One day through the primeval wood
A calf walked home as good calves should,
But made a trail all bent askew -
A crooked path, as all calves do.
The trail was taken up next day;
By a lone dog that passed that way;
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.
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.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet;
The road became a village street;
And thus, before men were aware;
A city's crowded thoroughfare.
Each year a hundred thousand rout;
Followed this zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went;
The traffic of a continent.
They followed still his crooked way;
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent;
To well-established precedent.
For men are prone to go it blind;
Along the calf-path 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 pursue;
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.
