THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 



33 



cool themselves by letting the stream come gushing 

 against their chops as they drink. How they love it ! 

 I have heard that horsehairs, plucked from the horses' 

 tails without others' knowledge, have been turned (curi- 

 ously!) into long, thin, wriggling snakes, if allowed 

 to remain in the big trough for a certain secret period. 

 There was always something about the old trough that 

 had considerable mystery to it. 



Samuel Woodworth has immortalized himself in 

 but one well-known poem, "The Old Oaken Bucket," 

 but that sweet and rustic refrain has made many a heart 

 happier and better in the memory of the delicious 

 draughts of childhood. Who, too, that ever lived in 

 the country, can not repeat the lines with Woodworth, 

 and say, 



" How sweet from the green, mossy rim to receive it. 

 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 

 Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

 The brightest that beauty or revelry sips." 



I think that no better poem was ever written upon 

 country life. 



Indeed, the favorite songs of the place have always 

 been after the order of "The Old Oaken Bucket," 

 itself perhaps the most enjoyed; such as "My Old 

 Kentucky Home," "Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt," "Annie 

 Laurie," and "Auld Lang Syne," with "Old Folks at 

 Home," "Blue Bells of Scotland," "Dixie," and "Robin 

 Adair" as close seconds. In the olden days four of 

 the seven boys of the family (there were three girls 

 also) formed a drum corps of their own — two fifes, 

 a rattling tenor drum, and a booming bass — and strolled 

 the country round about at times as the peerless and 



