"Onward they go, and never turn, Amidst a night which knows 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; 'T is 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 and sunken rock In the Gulf of Mexico,-- "While the monsoons growl, and the trade-winds bark, And the watch-dogs of the surge Pursue through the wild waves the ravenous shark That prowls around their charge? "To fair Connecticut's northernmost source, O'er sand-bars, rapids, and falls, The Shad Spirit holds his onward course With the flocks which his whistle calls. "Oh, how shall he know where he went before? Will he wander around forever? The last year's shad heads shall shine on the shore, To light him up the river. "And well can he tell the very time To undertake his task When the pork-barrel's low he sits on the chine And drums on the empty cask. "The wind is light, and the wave is white With the fleece of the flock that's near; Like the breath of the breeze he comes over the seas And faithfully leads them here. "And now he 's passed the bolted door Where the rusted horse-shoe clings; So carry the nets to the nearest shore, And take what the Shad Spirit brings." The comparatively innocent nature and simple poetic beauty of this class of superstitions have doubtless often induced the moralist to hesitate in exposing their absurdity, and, like Burns in view of his national thistle, to: "Turn the weeding hook aside And spare the symbol dear."