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 which 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."