BY THE WAYSIDE WELL.
HE stopped at the wayside well,
Where the water was cool and deep;
There were feathery ferns 'twist the mossy stones,
And gray was the old well-sweep;
He left his carriage alone;
Nor could coachman nth' footman tell
Why the master stopped in the dusty road
To drink at the wayside well.
He swayed with his gloved hands
The well-sweep, creaking and slow,
While from seam and scar in the bucket's side
The water splashed back below.
He lifted it to the curb,
And bent down to the bucket's brim;
No furrows of time or care had marked
The face that looked back at him.
He saw but a farmer's boy
As he stooped over the brim to drink,
And ruddy and tanned was the laughing face
That met his over the brink.
The eyes were sunny and clear,
And the brow undimmed with care,
While from under the brim of the old straw hat,
Strayed curls of chestnut hair,
He turned away with a sigh;
Nor could coachman or footman tell
Why the master stopped in his ride that day
To drink at the wayside well.
—Selected.