An apparition in Blue Hill

Is there a ghost at Mother Bush Brook? A writer a century ago wrote down his encounter.

Photo by Unsplash.

Oct. 27, 2026

Blue Hill has its own ghost story as immortalized by Rufus G. F. Candage in 1899. He was a writer and a poet, born and raised in the vicinity of Mother Bush Brook. If you head down South St., past Parker Ridge, past the turnoff to the falls, you would presently come to Linwood Emerton’s driveway on the right. Way off in the woods there, up a steep incline, about a mile from the nearest road, is a small pond called Mother Bush Pond, from which runs a brook. Rufus Candage, as the preeminent writer of the early histories of Blue Hill, is known to be a creditable source. Take what you will from his poem. —Phil Norris, Blue Hill

The Legend of Mother Bush Brook 

By Rufus G.F. Candage

Upon a lonely way, in a New England town, 

A shaded valley lay with alders overgrown,

Through which, from the hillside, a brook ran softly down,

      Meandering in its course to the sea.

Over rocks and ledges its waters leaped and dashed,

With here a tiny pool and there a cascade splashed,

Downward from ledgy shelf and into foam was lashed,

      Sweetly chanting nature’s melody.

It’s name, Mother Bush Brook, was derived from a pond, 

Which lay a mile away in woods the hill beyond,

It was the pond’s only outlet and formed the only bond,

      Of union between it and the coast.

Now this beautiful brook, with name so endearing,

Was blackened for a time by the chance appearing,

Of an object near it, apparently wearing—

      The tale ran—the vestments of a ghost!

‘Mong the early settlers of that old sea-coast town,

Were men of character and local renown;

One was Benjamin Friend from Beverly, went down,

      Took land, built a home, and cleared a farm.

He lived an upright life—so all his neighbors said,

Toiling for his support, he ate no idle bread,

Was honored when alive and mourned when he was dead,

      Always kindly and in friendship warm.

Generous, too, was he, and from his own farm gave,

A graveyard to the town that its people might have,

Consecrated burial and a time-honored grave,

      When their short earthly journey should end.

In it his grave was made and he was laid to rest,

A hundred years ago with Scriptural behest,

As a humble Christian, that he with others blest,

       Would be awakened to life again.

The strange old weird story of an apparition,

At Mother Bush Brook, and the superstition,

It begat and fostered by oft narration,

      Gave local credence to the legend.

In a tale exciting, when imagination,

Thought and mind are enwrapt in anticipation,

Of the story’s climax, the real relation,

      ‘Tween cause and effect few comprehend.

So it was one dark night, a man no harm thinking,

Late home was returning—some said he’d been drinking,

In passing Mother Bush, his eye in its twinkling,

      Caught sight of a ghost!  Heaven forefend! 

It crossed over the way and on down toward the sea,

Following a wood road—the man ran past swiftly,

Teeth chattering, hair standing—the ghost turned round slowly,

      Showing the face of Benjamin Friend!

When a boy in my teens on horseback returning, 

From a neighboring town in small hours of morning,

And had reached Mother Bush, and heard it murmuring,

      And rippling on its way to the sea,

O’er the bridge was passing in darkness appalling,

When lo! a brilliant light on vicinage falling,

Night into day turning and instantly calling,

      Rider and steed from their reverie!

My blood froze in my veins! My horse started in fright,

And ran to the hilltop with gallant stride and might,

He never having shown such speed as on that night!

      Ghost of Mother Bush! Benjamin Friend!

That was my opinion—twas nothing of the kind—

It was a meteor which my excited mind,

And imagination into a ghost entwined,

      And that explains the Mother Bush Brook legend.

—May 30, 1899

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