One worthy man, whose business lay beyond the mill, was afraid to pass it alone; and his wife, who was less fearful of supernatural annoyance, used to accompany him.

The little old white-coated miller, who there ground corn and wheat for his neighbors, whenever he made a particularly early visit to his mill, used to hear it in full operation,--the water-wheel dashing bravely, and the old rickety building clattering to the jar of the stones.

Yet the moment his hand touched the latch or his foot the threshold all was hushed save the melancholy drip of water from the dam or the low gurgle of the small stream eddying amidst willow roots and mossy stones in the ravine below.
This haunted mill has always reminded me of that most beautiful of Scottish ballads, the Song of the Elfin Miller, in which fairies are represented as grinding the poor man's grist without toil:-- "Full merrily rings the mill-stone round; Full merrily rings the wheel; Full merrily gushes out the grist; Come, taste my fragrant meal.
The miller he's a warldly man, And maun hae double fee; So draw the sluice in the churl's dam And let the stream gae free!" Brainerd, who truly deserves the name of an American poet, has left behind him a ballad on the Indian legend of the black fox which haunted Salmon River, a tributary of the Connecticut.

Its wild and picturesque beauty causes us to regret that more of the still lingering traditions of the red men have not been made the themes of his verse:-- THE BLACK FOX.
"How cold, how beautiful, how bright The cloudless heaven above us shines! But 't is a howling winter's night; 'T would freeze the very forest pines.
"The winds are up while mortals sleep; The stars look forth while eyes are shut; The bolted snow lies drifted deep Around our poor and lonely hut.
"With silent step and listening ear, With bow and arrow, dog and gun, We'll mark his track,--his prowl we hear: Now is our time! Come on! come on! "O'er many a fence, through many a wood, Following the dog's bewildered scent, In anxious haste and earnest mood, The white man and the Indian went.
"The gun is cocked; the bow is bent; The dog stands with uplifted paw; And ball and arrow both are sent, Aimed at the prowler's very jaw.
"The ball to kill that fox is run Not in a mould by mortals made; The arrow which that fox should shun Was never shaped from earthly reed.
"The Indian Druids of the wood Know where the fatal arrows grow; They spring not by the summer flood; They pierce not through the winter's snow.
"Why cowers the dog, whose snuffing nose Was never once deceived till now?
And why amidst the chilling snows Does either hunter wipe his brow?
"For once they see his fearful den; 'T is a dark cloud that slowly moves By night around the homes of men, By day along the stream it loves.
"Again the dog is on the track, The hunters chase o'er dale and hill; They may not, though they would, look back; They must go forward, forward still.
"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." But the age has fairly outgrown them, and they are falling away by a natural process of exfoliation.