Connecticut western news., 1879-07-09

1uo LII uullOi Uoy Ol S1SCA OiSAV00h buckled on his knapsack and shouldered his drum. Then bidding his home adieu for the first time, he fell into the line of march with thousand men, destined in few days to ex- perience the fortunes of war on the battlefield of Lake George After the engagement it became his duty to gather the killed and wounded, after which, with admirable cor rectness and perchance upon his drum head, beneath some forest tree-the unschooled boy drew tabular result of the action and,' before the days of post-routes, sent it by messenger to his father. Tine original scroll, now yellow with age, has re- gently been photographed and deposited among the archives of Connecticut with a sketch of the Drummer Boy of Lake George. He died little past middle age, leaving a wife who reached nearly to the age of cen tennarian, with mind and memory unimpaired. It is through the acquaintance with this re- markable woman that the writer in his child hood learned much that he looks back upon with the most interest Her personal knowl- edge of the Indian tribes of New England was considerable, and her tales of their atrocities 1 are freshly remembered to-day. But Lake George and her drummer boy, and the legends of the Lake which he had gathered from the
 historians of the forest, and recited to her
 upon his return from the "Old French War"
 constituted the most charming theme in the
 estimation of her young listener. And Lake
 George with it's surroundings became to his
 imagination the fairy land of romance, as it
 was the garden of the red nations, who were
 wont to convey their dead to the shores of
 the. e..Horican (Holy Lake) for burial
 If you, indulgent MT. Editor, should ven-
 ture to set before your readers the following
 which originated from the above circumstan-
 ces and was written when the writer was
 many years younger than now, please &C.,
 cept it.
 THE MAIDEN OF THE MOHAWK.
 They bore her to the Horican 1 Where crystal waters curl, And underneath an evergreen They laid the Indian girl.
 The warriors of the wilderness, From clear Cayuga's wave, | And from the Mohawk's widowed banks, Were gathered round the grave. And Tonawanda's chief was there The stateliest of the throng, The anthems of Niagara Had been his cradle song. With mhniac eye he bowed his head Beneath that cedar shade, Then tore the plumage from his crown, And laid it with the maid. The eagle looked from his canopy, O'erhung with the thunder storm; His scream was hushed-his eye grew tame As he viewed that wondrous form. The wood-dove left her tender trust, | And lent her mournful chime, While the beating breast of the Horican With the funeral tones kept time. Sadly they placed the burial turf, And the forest flowers they spread; Then bade farewell to the holy mound, Though their hearts were with the head. The maniac chieftain never more At the council fire was seen; In the fitful flash of the northern light He saw his maiden queen. And often in the winter chase, While leaning on his bow, His fancy saw the tiny trace Of her moccasin in the snow. But the tribes are gone, long, long agol And the lonely lake no more Will hear the plunge of the birch canoe, Nor the plash of the Indian oar. Yetthe winds of night will sometimes wake For harp, the sleeping wave, And sing dirge for the Mohawk Maid As she sleeps in an unknown grave. For Tonawanda's tribe and king, Loud Tipped Niagara, In one eternal requiem Shall sing itself away. SEARCH