From The Path of The Calf

One day, through the primeval wood,

A calf walked home as good calves should;

But made a trail all bent and askew,

A crooked trail as all calves do.

Since then two 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 day

By a lone dog that passed that way;

And then a wise bell-wether sheep

Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,

And drew the flock behind him too

As good bell-wethers always do.

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

Through those old woods a path was made.

And thus, 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 route

Followed this calf about.

And on his crooked journey went

The traffic of a continent.

A hundred thousand men were led

By a calf near three centuries dead.

They followed still his crooked way

And lost one hundred years each day.

For thus such reverence is lent

To well established precedent