Such pretty songs as this, not only give a great deal of innocent pleasure, but they are useful, in a high degree. They make us more fond of that place which we call home; they serve to attach us to our country; they serve to make us content with the simplicity of early times and of country life. If we think how many thousand times this song has been sung; what an immense amount of enjoyment it has given, and how much real good it has done, we shall see that there is great reason why we should all remember Samuel Woodworth with pleasure and respect. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 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 wild-wood, 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 that hangs in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure, For often at noon, when return’d 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 would tempt me to leave it, Though fill’d with the nectar which 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 his well. [Illustration] France. There is a country in Europe, called France. It lies east of the United States, and you must cross the Atlantic Ocean to get there. There are almost forty millions of people in France, and they have many splendid towns and cities. Paris is the capital of the country, and a charming city it is. It has as many inhabitants as the whole state of Massachusetts, and they have a thousand ways of amusing themselves. The people who live in the country and labor on the lands, called peasants, are generally poor, and work very hard. If you ever travel in France, you will often see old women at work in the fields, carrying burthens of sticks, grass or hay. You will see them hoeing, digging, ploughing and harvesting.