The Calf-Path

One day through the primeval woodA calf walked home, as good calves should;But made a trail all bent askew,A crooked trail as all calves do.

Since then three hundred years have fled,And I infer the calf is dead.But still he left behind his trail,And thereby hangs my moral tale:

The trail was taken up next dayBy a lone dog that passed that way;And then a wise bellwether sheepPursued the trail o’er hill and gladeThrough those old woods a path was made.

And many men wound in and outAnd dodged and turned and bent aboutAnd uttered words of righteous wrathBecause ‘twas such a crooked path;But still they followed—do not laugh—The first migrations of that calf,And through this winding wood-way stalkedBecause he wobbled when he ...

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