mith has wonderfully expressed in "The Deserted
Village" the inextinguishable yearning for the spot we call "home":

"In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs--and God has given my share--
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return and die at home at last,"

and it is this same lyric cry that has been crystallised for all time,
so far as the American people are concerned, in "The Old Oaken Bucket."

The day will not improbably come when the allusions in this poem will
demand as careful an explanation as some of Shakespeare's archaic
references now call for. But even when this time does come, and an
elaborate description of the strange old custom of drawing water from a
hole in the ground by means of a long pole and a rude pail will be
necessary to an understanding of the poem, men's voices will grow husky
and their eyes will dim at the music of "The Old Oaken Bucket."

It is to the town of Scituate, Massachusetts, one of the most ancient
settlements of the old colony, that we trace back the local colour which
pervades the poem. The history of the place is memorable and
interesting. The people come of a hardy and determined ancestry, who
fought for every inch of ground that their descendants now hold. To this
fact may perhaps be attributed the strength of those associations,
clinging like ivy around some of the most notable of the ancient
homesteads.

The scene so vividly described in the charming ballad we are considering
is a little valley through which Herring Brook pursues its devious way
to meet the tidal waters of North River. "The view of it from Coleman
Heights, with its neat cottages, its maple groves, and apple orchards,
is remarkably beautiful," writes one appreciative author. The
"wide-spreading pond," the "mill," the "dairy-house," the "rock where
the cataract fell," and even the "old well," if not the original
"moss-covered bucket" itself, may still be seen just as the poet
described them.

[Illustration: OLD OAKEN BUCKET HOUSE, SCITUATE, MASS.]

In quaint, homely Scituate, Samuel Woodworth, the people's poet, was
indeed born and reared. Although the original house is no longer there,
a pretty place called "The Old Oaken Bucket House" still stands, a
modern successor to the poet's home, and at another bucket, oaken if not
old, the pilgrim of to-day may stop to slake his thirst from the very
waters, the recollection of which gave the poet such exq