Work, work, my boys, with hand and mind!
Your labors you will fruitful find.
A husbandman, about to die,
Call'd on his children to come nigh:
"I leave," he says, "a small estate,
But wherewithal to make it great:
For know, a treasure it contains,
If you to search will take the pains."
He died. The sons dug all the ground,
And there no hidden treasure found;
But so productive was the soil,
The crop by far o'erpaid the toil.
Says one, when they the corn had sold,
"This treasure 'twas our sire foretold!"
[Illustration:]
[Illustration]