AKA a completely random post.

Here is 90 minutes of my life compressed into 32 seconds. 1 photo was taken every 5 seconds while I ate lunch, did some web updates, and caught up on a little reading. Very exciting.

object type=”application/x-shockwave-flash” data=”http://www.flickr.compps/video/stewart.swf?v=49235″ classid=”clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000″ height=”300″ width=”400″ > and it was written by Sam Walter Foss.

p One day, through the primeval wood,
/A calf walked home, as good calves should;
/But made a trail all bent askew,
/A crooked trail, as all calves do./pp 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./pp The trail was taken up next day
/By a lone dog that passed that way;
/And then a wise bellwether sheep
/Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,
/And drew the flock behind him, too,
/As good bellwethers always do./pp 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./pp 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 trod the footsteps of that calf./pp 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./pp Each day a hundred thousand rout
/Followed that 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 follow still his crooked way,
/And lose one hundred years a day,
/For thus such reverence is lent
/To well-established precedent./pp 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 pursue,
/To keep the path that others do./pp 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./p

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