LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER.*

A BALLAD.

BENEATH the hill you may see the mill

Of wasting wood and crumbling stone;
The wheel is dripping and clattering still,
But JERRY, the miller, is dead and gone.

Year after year, early and late,

Alike in summer and winter weather,
He pecked the stones and calked the gate,
And mill and miller grew old together.

"Little Jerry!".

't was all the same,

They loved him well who called him so;
And whether he'd ever another name,

'T

Nobody ever seemed to know.

was, "Little Jerry, come grind my rye"; And, "Little Jerry, come grind my wheat"; And "Little Jerry" was still the cry,

From matron bold and maiden sweet.

'T was "Little Jerry" on every tongue,
And so the simple truth was told;
For Jerry was little when he was young,
And Jerry was little when he was old.

"Little

* Perhaps it may add a trifle to the interest of this ballad to know that the description, both of the man and the mill, is quite true. Jerry" "—a diminutive Frenchman of remarkable strength, wit, and good-nature -was for many years my father's miller in Highgate, Vermont. His surname was written "Goodheart" in the mill-books; but he often told me that our English translation was quite too weak, as the real name was spelled "Fortboncœur."

But what in size he chanced to lack,
That Jerry made up in being strong;
I've seen a sack upon his back

As thick as the miller, and quite as long.

Always busy, and always merry,
Always doing his very best,

A notable wag was Little Jerry,
Who uttered well his standing jest.

How Jerry lived is known to fame,

But how he died there's none may know; One autumn day the rumor came, "The brook and Jerry are very low."

And then 't was whispered, mournfully,
The leech had come, and he was dead;
And all the neighbors flocked to see;
"Poor Little Jerry!" was all they said.

They laid him in his earthy bed,

His miller's coat his only shroud;

"Dust to dust," the parson said, And all the people wept aloud.

For he had shunned the deadly sin,
And not a grain of over-toll
Had ever dropped into his bin,

To weigh upon his parting soul.

Beneath the hill there stands the mill,

Of wasting wood and crumbling stone; The wheel is dripping and clattering still,

But JERRY, the miller, is dead and gone.

HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE.

A BALLAD.

'OME, listen all unto my song;

Co
COME; no

It is no silly fable;

'T is all about the mighty cord
They call the Atlantic Cable.

Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he,
I have a pretty notion
That I can run a telegraph

Across the Atlantic Ocean.

Then all the people laughed, and said,
They'd like to see him do it ;

He might get half-seas-over, but
He never could go through it;

To carry out his foolish plan
He never would be able;
He might as well go hang himself
With his Atlantic Cable.

But Cyrus was a valiant man,

A fellow of decision;

And heeded not their mocking words,
Their laughter and derision.

Twice did his bravest efforts fail,
And yet his mind was stable;

He wa'n't the man to break his heart
Because he broke his cable.

"Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried;

"Three times!·

you know the fable, -

(I'll make it thirty," muttered he,

"But I will lay the cable !")

Once more they tried, — hurrah! hurrah! What means this great commotion? The Lord be praised! the cable 's laid Across the Atlantic Ocean!

Loud ring the bells, for, flashing through
Six hundred leagues of water,
Old Mother England's benison
Salutes her eldest daughter!

O'er all the land the tidings speed,
And soon, in every nation,
They 'll hear about the cable with
Profoundest admiration!

Now long live President and Queen;
And long live gallant Cyrus;
And may his courage, faith, and zeal
With emulation fire us;

And may we honor evermore

The manly, bold, and stable;

And tell our sons, to make them brave,
How Cyrus laid the cable!

E

WHAT HAS BECOME OF THE GODS.

ULL often I had heard it said,

FULL

As something quite uncontroverted,
"The gods and goddesses are dead,
And high Olympus is deserted";
And

So, while thinking of the gods,
I made, one night, an exploration,
(In fact or fancy, where's the odds?)
To get authentic information.

I found to make a true report,
As if I were a sworn committee –
They all had left the upper court,
And settled in Manhattan city;
Where now they live, as best they may,
Quite unsuspected of their neighbors,
And in a humbler sort of way,

Repeat their old Olympic labors.

In human frames, for safe disguise,

They come and go through wooden portals, And to the keen Detective's eyes

Seem nothing more than common mortals; For mortal-like they 're clad and fed,

And, still to blind the sharp inspector,

Eat, for ambrosia, baker's bread,

And tipple-everything but nectar.

Great Jove, who wore the kingly crown,
And used to make Olympus rattle,

As if the sky was coming down,

Or all the Titans were in battle, —