Beneath These Mountains: The Children Who Rest

As one walks through the peaceful grounds of Wilbraham’s oldest cemeteries, a quiet story unfolds in the weathered inscriptions carved into stone. Among the family plots and fading epitaphs, a startling number of children appear, many lost within days or months of birth, some barely reaching their early years. One particularly heartbreaking pattern emerges from the year 1803, when an epidemic swept through the area, claiming the lives of numerous children.

Though rarely mentioned in town histories, this local tragedy can still be read in stone. Entire families were affected, with some losing multiple children within weeks of one another. It was a time when childhood illnesses spread rapidly and medical knowledge was still in its infancy. No vaccines existed, and the concept of germs had yet to be discovered. Many mothers, already vulnerable, died from what was then called “childbirth fever”, a bacterial infection unknowingly passed by unwashed hands during childbirth.

The earliest cemeteries in what are now the towns of Wilbraham and Hampden date back to colonial times. The first, established in 1736, is known today as Adams Cemetery in Wilbraham. The second was laid out in 1755 at the southern end of Springfield Mountain, then part of the Outward Commons, and is now called Old Hampden Cemetery. These sacred grounds have borne silent witness to generations of life, loss, and remembrance, and in the year 1803, they became the resting place for many children, marking one of the most sorrowful chapters in the area's early history.

In those days, the death of infants and young children was sadly common. Stillbirths occurred with alarming frequency, and when both mother and child passed during labor, it was not unusual for them to be buried together in the same coffin. The grief was deeply personal, but also widely shared across the early community.

What we now recognize as appendicitis was not yet understood, and the treatments available at the time were often as dangerous as the conditions they aimed to cure. Many other common childhood illnesses, such as scarlet fever, polio, whooping cough, smallpox, tuberculosis, diphtheria, typhoid, influenza, and cholera, claimed the lives of countless young people. Their gravestones still stand in the old cemeteries as silent reminders of these epidemics.

Tragic accidents were also frequent and reflected both the hazards of rural life and the limitations of 18th and 19th-century medicine. Deaths occurred from falling trees, blasting accidents while clearing stones from farmland, runaway horses, and people being thrown from or run over by wagons and sleighs. Others perished in mills or were fatally injured by livestock. Something as simple as a cut or an infected tooth could lead to blood poisoning and death.

The wilderness itself posed dangers. There are multiple accounts of fatal rattlesnake bites. Rattlesnake Peak in southern Wilbraham and Rattlesnake Mountain just over the border in Hampden earned their names honestly. Perhaps the most well-known rattlesnake victim was Timothy Merrick, who died after being bitten on Springfield Mountain, now part of Wilbraham and Hampden. As Samuel Warner, the unofficial town chronicler, recorded in his journal:

“Dyed Aug. 7, 1761 by the bite of a Rattle Snake, being 22 years, two months and three days old and vary near the point of marriage.”

This tragic event became the subject of one of the earliest known American ballads.

Natural forces continued to claim lives through lightning strikes, freezing temperatures, and drowning. A devastating incident in 1799 saw six young people drown in Nine Mile Pond during a sailing outing. Among the victims were three children of Levi and Martha Bliss, a Warriner girl, a Merrick girl, and a young man visiting from Connecticut.

Earlier, in 1762, another Merrick family tragedy was noted by Samuel Warner:

“Noah, son of Rev. Mr. Noah Mirick of Springfield, fourth parish (Wilbraham), had bin about three years in collidge. Drowned at Camebridge on Thursday the 24th Day of June in year 1762 in the 17th year of his age.”

During the Civil War era, a deadly outbreak of diphtheria swept through South Wilbraham, leaving heartbreak in its path. Among the hardest hit was the Speight family, who lived along the road leading to East Longmeadow. In a single month, just before Christmas, four of their children perished from the disease. The family’s remaining children were sent away in hopes of sparing them from the same fate.

At the time, an old Irish proverb warned, “A green Christmas makes for a full cemetery,” suggesting that a mild December often ushered in a deadly season of illness. True to that belief, the following winter turned bitterly cold, the kind of freeze that often brought a temporary end to the spread of diseases like diphtheria. The children returned home, but tragedy struck again when yet another child died from the illness. In a final act of desperation, the Speights burned their house to the ground, a grim but not uncommon practice then used in efforts to halt the spread of contagions such as diphtheria, typhoid, and cholera. As flames engulfed the home, Mrs. Speight reportedly said, “I’m glad to see it go—maybe now we’ll be rid of the diphtheria!”

Tragic deaths of children were not uncommon in the region’s early years, as disease, harsh winters, and limited medical knowledge often claimed young lives. The first recorded death in the Outward Commons, the early frontier of Wilbraham, was that of David Jones, son of David and Hannah Jones, who died on August 19, 1736. His father, not wanting his son to be the first buried in the newly established Burying Ground, instead laid him to rest in Springfield’s old cemetery.

In what is now the town of Hampden, the first known burial in the Old Cemetery also belonged to a child. In November 1749, John Bliss married Abiel Colton, both from respected Longmeadow families, and soon after settled on South Road, in a home that still stands today at 142 South Road, though much altered. John Bliss would become a prominent figure in the South Parish of Wilbraham, serving as a town moderator, a colonel in the Revolutionary War, and a delegate to the Provincial Congress. He is also believed to have played a role in the protection of a fugitive slave, highlighting his civic convictions.

Old Cemetery, South Wilbraham, now the town of Hampden

Their daughter Lydia was born on March 9, 1752. But less than three years later, on January 10, 1755, she died, likely from one of the many childhood illnesses that plagued families in those days. Samuel Warner recorded her passing with the note, “The first laid in the burying ground of the South Parish.” No gravestone remains for Lydia, and her exact resting place has been lost to time. Repeated acts of vandalism over the centuries have damaged or erased many of the oldest markers in the cemetery.

John Bliss died in 1809 at the age of 83, and Abiel followed in 1803 at the age of 85. Both are buried in the Old Cemetery, along with other members of their family, including their son Oliver, who died in 1757 at the age of six.

If it is telling that the first recorded burial in Hampden’s Old Cemetery was that of a child, it is even more poignant to consider the second. On July 11, 1755, Samuel Warner recorded in his journal that a daughter had been born to John Langdon and his wife Sarah, who lived at what is now 229 Somers Road in Hampden. Just eleven days later, on July 22, Warner made a solemn note: “Sarah, wife of John Langdon, died July 22 in the 22nd year of her age, and 2nd person yt was buried in the south burial place.”

Although Warner does not specify a cause, it is almost certain that Sarah died from complications related to childbirth, a tragically common fate for young women in the 18th century. Yet in the shadow of that loss, the newborn daughter, also named Sarah, survived. She would later grow up and marry Ebenezer Crocker, continuing the family line her mother never had the chance to see.

In 1849, Joseph Cunningham moved his family from Pittsfield to South Wilbraham, where he became the town’s blacksmith. He set up his home and forge at what is now 477 Main Street. The property quickly became a hub of activity and community life.

Tragedy struck on January 8, 1861, when his wife, Elsie Walker Cunningham, died of a “fever.” Given the winter season, it’s likely she was temporarily placed in the vault at the Old Cemetery until the ground thawed for spring burial. Later that year, on July 30, Joseph purchased a 24-by-15.5-foot burial lot in the Old Cemetery for $13.00. It was located adjacent to the plot of Marcus Beebe, a prominent neighbor and relative by marriage.

Left a widower with four young daughters, Joseph remarried just six months later. His new wife, Emily Ballou, was a close relation of the well-known abolitionist minister Adin Ballou, founder of the utopian Hopedale Community in Massachusetts. Sadly, Emily’s time in South Wilbraham ended in heartbreak as well. On January 17, 1886, she gave birth to a stillborn son, and she passed away the following day.

The Old Cemetery Vault

The events surrounding Emily’s death were recorded in the diary of Lucy Jane Beebe, daughter of Marcus Beebe, who lived nearby at 551 Main Street. Lucy noted:

“Jan. 16, Lucy C. [Cunningham] came to spend the night as her mother was sick. Had a nice visit. Jan. 17, Mother and Lucy C. were sent for this morning, so I spent the principal part of the day in doing housework. Went down to see the little dead boy, however—so cunning! Jan. 18, Aunt Emily died in afternoon. Sarah [Emily’s daughter from a previous marriage] went crazy—poor girl! Made pies in forenoon. Lucy C. came up to stay all night. Jan. 19, went down to see Aunt Emily in her coffin with a baby. Jan. 20, Attended Aunt C.’s funeral at house 9 o’clock, church 9½. She was carried to R.I.”

Sometime after acquiring his plot in the Old Cemetery, Joseph made a sorrowful journey back to Pittsfield, likely taking more than a week round trip, to retrieve the remains of two loved ones: his infant daughter Emma Maria and his mother, Clorinda Cunningham. Emma had died in 1841 at just 13 months old. When she was reinterred in Wilbraham, a small stone was placed at her grave—but the stonecutter mistakenly inscribed her age as 13 years. A second, more elaborate marker was later made with the correct age and identical wording, but for reasons unknown, it was never installed. Instead, it ended up being used as a doorstep at a house once owned by the Cunningham family.

Joseph Cunningham's life was marked by both industriousness and loss. Over the years, he was married three times and had six daughters. Notably, two of his wives and all of his daughters had names beginning with the letter “E.”

His brother-in-law, Marcus Beebe, and his wife Maria also experienced profound loss. Their daughter Emma Olivia, born September 24, 1853, died at the age of three on July 28, 1857, and was laid to rest in the Old Cemetery. Surviving correspondence suggests a contagious illness may have swept through the household, leaving only the parents well enough to attend the child’s funeral.

A final sorrowful story from the Old Cemetery’s records recalls the drowning of two young men on June 13, 1829. The inscription on their shared gravestone offers a poignant glimpse into the tragedy:

“In memory of Walter, son of Stephen & Polly Wakefield, who drowned June 13, 1829, age 21. In memory of Alexis Orson, son of Chauncey B. & Clarissa Beebe, who was drowned June 13, 1829, age 22. These young men were fishing in Scantick River. Orson, from the declivity of a rock, slipped in, called for help. Walter, anxious to save his friend, plunged. Orson caught him. They both sank to rise no more.” 

John Franklin Whitaker was the son of Amos Whitaker, South Wilbraham’s well-known stagecoach driver who lived at 613 Main Street in the village’s southern district. John himself resided on an 80-acre farm at what is now 231 Glendale Road. He married Lucy Ann Beebe, a member of the prominent Beebe family, and on August 27, 1883, the couple welcomed a daughter, whom they named Laura.

Just a year later, on August 29, 1884, tragedy struck when young Laura passed away. In response, John purchased a 12-by-22-foot burial plot in the Old Cemetery for $11.00. The deed notes that the lot was situated beside that of Andrew Beebe, Lucy’s relative, an indication of close familial ties in the cemetery’s layout.

But following Laura’s death, the Whitaker family experienced a dramatic and puzzling upheaval. John was not only running a productive farm but was also involved in multiple community enterprises, assisting his aging father with the stage line and freight business, managing a feed and grain store, and serving as a constable for South Wilbraham. Yet, despite their prosperity and public standing, the family suddenly abandoned their home and farm, taking none of their belongings, and relocated to a rented house in the south village. Remarkably, the move occurred while Lucy was expecting another child, a time typically marked by nesting rather than relocation.

The farm, once active and well-kept, was left vacant for nine years and eventually sold for only half of its original value. The swiftness of their departure and the prolonged abandonment of the land left many wondering what had prompted such a sudden and drastic decision.

The answer lies in a single word recorded on young Laura’s death certificate: Cholera.

In the 19th century, cholera was among the most feared diseases. Though the connection to contaminated drinking water and unsanitary wells was understood in theory, communities often had little knowledge of how to manage or contain outbreaks. Families responded with instinct and urgency—fleeing their homes in hopes of escaping the invisible threat. The Whitakers’ departure, swift and without material possessions, was entirely consistent with such fear.

Their rented home in the south village, located at 477 Main Street, had never previously had a well on the property. But in the same year Laura died, a new well was dug—a silent yet telling response to the family’s ordeal.

What might seem like an overreaction today was, in their time, a desperate attempt at survival. The Whitakers did what so many Victorian families did in the face of disease: they left everything behind and started over, haunted, perhaps, by the memory of what they lost, and the fear of what might follow if they stayed.

Stillman Needham Stebbins was a descendant of one of the earliest settlers in the southern portion of the Outward Commons—land that would later become the Town of Hampden. His life was cut tragically short when, at just 12 years old, he was struck by lightning on July 15, 1834. He is buried in the Old Cemetery near the south village of Wilbraham.

Though little documentation survives beyond the date and cause of death, the circumstances allow for thoughtful speculation. It likely occurred during a sudden summer storm, perhaps while Stillman was helping with chores in the Scantic Meadows near the family home, close to the present-day address of 111 Scantic Road. Another possibility is that the fatal strike happened while he was attending the old one-room Scantic Schoolhouse, which still stands a short distance up the road and served local children during that era.

William R. Sessions lived on the family farm located at what is now 300 Wilbraham Road in South Wilbraham. During the Civil War, he enlisted in the 46th Massachusetts Regiment alongside his brother-in-law and close friend, Mortimer Pease, as well as several other young men from the South Village. The regiment saw service in North Carolina, where both Sessions and Pease were captured by Confederate forces and briefly imprisoned in the notorious Libby Prison in Richmond, Virginia—a place known for its harsh conditions and overcrowding.

Following the war, Sessions returned to Wilbraham and became a respected figure in both local and state politics. In 1867, he and his wife, Elsie Cunningham Sessions, welcomed a son, whom they named Mortimer in honor of William’s comrade and brother-in-law. Tragically, young “Mortie,” as he was affectionately called, died of scarlet fever at the age of four. He was buried in the Old Cemetery.

Grief would return to the Sessions family more than a decade later. Their daughter Helen died in 1883 at the age of 21, likely from tuberculosis—a common and often fatal disease in the 19th century. She was laid to rest beside her little brother and their mother, Elsie.

Elsie’s own death had come years earlier, in 1869, in a tragic accident. While driving a horse-drawn carriage, her horse suddenly bolted. Thrown from the carriage, she sustained fatal injuries.

In the Old Cemetery near South Wilbraham’s village center, just up the hill overlooking the quiet bend of the Scantic River, there stands a poignant row of five gravestones belonging to the Wood family. Though little is known about the family’s life, there is some indication they lived at what is now 667 Main Street in Hampden. What we do know comes from the stones themselves, and together, they tell a deeply moving story of loss and endurance.

The first marker reads:

"In Memory of Olive, wife of William Wood Junr., who died of a consumption May 10, 1807, age 27."

With this brief inscription, we learn that Olive died young, likely of tuberculosis, a relentless disease that claimed many in the early 19th century. Two years later, her young son followed:

"In Memory of Littleton Coke, son of William Junr. & Olive Wood, drown’d June 30, 1809, AE 6 years and 7 months."

After the deaths of Olive and Littleton, William Wood remarried. His second wife, Betsey Elmore, was from New Hartford, Connecticut. But sorrow continued to haunt the family. The next two gravestones mark the briefest of lives:

"An infant daughter of William Junr. & Betsey Wood, born & died Feb. 10, 1811." "An infant daughter of William Junr. & Betsey Wood, born & died Dec. 15, 1814."

The final stone in the row commemorates a child who lived just long enough for her parents to begin imagining a future:

"In Memory of Frances Leonora, Daughter of William & Betsey Wood, who died April 14, 1830, age 9 yrs, 11 M, 2 D."

There are no known stones for William or Betsey themselves. It appears they eventually left the area, perhaps to escape the shadows of so many losses.

In the Old Cemetery among the resting places of several Revolutionary War veterans, one grave stands out for its quiet poignancy, that of Ebenezer Beebe.

His weathered gravestone reads:

“In memory of Mr. Ebenezer Beebe who died Nov. 4, 1782 in his 41st year. Also Ebenezer Junior died August ye 1st, 1777 and lies at his left hand. Age 22 months & 8 days.”

Ebenezer Beebe died just weeks before the Revolutionary War officially ended with the signing of the preliminary articles of peace in November 1782. Like so many patriots, he did not live to see the independence he helped secure.

His young son, Ebenezer Jr., had died five years earlier, just before the pivotal American victory at Saratoga in October 1777, widely regarded as the turning point of the war. It’s possible the boy died while his father was away serving in the Continental Army, fighting for a cause that would reshape a continent but cost him dearly at home.

Levi Flynt married Electa Woodward in 1801. Their time together was brief; Electa died just four years later in 1805 at the age of 24. Near her grave lies that of their infant daughter, Mary Ann, who passed away in 1803 at just 11 months old.

After Electa’s death, Levi married Betsey Sessions, and together they had several children. But tragedy seemed to shadow the growing family. Another daughter, also named Maryan, died in 1808 at the age of 3 months. Their son Jonathan followed in 1809, living only 11 days. Eliza Ann died in 1811 at 3 months, and in 1812, their son Horatio passed away at age 2. Despite these personal sorrows, Levi Flynt remained a prominent figure in town life. He ran a large and well-known store at the corner of Main Street and Chapin Road in the south village, serving the local community through times both prosperous and painful.

Heartbreak touched others in the village in that same era. John McCray, who operated a tavern near the town green along the Scantic River, suffered one of the most tragic family losses recorded in the Old Cemetery. He and his wife, Polly, are buried there alongside four of their children, Roxana (4 months), Amanda (2 years), William (1 year), and Polly (10 years), all of whom died within days of one another in August of 1803.

The likely cause of these sudden losses is explained in the Republican Spy, a Springfield-based newspaper. It's September 13, 1803, issue reported a devastating outbreak of dysentery sweeping the entire Connecticut River Valley—from Connecticut to Vermont and New Hampshire, and as far west as New York. The epidemic, which struck in the late summer and lingered into the fall, claimed many lives.

A later report in the Spy, dated October 18, 1803, noted that the South Parish of Wilbraham alone lost sixteen children and four adults to the illness, with three others succumbing to unrelated disorders. North Wilbraham suffered similar losses, and in the small town of Southwick, more than thirty people died in just a few weeks.

It was a year marked by loss across the region, as a dysentery epidemic swept through the Connecticut River Valley. The toll it took on families was staggering, and no stone can capture this sorrow more poignantly than those of the town’s youngest victims.

On December 5, 1803, the Amidon family suffered an unthinkable loss: two children, ages three and five, died on the same day. One of their stones bears a heartbreaking verse:

“A blooming Rose, a morning flower, Cut down and withered in an hour.”

Such imagery was common in the early 19th century, where the fragility of life was often expressed in floral metaphors—symbols of beauty and brevity.

Samuel and Pamela Burt endured their anguish that year. Within four days, they lost a two-year-old son and a newborn who lived only a single day. Their shared gravestone bears this sobering epitaph:

“The child & infant lose their breath, United in the arms of death.”

Nearby is the grave of a very young mother, buried with her three-month-old child. The stone, crowned by a carved death’s head—a common symbol of mortality—offers these haunting lines:

“Kind stranger read and drop a tear, For blooming youth lies mouldering here… A child and mother slumbers with the dead.”

These words invite not just remembrance, but empathy, asking even passersby to pause and grieve for lives so quickly lost.

Another small marker belongs to Edwin Chaffee, who died in 1805 at just three months old. His gravestone also bears a death’s head and this tender Christian epitaph:

“Sleep, sleep my babe till from the opening skies Jesus shall bid your sleeping dust arise.”

The West family, too, endured repeated sorrow. One of their children’s gravestones speaks directly to those still living:

“My brother is dead, my sister too. I once was active like to you.”

A second stone, believed to be for his brother, offers a final thought:

“My parents grieve no more for me. My fate was fix’d in equity.”

The gravestones of the West children

Though this story focuses on South Wilbraham, the northern part of town endured the same heartaches. The Old Cemetery tells more than the story of early death—it speaks of love, loss, and quiet resilience. In 1803, disease devastated families like the Amidons, Burts, and McCrays. Others, like the Flynts, Sessions, and Woods, suffered repeated loss across generations.

Though their voices are long silent, their gravestones still speak of children gone too soon, mothers lost in their youth, and fathers who never returned from war. These stones remind us that Wilbraham’s history is not just marked in records and dates, but in the lives deeply lived and deeply mourned. Their memory endures: in verse, in stone, and in the soul of the town.