Happy Millwright, The

Snowy Run is full of babble, with a tone for every pebble,
     And a whole song for the mossy rock where swiftly down it dashes.
Working like a little beaver, there my six-years’ Willie Weaver
     Built a dam with flume and gate, where to-day his mill-wheel plashes.

Now, if ever boy was busy, happy in his work, it is he;
     And his very water-wheel has, like himself, a jolly laughter!
On the sturdy oak above him squirrel laughs and seems to love him,
     And the birds pay merry music for the bath they come there after.

Rabbit thinks that he’s another—just a big two-footed brother—
     And sits fearless by the mill-race, nibbling at the greener clover.
Muskrat, too, when all is quiet, slides into the pool to try it,
     And he thinks—“Now there’s a boy we wild things may glory over!”

So the dwellers by the rill are happy with my happy miller,
     All whose toll is just the gladness of the creatures that come near him;
Fellow builder, and the gay mate of each winged or furry playmate;
     These, that find him true and gentle, learn to love and never fear him.