The Furnace Door

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 leaves 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:

“Do n'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.”