The Old Oaken Bucket
(As revised by the Board of Health)

With what anguish of mind I remember my childhood,
    Recalled in the light of knowledge since gained,
The malarious farm, the wet fungus-grown wildwood,
    The chills then contracted that since have remained;
The scum-covered duck-pond, the pig-sty close by it,
    The ditch where the sour-smelling house drainage fell,
The damp, shaded dwelling, the foul barnyard nigh it --
    But worse than all else was that terrible well,
And the old oaken bucket, the mold-crusted bucket,
    The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well.

Just think of it! Moss on the vessel that lifted
    The water I drank in the days called to mind;
Ere I knew what professors and scientists gifted
    In the waters of wells by analysis find;
The rotting wood-fiber, the oxide of iron,
    The algae, the frog of unusual size,
The water as clear as the verses of Byron,
    Are things I remember with tears in my eyes.

Oh, had I but realized in time to avoid them --
    The dangers that lurked in that pestilent draft --
I’d have tested for organic germs and destroyed them
    With potassic permanganate ere I had quaffed.
Or perchance I’d have boiled it, and afterwards strained it
    Through filters of charcoal and gravel combined;
Or, after distilling, condensed and regained it
    In potable form with its filth left behind.

How little I knew of the enteric fever
    Which lurked in the water I ventured to drink,
But since I’ve become a devoted believer
    In the teachings of science, I shudder to think.
And now, far removed from the scenes I’m describing,
    The story of warning to others I tell,
As memory reverts to my youthful imbibing
    And I gag at the thought of that terrible well,
And the old oaken bucket, the fungus-grown bucket,
    In fact, the slop-bucket -- that hung in the well.