tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post3364862809392142748..comments2023-10-19T05:40:59.162-04:00Comments on Sippican Cottage: Bog Hockey (The Season Is Coming, The Concept Is Gone)SippicanCottagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14940797380578921776noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-36082030352406260052008-11-17T09:59:00.000-05:002008-11-17T09:59:00.000-05:00Pat- That's comprised of 100% awesomeness.Pat- That's comprised of 100% awesomeness.SippicanCottagehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14940797380578921776noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-44590446385923264472008-11-13T15:56:00.000-05:002008-11-13T15:56:00.000-05:00We had pond hockey in the whatever-burbs of Chicag...We had pond hockey in the whatever-burbs of Chicago. Mom never believed the ice was thick enough, dad never believed it was too thin. I learned that playing hockey was one thing, ice skating was another, and doing them together was a challenge bigger than many people ever face. Beautiful game, hockey. Beautiful times, those.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01673842520123958712noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-6852536613141452642008-11-13T14:53:00.000-05:002008-11-13T14:53:00.000-05:00Maybe their quarrelling is more fun than they let ...<I>Maybe their quarrelling is more fun than they let on.</I><BR/><BR/>As they say on FARK: THIS.<BR/><BR/>I think I figured something out about the world once: History is the result of boredom.Erichttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02521739006999750126noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-53311114760332233152008-11-13T14:29:00.000-05:002008-11-13T14:29:00.000-05:00That was then, of course. This is now:The Old Oake...That was then, of course. This is now:<BR/><BR/><A HREF="http://holyjoe.org/poetry/anon1.htm" REL="nofollow">The Old Oaken Bucket<BR/>(As revised by the Board of Health)</A><BR/><BR/> Anonymous<BR/><BR/>With what anguish of mind I remember my childhood,<BR/> Recalled in the light of knowledge since gained,<BR/>The malarious farm, the wet fungus-grown wildwood,<BR/> The chills then contracted that since have remained;<BR/>The scum-covered duck-pond, the pig-sty close by it,<BR/> The ditch where the sour-smelling house drainage fell,<BR/>The damp, shaded dwelling, the foul barnyard nigh it —<BR/> But worse than all else was that terrible well,<BR/>And the old oaken bucket, the mold-crusted bucket,<BR/> The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well.<BR/><BR/>Just think of it! Moss on the vessel that lifted<BR/> The water I drank in the days called to mind;<BR/>Ere I knew what professors and scientists gifted<BR/> In the waters of wells by analysis find;<BR/>The rotting wood-fiber, the oxide of iron,<BR/> The algae, the frog of unusual size,<BR/>The water as clear as the verses of Byron,<BR/> Are things I remember with tears in my eyes.<BR/><BR/>Oh, had I but realized in time to avoid them —<BR/> The dangers that lurked in that pestilent draft —<BR/>I’d have tested for organic germs and destroyed them<BR/> With potassic permanganate ere I had quaffed.<BR/>Or perchance I’d have boiled it, and afterwards strained it<BR/> Through filters of charcoal and gravel combined;<BR/>Or, after distilling, condensed and regained it<BR/> In potable form with its filth left behind.<BR/><BR/>How little I knew of the enteric fever<BR/> Which lurked in the water I ventured to drink,<BR/>But since I’ve become a devoted believer<BR/> In the teachings of science, I shudder to think.<BR/>And now, far removed from the scenes I’m describing,<BR/> The story of warning to others I tell,<BR/>As memory reverts to my youthful imbibing<BR/> And I gag at the thought of that terrible well,<BR/>And the old oaken bucket, the fungus-grown bucket,<BR/> In fact, the slop-bucket — that hung in the well.PatHMVhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15542719040606654134noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-26021833615262306052008-11-13T11:02:00.000-05:002008-11-13T11:02:00.000-05:00Title: The Old Oaken BucketAuthor: Samuel Wood...Title: <A HREF="http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/1243/" REL="nofollow">The Old Oaken Bucket</A><BR/>Author: Samuel Woodworth <BR/><BR/>The Old Oaken Bucket<BR/><BR/><BR/>How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,<BR/>When fond recollection presents them to view!<BR/>The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,<BR/>And every loved spot which my infancy knew!<BR/>The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,<BR/>The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,<BR/>The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,<BR/>And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-<BR/>The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,<BR/>The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.<BR/><BR/>That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure,<BR/>For often at noon, when returned from the field,<BR/>I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,<BR/>The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.<BR/>How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,<BR/>And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;<BR/>Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,<BR/>And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well<BR/>The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,<BR/>The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.<BR/><BR/>How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,<BR/>As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!<BR/>Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,<BR/>The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.<BR/>And now, far removed from the loved habitation,<BR/>The tear of regret will intrusively swell,<BR/>As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,<BR/>And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well<BR/>The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,<BR/>The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!<BR/><BR/>-THE END-PatHMVhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15542719040606654134noreply@blogger.com