Old Oaken Bucket, The - Stories: Non-fiction

Poet Samuel Woodworth A hot summer day captured in poetry.
Visitors still stop at the old house in Scituate, Massachusetts. But the house is not what brings them there. What they want to see is the old stone well beside it—and the iron-bound water bucket that’s perched on its rim.

Two hundred years ago, this farmhouse was the home of Samuel Woodworth. During the long summers of his childhood, young Samuel would often pause at the well. It was a welcome break, especially on a hot afternoon. On such a day he would eagerly draw a bucketful of cold water and quench his thirst with a refreshing drink.

When he was fourteen, Woodworth left Scituate. His family was poor, so he set out for Boston to work as a printer’s apprentice. In time he traveled to New York City, where he started his own newspaper. Later he worked as an editor at other newspapers and magazines while writing novels, plays, and poetry in his spare time. His life was busy, and he rarely had time to visit the family farm.

But Woodworth never stopped thinking of his Scituate home. Working in hectic New York made him homesick for the peace and solitude of life in the country. On a hot day in 1817, Scituate was very much on his mind.

After work one evening, Woodworth poured himself a glass of city water. It wasn’t very refreshing. Casually he remarked to his wife, Lydia, how wonderful it would be to have a long, cool drink from the oaken bucket at his father’s well. Lydia had a suggestion: Why not put it to poetry?

It was a suggestion Woodworth could not resist. That night he wrote “The Bucket.” In it he captured the world of his childhood on a hot summer day and the simple joy of stopping for a drink at his father’s well.

The poem was an instant success. It seemed to touch everyone who had ever been homesick. At the height of its popularity, “The Old Oaken Bucket” (as it came to be called) was translated into four languages, and the words were set to a popular tune of the time. Over the years, countless people have read or sung Woodworth’s ode to his boyhood. Today it is the official song of Scituate, Massachusetts.

In his time, Samuel Woodworth was a successful writer. Now his poems and plays are all but forgotten. He would be, too—if it hadn’t been for a glass of warm water, some good advice from his wife, and his love of those long-ago days on the farm.

The Old Oaken Bucket
By Samuel Woodworth

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, and 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 which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered bucket I hailed 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 on 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.