MY father is a peaceful man,
He tries in every way he can
To live a life of gentleness
And patience all the while;
He says that needless fretting’s vain,
That it’s absurd to be profane,
That nearly every wrong can be
Adjusted with a smile.
Yet try no matter how he will,
There’s one thing that annoys him still,
One thing that robs him of his calm
And makes him very sore;
He cannot keep his self-control
When with a shovel full of coal
He misses where it’s headed for,
And hits the furnace door.
He measures with a careful eye,
The space for which he’s soon to try,
Then grabs his trusty shovel up
And loads it in the bin,
Then turns and with a healthy lunge,
That’s two parts swing and two parts plunge
He lets go at the furnace fire,
Convinced it will go in!
And then we hear a sudden smack,
The cellar air turns blue and black;
Above the rattle of the coal
We hear his awful roar.
From dreadful language upward hissed
We know that father’s aim has missed
And that his shovel full of coal
Went up against the door.
The minister was here one day
For supper, and Pa went away
To fix the furnace fire, and soon
We heard that awful roar.
And through the furnace pipes there came
Hot words that made Ma blush for shame,
‘It strikes me,’ said the minister,
‘He hit the furnace door.’
Ma turned away and hung her head,
‘I’m so ashamed,’ was all she said;
And then the minister replied:
‘Don’t worry. I admit
That when I hit the furnace door
And spill the coal upon the floor,
I quite forget the cloth I wear
And—er—swear a little bit.’
