"Where do you go, today, old man.
With that great load on your back?"
The old man just grumbled as he hobbled along
Holding tight to the bulging sack.
"I say, old man," cried the boy again,
"Do you carry a sack of gold?"
"Nay, lad," the old man whispered.
"Tis just troubles, that's all I hold."
"This sack I've carried, all my life.
Each trouble I've had is here.
They've grown 'til my back grows bent
With every passing year.
"There's grief and pain, hurt and woe.
There are trials and sins galore.
But I'm going, now, to the trouble pile
And I won't pack these no more."
The boy looked up with a troubled glance.
"Tell me, what's the trouble pile?
I'd like to know and, while we talk,
You can sit and rest a while."
"I lack the time," the old man said.
"I've got to rush along.
I want to get to the trouble pile
'Fore the little troubles are gone.
You see, it's a place where all can go
To trade troubles, great and small.
You can leave yours there and pick new ones up.
Why, I'll trade 'til I've none at all."
The boy glanced down at his twisted leg
And he blinked to hold back a tear.
"Could I trade this leg for a good one," he asked,
"If the trouble pile was here?"
"Of course, you could," the old man was gruff.
"But there's still a long way to go.
I've got to hurry or I'll be late,
And crippled you'd be too slow."
So the boy sat down and watched the man
Disappear in the morning light.
The hours wore on and still he watched
As the day moved on to night.
At last, there in the distance,
The old man walked tall and strong,
A bulging sack still on his back,
But on his lips a song.
"I see you traded, mister,
And lost your heavy load.
His little voice grew wistful
As he looked back down the road.
The old man grinned and tossed his bag
With a thud in the dusty track
And he smiled a smile at the little boy,
As he sat and leaned lazily back.
"Now, I'll tell you, lad, though you'll not believe,
But that sack is the same as I had.
When I saw the troubles of other folks.
I found mine not half so bad.
Sure, I've hardly got a trouble now.
And I'll tell something to you.
If you could see that trouble pile,
You'd keep that bad leg, too.
'Cause I've done a bit of thinking,
As I walked along the way,
And, if we worked hard on that leg of yours,
It would grow straight and strong to stay.
Now, I've really nothing much to do
And a crutch I could make for a start."
Then, he hugged the boy to hide a tear
And the joy in an old man's heart.
So the boy and the man worked together,
From morning to the last light of day
And the twisted leg, finally, was straightened
And the boy could soon run and play.
It was then the old man knew he must leave,
And, again, he shouldered his sack.
But, no longer did it bulge with his troubles.
It just hung there, loose on his back!
For, while he was helping another,
His own troubles faded away.
He had truly found the trouble pile.
It's there if you look for the way.
