Sunday Morning Poem

The Calf Path

One day, through the primeval wood,

A calf walked home, as good calves should;

But made a trail all bent askew,

A crook trail, as all calves do.

Since then 300 years have fled,

And, I infer, the calf is dead.

But still he left behind his trail,

And therby hangs my moral tail.

The trail was taken up next day

By a lone dog that passed that way;

And then a wise bell-weather sheep

Persued the trail o'er vale and steep,

And drew the flock behind him, too,

As good bell-weathers always do.

And from that day, o'er hill and glade,

Through those old woods a path was made.

And many men wound in and out,

And dodged, and turned, and bent about

And uttered words of righteous wrath,

Because 'twas such a crooked path.

But still they followed-- do not laugh--

The first migrations of that calf,

And through this winding wood-way stalked,

Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,

That bent, and turned, and turned again;

This crooked lane became a road,

Where many a poor horse with his load

Toiled on beneath the burning sun,

And traveled some three miles in one.

And thus a century and a half

They trode the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet,

The road became a village street;

And this, before men were aware,

A city's crowded thoroughfare;

And soon the central street was this

Of a renowned metropolis;

And men two centuries and a half

Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout

Followed the zigzag calf about;

And o'er his crooked journey went

The traffic of a continent.

A hundred thousand men were led

By one calf near three centuries dead.

They followed still his crooked way,

And lost one hundred years a day;

For thus such reverence is lent

To well-established president.

A moral lesson this might teach,

Were I ordained and called to preach;

For men are prone to go it blind

Along the calf-paths of the mind,

And work away from sun to sun

To do what other men have done.

They follow in the beaten track,

And out and in, and forth and back,

And still their devious course persue,

To keep the path that others do.

They keep the path a sacred groove,

Along which all their lives they move.

But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,

Who saw the first primeval calf!

Ah! Many things this tale might teach--

But I am not ordained to preach.

-Sam Walter Foss