242 Old Days on the Farm 



happened to our wells that I had to draw water 

 from. I know it's a favourite poem, but those 

 ''old oaken bucket" verses, somehow, never ap- 

 pealed to me — always reminded me of drawing 

 water by hand. Reverting to that water-finding art, 

 I recall that I used to hope that the day would come 

 when those dowsers or forked-stick manipulators, 

 would become so expert in their profession that 

 they'd be able to find springs within at least a 

 foot or two of the surface of the earth. 



