Every
ledge of rocks along the brown, foaming water of the Deerfield
river was draped with weld clematis, ferns, vines, and moss. As
the stream dashed along at our left it broke the rich mass of
verdure with its silvery gleam.
By the side of the road a woman was selling honey made from
mountain flowers. We bought several pounds and found it most
excellent. The comb was so thin that it seemed to melt in one's
mouth, and the flavor had in it a "subtle deliciousness" clearly
indicating its source.
We halted here not so much, because we wanted the honey, but to
have more time in which to take a last look at the valley. What
a picture it made! The few scattered houses reposing in the
valley or nestling along the edge of the towering hills made a
frame for the rich green and gold of the fields whenever the sun
peeped out from behind the clouds. Higher up we caught the
outlines of the hills whose light, gray sides of purest aspect,
peeping froth their rich verdure, made a picture which we can
never forget. The rustic homes scattered about had always some
noble elms to shelter them. Soon we beheld clusters of wooded
heights with here and there a single pointed summit rising above
the rest. Each spot possessed a beauty, differing only in its
type and not in quantity.
Again we were traveling along a trout stream that sang its songs
of freedom as cheerily as the cardinal or vireo nearby. A glow
of color permeated its banks where it was more open. A host of
blue mints, fragrant burgamot, and glowing masses of cardinal
flowers attracted the eye. Over these hovered, like larger
flowers, the black and yellow tiger swallowtail, argynnis,
painted lady, and mourning-cloak butterflies. Earlier in the
season laurel and honeysuckle shed their fragrance into it.
Blackberries, redbud and dogwood enliven its banks in the
spring, and we saw where hepatica, bloodroot, and anemone grew
in abundance.
At Deerfield amid so much repose, who could think that here was
committed one of the most terrible of Indian massacres. Men,
women and children were put to death in the most horrible
manner. A company of ninety, with eighteen wagons, went to
Deerfield to get a quantity of grain, which had been left behind
by the fleeing citizens. After securing the grain, they forded a
little stream, throwing their fire-arms into the wagons. In an
instant hundreds of bullets and arrows came whizzing from the
surrounding thickets. Only seven out of the number were not
killed, and this stream where they fell bears the significant
name of Bloody Brook to this day.
"Captain Mosley, (the pale-face-with-two-heads) arrived with
seventy militia before the Indians could escape.
