ch he then worked, seized
a pen, and in half an hour had written his popular ballad:

"How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew,--
The wide-spreading pond and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well,--
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

"The moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often at noon when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing!
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well,--
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

"How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised from the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well,--
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well."

Woodworth's reputation rests upon this one stroke of genius. He died in
1842 at the age of fifty-seven. But after almost fifty years his memory
is still green, and we still delight to pay tender homage to the spot
which inspired one of the most beautiful songs America has yet
produced.

WHITTIER'S LOST LOVE

In the life of the Quaker poet there is an unwritten chapter of personal
history full to the brim of romance. It will be remembered that Whittier
in his will left ten thousand dollars for an Amesbury Home for Aged
Women. One room in this home Mrs. Elizabeth W. Pickard (the niece to
whom the poet bequeathed his Amesbury homestead, and who passed away in
the early spring of this year [1902], in an illness contracted while
decora