The Indian and the Basket7
Among Rhode Island’s early sons,
Was one whose orchards fair,
By plenteous and well-flavored fruit,
Rewarded all his care.
For household use they stored the best,
And all the rest conveyed
To neighboring mill, were ground and press’d,
And into cider made.
The wandering Indian oft partook
The generous farmer’s cheer;
He liked his food, but better still
His cider fine and clear.
And as he quaff’d the pleasant draught,
The kitchen fire before,
He longed for some to carry home,
And asked for more and more.
The farmer saw a basket new
Beside the Indian bold,
And smiling said, “I’ll give to you
As much as that will hold.”
Both laughed, for how could liquid thing
Within a basket stay;
But yet the jest unanswering,
The Indian went his way,
When next from rest the farmer sprung,
So very cold the morn,
The icicles like diamonds hung
On every spray and thorn.
The brook that babbled by his door
Was deep, and clear, and strong,
And yet unfettered by the frost,
Leaped merrily along.
The self-same Indian by this brook.
The astonished farmer sees;
He laid his basket in the stream,
Then hung it up to freeze.
And by this process oft renewed,
The basket soon became
A well-glazed vessel, tight and good,
Of most capacious frame.
The door he entered speedily,
And claim’d the promis’d boon,
The farmer, laughing heartily,
Fulfilled his promise soon.
Up to the basket’s brim he saw
The sparkling cider rise,
And to rejoice his absent squaw,
He bore away the prize.
Long lived the good man at the farm,—
The house is standing still,
And still leaps merrily along,
The much diminished rill.
And his descendants still remain,
And tell to those who ask it,
The story they have often heard
About the Indian’s basket.