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. He hung his wig
on a bush while he fought. "Come, paleface-with-two-heads," they
shouted, "you seek Indians? You want Indians? Here are Indians
enough for you!" And they brandished aloft the scalp-locks they
had taken. Mosley stationed his men under a shower of arrows,
and began the struggle with over a thousand savages. He was
beaten back, but was re-enforced by one hundred and sixty
Mohican and English troops, and beat the enemy back with great
loss."
The memorial association of Deerfield has erected a stone
monument, marking the spot where Eunice Williams, wife of
Reverend John Williams of Deerfield, was slain by her Indian
captor on the march to Canada after the sacking of the town,
February 29, 1704.
How often the meadows were damp with the blood of their victims!
How often the gold of the buttercups were stained ruby red! It
is impossible to dwell at length on scenes of such terrible
cruelty in a spot where all is so peaceful. We seemed to catch
the restful spirit of the place, and yielding to its soothing
influence, sauntered on into deeper solitudes where we viewed
nature in one of her wildest strongholds. Here ferns and mosses
grew in abundance.
What a place to commune with Nature! "Was ever temple
consecrated by man like this in beauty and filled with such holy
solemnity?"
These glorious hills seemed to be calling the dwellers of the
hot and dusty lowlands to come and enjoy their cool, leafy
retreats. The slopes were covered with large leaved maples;
pines that always towered so straight; and birch that grew in
clusters all along the highway. These comprised the foreground.
The middle of the picture was composed of many hills rising one
above the other in finely modeled forms with evergreen and
deciduous trees fitting so closely together they appeared as a
great, rich tapestry.
While in Massachusetts it is well worth while to go to the old
historical town of Springfield. As we viewed the old arsenal
located there, these significant lines from Longfellow's
"Arsenal at Springfield," kept singing themselves over in our
mind:
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these
Thou drownest Nature's kindly voices,
And jarrest the Celestial Harmonies?
Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals and forts.
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell with solemn sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace."
Peace no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals
The holy melodies of love arise.
The arsenal of Springfield was built in 1794. In 1846 it had a
storage capacity of five hundred thousand rifles.
