Legends and Memories of St John's Chapel -
Addressed to R. A. Riddick
by Major John W. Moore 

Part XVI - published in the Windsor Ledger Oct 5, 1899

I am very thankful, neighbor!
That your book has come at last,
I've been waiting its appearance
For the weary three months past,
With my eager wish to see it,
And with it, also your face,
I can scarely make you know sir
How much gloom is or the place,
When to Ahoskie I have gone
And found the town still all forlorn.

I cannot forbear the tale
Of our sorrow and regret.
That amid the strangers, you
Find so many causes yet,
To retard you in returning
To true friends, who one and all
Now would crown your lofty brow,
And with joy, both great and small
Give thanks that you so worthily
Rank now among the literati.

Dear Sir: I can assure you
That your book a credit is,
To the powers of your mind
And your heart's amenities,
The sweetness and the purity
Of a work so undefiled,
Make it welcome to the man
And as charming to the child
And in its rhythmic cadences
A wealth of subtile beauty lies.

The sweetness of its morals,
Leads it such a luring charm
That its teachings cannot bring
Any soul distress or harm.
So Robert: bless your happy stars
That a monument of love
You have built for after times
And reward, from realms above
Will still be yours when you and I
Shall under tender daises lie.

Your book will long outlive us,
And will well perserve your name
When the millons now living
Shall be lost to earth and fame;
Some pure souls, long hereafter
Will its unstained pages scan,
And across the gulf of ages
Will rise up and bless the man
We knew, so full of tenderness
To all who may be in distress.

Yes, souls alive to purity
Whether seen by eye or mind
Such a man too large for hatred,
Nor by prejudice confined
To narrow ruts or smaller creeds,
But with love to God and man
Finds broader vistas as he goes
And new friends on every hand
And dying leaves an honored name
Full well preserved in niche of fame.

My dear sir, I was thinking
That another little tale
I would tell e're these legends
For sheer want of breath shall fail
All about a lonely stranger
Who in long dead days of yore,
Came from far across the ocean
Unto Carolina's shore;
And he lived on so well and long
As thus to merit quite a song.

Thomas Blount was so fearless,
That he built his first rude home
Right among the Tuscaroras,
Then by far most troublesome
Of all the many Indian nations;
Found in Carolina then,
But with so much danger lurking
To all neighbors of this clan.
Young Thomas boldly built his home
With prayer unto his halidom.

This was but a little time
Ere the court house at St. Johns
Rose to give them aid and law,
They old England's dauntless sons
Who were building slow and surely
The foundations wide and deep
Of our present Great Republic;
And we all, should proudly keep
Their names and deeds in memory
And thank the Lord, we still are free.

The Tuscaroras were a part
Of the mighty Iroquois,
Whose proud domain extended
From Niagara's awful roar,
O'er the lonely lakes and valleys
In the greatest of our States.
And they long had been the masters
And controllers of the fates
Of all the tribes that roamed the plain
Between the Mountains and the Main.

The Tuscaroras left their homes
In the far off, chilly North,
Scare a hundred years before
Bertie County had its birth;
And in that time, lords paramount
Had ruled all the spacious lands,
'Twixt the Alleghany Mountains
And the great seas gleaming sands
The proud unconquered victors, they
O'er all that had come in their way.

These Iroquois, from the first
Had been e'er the close allies
Of our brave British fathers,
And a thousand ancient ties
Had bound them in fraternity,
And together they had warred
Upon the French and Algonquins
Until then little was feared,
That pipes so ofter smoked in peace
Should ever see them enemies.

Thomas built his first dwelling
In that lovely region still
As "Indian Woods" is known among us,
Where the eye can feast at will
Over prospects ever peaceful,
And where smiling plenty dwells.
Noble men, and fairest women
Grace its homes and till its fields
Where God and Nature bounty spread
And heroes sleep amid its dead.

He, the bold and fearless came
With no neighbor within call
Deep within the wood encamping
Many a stately tree must fall
Ere the building he's erecting
Shall be fitted for some mate.
Though thus hidden 'mong the heathen
Yet he recognized the state
Of the woman and the children,
Some future day might to him send.

He, and his negro bondsmen,
Had a loyal friend in need,
An Indian Chief and his tribemen
Were unlike their war-like breed,
And asisted long and loyal
As the great house stately rose,
Helping largely in the labors
And kept watch against all foes,
Till it was such friendship came
The Chief assumed e'en Tom Blount's name

At length the house was finished,
And a great expanse of fields
Stretched far toward the river,
Where the densely wooded hills
Over looked his smiling meadows.
With blue vistas, opening far
Through the distant western woodlands
Where the pensive evening star
Shown from heaven, as natures sign
That then, the weary rest shall find.

Thus he soon became leader
Both of Indian and Whites,
Ever faithful to his promise,
So regardful too of rights,
He was erelong so much trusted
And beloved far and near
That his influence but widened
With each lapsing busy year
Yet still in lonely state he dwelt
As need of bride was never felt.

It would seem that he never
Would exchange his loneliness
And some fair young maiden seek
His fourth-coming years to bless
Vain were the prayer and entreaties
From his closest, dearest friends,
Either his cared naught for women,
Or that hidden aims and ends
Were revolving in his bosom
Like roses waiting yet to blossom.