Their pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet,
Brave Jack and fair Jill.
Their pail they must fill
At the top of the hill,
Then she gives him a ringlet.
Their pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet.

They stumbled and fell,
And poor Jack broke his forehead,
Oh, how he did yell !
They stumbled and fell,
And went down pell-mell —
By Jove ! it was horrid.
They stumbled and fell,
And poor Jack broke his forehead.
(
As Swinburne might have written it
)

The shudd'ring sheet of rain athwart the trees!
The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas!
The moaning of the night wind on the wold,
That erstwhile was a gentle, murm'ring breeze!

On such a night as this went Jill and Jack
With strong and sturdy strides through dampness
black
To find the hill's high top and water cold,
Then toiling through the town to bear it back.

The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips
Of nectar then for Jack from Jill's red lips,
And then with arms entwined they homeward go;
Till mid the mad mud's moistened mush Jack slips.

Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight,
His crazed cries and cranium cracked; the fright
Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo!
Kind Phoebus, drive thy steeds and end this night!
(
As Walt Whitman might have written it
)

I celebrate the personality of Jack !
I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomo-
tion blundering.
Each wart upon his hands I sing,
Paeans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades.
Also Jill!
Her I celebrate.
I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue,
Whoop her up!
What 's the matter with Jill?
Oh, she's all right!
Who's all right ?
Jill.
Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and
reddened hands ;
So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling.
I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples
the horizon, and through the darkening forest
aisles are heard the sounds of myriad creatures
of thenight.
I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water
for their mother.
Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady
if I had time.
She is simply immense!

But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill.
(I did n't mean that rhyme.)
I must watch them.
I love to watch their walk,
And wonder as I watch;
He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound,
Yet lusty,
Bearing his share of the 1-lb bucket as though it
were a paperweight.
She, erect, standing, her head uplifting,
Holding,but bearing not the bucket.
They have reached the spring.
They have filled the bucket.
Have you heard the 'Old Oaken Bucket' ?
I will sing it: —
Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life
composed!
Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born.
The father is happy, the mother is happy.
Next black crepe. A beldame 'shuffles off this
mortal coil.'
Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms,
Mendelssohn's 'Wedding March,' an old shoe
missile,
A broken carriage window, the bride in the Bellevue
sleeping.
Here's a large piece of black cloth!
'Have you any last words to say?'
'No.'
'Sheriff, do your work!'
Thus it is: from 'grave to gay, from lively to
severe.'

I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill.
I see them descending, obstacles not heeding.
I see them pitching headlong, the water from the
pail outpouring, a noise from leathern lungs
out-belching.
The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recum-
bent, bellowing, his pate with gore besmeared.
I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just
like
Job's patience or Solomon's wisdom, and I love
attributes.
Whoop!!!