For this realm is all her own ;

Dances up and dances down,

Full of joy from toe to crown, Bends the bearded lips to kiss,

Mockingly makes b'lieve to miss,

Laughs and crows and pulls my hair,

When my head comes bobbing where

Her little hands, so full of life,

Double up in mimic strife-

This dear pet of daddy's.

Eighteen years from now this girl, Cheeks like peach, hair in curl, Red lips riper than the June, When all nature is in tune,

Eyes so sweet, of love so full,

That they make one's heart just pull,

Smile like sunlight in the morn,

When the night's black hair is shorn, Blushing as the roses do, When the spring's glad stars are new.

Bold, yet bashful : coy, yet free,

Will sit on another knee-

But it won't be daddy's.

POEMS BY LEVI ALLEN

Two poems by Levi Allen, the "poet laureate of North Windham," as Allen Jewett recalls him, Mr. Jewett writes : "I was present at the gathering at Chewink schoolhouse. The picture is not overdrawn. George and James Martin were on horseback as described. Origen Bennett was in his glory. It was a pleasing sight-those sixteen pairs of oxen drawing the 'chariot,' laden with 'Bedlam's beauty and chivalry.' A platform was arranged for dancing and many of us 'tripped the light fantastic toe.' "

Vol. 1-58

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THE GATHERING

(At Chewink Schoolhouse in Chaplin, September 19, 1865)

No beckoning ghost invites our steps to stray To yonder house beside the public way. But thanks to those who took such special pains To invite a crowd to Chewink's barren plains, Where vegetation's stores are scarcely known, And naught but birch and shrubs are grown, Save some small patches few and far between Where stinted corn and cereals may be seen. The people frugal and somewhat refined ; Where means are used to cultivate the mind. 0, Chewink! Chewink! the chipmunk's native home, Thou art teeming big with something yet to come. These social gatherings always joy impart, We interchange the friendly feelings of the heart. Here matrons grave and maiden's lovely glance Thrill our hearts, our very souls enhance. And well the people who in Chewink reside Of such a gathering may take special pride. And now we'll tell you how it came to pass, Old Bedlam was let loose; all turned out en masse, Mounted a huge car got up in style complete, With ample room for each and all a seat ; A band of martial music-the drum, the fife's shrill note, And o'er their heads the stars and stripes did float. Sixteen pairs of bullocks to this car attached For strength and beauty could not well be matched. Here let us introduce to you and say,

"George and James Martin, Esq.'s, Marshals of the day." On horseback with all becoming grace, Escort the chariot to its destined place. While banners, kerchiefs, wave on every hand. Three cheers roll forth from the martial band, All things arranged as had been previously planned. Origin Bennett, Esq., takes the speaker's stand, And in his frank, familiar, easy way Welcomes the people on this auspicious day. George Apley next appears upon the stage And all the attentions of the crowd engage. A pleasant smile lit up his honest face- Told how the name originated of the place : Some amorous swain went once to court his dear, Returning in the morning as doth appear. The birds sang gaily, and he could hear distinct, These notes repeated often : "Chewink ! Chewink ! Chewink !" Hence the origin of this euphonic name, And will be handed down to fame.

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P. B. Peck, Esq., spoke next with power and force As did the French and Moulton in their course.

And Parson Williams, the last we have to boost; Origin Bennett, Esq., then gave a handsome toast. Some space of time betwixt the speeches intervene Filled up with music, cheering in between. And now the creature comforts, such as oyster stews, Pies, cakes, and crackers, such as hunger couldn't refuse. When all had well partaken to their appetite's content, And each unto the other smiles, on pleasure bent, The day passed off in merriment and glee, And many a friendly greeting and smiling face you see. So all had good reason, dear reader, you may think, Long to remember the gathering at Chewink.

ODE TO LITTLE RIVER By Levi Allen

[This stream heads in the north part of Hampton, flows through Canterbury and Hanover, discharges its water into the Shetucket, about a quarter-mile below Versailles, and is noted for its pure water and fine fish, especially trout. The author spent his childhood and youthful days on or near the banks of this stream which memory still holds dear.]

Little River, pleasant stream, Subject of many a wakeful dream, How oft in thy silvery wave

My youthful limbs I used to bathe- At night wade o'er thy pebbly bed With cautious step and careful tread, With torch and spear to fish for eels, O' how those scenes o'er memory steals. Those scenes inwoven with my frame Are far more dear than I could name. The youthful sports and pastimes dear Now gone and left me in life's sere, But I can well remember, too, When on thy banks thick brushwood grew So thick that scarce a space between Where thy bright waters could be seen, Rank weeds and grass and tangled vines Of hops and grapes with other kinds, The ash, the maple and the yew And willows in profusion grew For miles along the adjoining farms,

Which screened thy many fish from harms. Old homestead's eastern boundary And thou art ever dear to me, Now of thy former beauty shorn Thy brush all cut, their roots uptorn,

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No shady nook where fish can hide

And few within thy stream abide. Thy banks o'ergrown to grasses green

Whilst thou, bright river, flow'st between.

Flow on pure stream, from north to south I know thee well, from source to mouth.

Wind on, dear stream, through field and mead; Thou lookest like a silver thread.

Wind on through dell and rock, and wood

To mingle with ocean's mighty flood.

Flow on and wed Shetucket River

Now lost and gone-farewell forever !

EVERETT O. WOOD

Everett O. Wood of Danielson has relieved the cares of a busy life by verse- making, and a few years ago a pamphlet of his selections was published for private circulation. Mr. Wood has always been a lover of music, and in young manhood played the violin without a teacher. After a few years, dissatisfied with his own lack of technique, he laid down the instrument and never expected to touch it again. But at age sixty, he so longed for the old touch that he began taking lessons and studied for three years. He is now in his seventy-seventh year. The two selections from his verses are typical of his spirit.

AUTUMN MUSINGS By Everett O. Wood

The summer days are gone; the birds

That but a few short weeks ago

Gave forth their glad and joyful song,

Sit silent now among the trees Or flit about with mournful chirp,

Gathering together in flocks To make their journey far away

To Southern lands, ere winter comes.

The hum.of insects fills the air,

The trees and plants have stopped their growth,

All nature seems the while to rest.

O, quiet, restful season now, You take me back to youthful days

When, free from care and business strife, The hurry of the season past,

We gathered in the winter's store, Talked of and planned our winter's sport,

The school, where we should sit, with whom, What games we'd play, what mirth and fun Should while away recess and noon,

Who would the teacher be, and what New scholars would among us come.

And so we worked the autumn flowers,

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The aster and the golden rod, The blue-fringed gentian in its time, Talked of their beauty as we passed, Their grace of form and varied hues. I would not take my life in hand To live again those years as then, But could I have one day to live Just as I lived those quiet days, What rest and comfort it would bring! But as the evening shadows fell My heart would long to find the home I knew not then, but which has brought Its larger love and sweeter rest, And so I would not backward go But onward to receive with joy The gladness and perchance the strength Each passing season brings to me.

A GOOD TIME COMING

By Everett O. Wood

There's a good time coming, And it may be near, For the signs are all around us Bringing us good cheer.

Man is learning duty To his fellow man, And the powers of heaven are working God's diviner plan.

Marshal, then your forees, Work with might and main, And with strong united effort Victory we'll gain.

Do not think that angels, Robed in garments white, Are the only beings working For the cause of right.

Men of noble purpose, Women, tried and true ; These, our brethren, are the angels, God is working through.

Be they clad in satin Or in plain attire, So their hearts are true and loving. Warmed with heaven's fire.

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WE THREE OLD MEN IN HAMPTON

By Elizabeth D. Jewett

In August, 1897, in honor of Patrick Pearl, Wolcott Carey, and David Green- slit, men of sterling integrity, well-known throughout the county and state, Miss Jewett (now Mrs. Elizabeth Jewett Brown) published in the Willimantic Journal the following verses :

We gather in the village store, And there relate our early lore, And tell the tales of boyhood o'er- We three old men in Hampton. We bring old scenes to mind again, And we forget we're aged men, And never more shall see again The days we've seen in Hampton.

We view the changes time has wrought- The training days where battles fought In mimic war have passed to naught- Since we were boys in Hampton. For gone are boyhood's friends for aye, For time has called the roll each day ; They've mustered silently away- The friends we've known in Hampton.

For faces then are seen no more, The same trees bend their branches o'er, The sun shines bright as days of yore- When we were boys in Hampton. We sit in each accustomed seat, And gaze upon the quiet street, The bordered walks and houses neat- As years gone by in Hampton.

But still the sun shines just as bright, The winding roads with trees bedight, The pond which sparkles in the light- Beneath the hill in Hampton. We love each hill and fertile glade, The fairest land that God has made; The lanes our infant feet have strayed- When we were boys in Hampton.

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And when our earthly race is run, And o'er our lives the setting sun Has cast its rays, may each and one- Be laid to rest in Hampton. Laid near the place which gave us birth, God's acre in the fair green earth ; From death to life, the newer birth- We three old men in Hampton.

MRS. C. H. N. THOMAS

Charlotte Hyde Niles was a student at Killingly Academy in Danielson about seventy years ago. Later under the nom-de-plume "Mary Maylie" she con- tributed both prose and poetry to the Danielson "Telegraph" (predecessor of "The. Transcript"). For a long time her identity was unknown, even to the publisher, but finally she became known as a frequent contributor to Bonner's New York Ledger. She married Benjamin N. Thomas of Killingly who died in October 29, 1867, at age thirty-seven, but Mrs. Thomas lived until 1917, at- taining age eighty-eight. Her son George O. Thomas is now a merchant in Danielson. A collection of verse by Mrs. Thomas under the title "Lady Evelyn and Other Poems" was published in 1895 by Charles Wells Moulton of Buf- falo, N. Y.

A LEGEND OF LAKE ALEXANDER

By Mrs. C. H. N. Thomas

Two miles in length and one in breadth, Lake Alexander lieth, Far to the south, one little isle The traveler espieth.

Loon Island, its euphonious name, Its shores are fringed with rushes, While farther in grow scrubby oaks And whortleberry bushes.

And yet, this island, lone and bare, Hath place in old tradition, Linked with the red-man's name and fame, And with his superstition.

It was a mountain's summit once According to the story ; A mountain grand, which stood alone In solitary glory.

And hither came the Indian tribes, From miles around they gathered, Each dusky brave, as fancy pleased, Bepainted and befeathered.

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The morn beheld their sacred rites, Their festal scenes each even, Night after night, to revelry And song and dance were given.

Alas for them, like wiser men, They tired of simple pleasures, And to increase their wanton mirth Devised new means and measures.

Strange panic seized that guilty crowd, They paused in their mad revel, And offered human sacrifice To Manitou and devil !

Then the Great Spirit angry grew, The sky shook with his thunder, The mountain trembled 'neath their feet, The earth was rent asunder.

Majestic, slow, the mountain sank Down to its very summit, And every living thing was drowned That chanced to be upon it.

Save one old squaw upon the top, Weeno, whose voice of warning Fell on her people's ears each day, But met with only scorning.

She stood, the last of all her race, Her lonely lot bewailing, Till o'er the lake, one summer night, A weird canoe came sailing.

The oarsman was a dusky chief Of high and noble station, And Weeno sailed away with him To her own tribe and nation.

Unto the happy hunting ground Which all the good inherit, Beyond the farthest setting sun, Prepared by the Great Spirit.

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A modern history of Windham county, Connecticut : a Windham county treasure book, Volume I, Part 110

Author: Lincoln, Allen B Publication date: 1920 Publisher: Chicago : S. J. Clarke publ. co. Number of Pages: 930

Author: Lincoln, Allen B
Publication date: 1920
Publisher: Chicago : S. J. Clarke publ. co.
Number of Pages: 930