uisite pleasure
in after years. One would fain have the surroundings unchanged--the cot
where Woodworth dwelt, the ponderous well-sweep, creaking with age, at
which his youthful hands were wont to tug strongly; and finally the
mossy bucket, overflowing with crystal nectar fresh from the cool depths
below. Yet in spite of the changes, one gets fairly well the illusion of
the ancient spot, and comes away well content to have quaffed a draught
of such excellent water to the memory of this Scituate poet.

The circumstances under which the popular ballad was composed and
written are said to be as follows: Samuel Woodworth was a printer who
had served his apprenticeship under the veteran Major Russell of the
_Columbian Centinel_, a journal which was in its day the leading
Federalist organ of New England. He had inherited the wandering
propensity of his craft, and yielding to the desire for change he was
successively in Hartford and New York, doing what he could in a
journalistic way. In the latter city he became associated, after an
unsuccessful career as a publisher, in the editorship of the _Mirror_.
And it was while living in New York in the Bohemian fashion of his
class, that, in company with some brother printers, he one day dropped
in at a well-known establishment then kept by one Mallory to take a
social glass of wine.

The cognac was pronounced excellent. After drinking it, Woodworth set
his glass down on the table, and, smacking his lips, declared
emphatically that Mallory's _eau de vie_ was superior to anything that
he had ever tasted.

"There you are mistaken," said one of his comrades, quietly; then added,
"there certainly was one thing that far surpassed this in the way of
drinking, as you, too, will readily acknowledge."

"Indeed; and, pray, what was that?" Woodworth asked, with apparent
incredulity that anything could surpass the liquor then before him.

"The draught of pure and sparkling spring water that we used to get from
the old oaken bucket that hung in the well, after our return from the
labours of the field on a sultry summer's day."

No one spoke; all were busy with their own thoughts.

Woodworth's eyes became dimmed. "True, true," he exclaimed; and soon
after quitted the place. With his heart overflowing with the
recollections that this chance allusion in a barroom had inspired, the
scene of his happier childhood life rushed upon him in a flood of
feeling. He hastened back to the office in whi