ws no day; For nevermore shall morning sun Light them upon their endless way. The hut is desolate; and there The famished dog alone returns; On the cold steps he makes his lair; By the shut door he lays his bones. Now the tired sportsman leans his gun Against the ruins on its site, And ponders on the hunting done By the lost wanderers of the night. And there the little country girls Will stop to whisper, listen, and look, And tell, while dressing their sunny curls, Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook.
The same writer has happily versified a pleasant superstition of the valley of the Connecticut.
It is supposed that shad are led from the Gulf of Mexico to the Connecticut by a kind of Yankee bogle in the shape of a bird.
The Shad Spirit. Now drop the bolt, and securely nail The horse-shoe over the door; Tis a wise precaution; and, if it should fail, It never failed before. Know ye the shepherd that gathers his flock Where the gales of the equinox blow From each unknown reef an