A wealthy Ploughman, drawing near his end,
Called in his sons apart from every friend,
And said, "When of your sire bereft,
The heritage your father left
Guard well, nor sell a single field.
A treasure in it is concealed.
The place, precisely, I don't know,
But industry will serve to show.
The harvest past, Time's forelock take,
And search with plough, and spade, and rake;
Turn over every inch of sod,
Nor leave unsearched a single clod!"
The father died. The sons in vain
Turned o'er the soil, and o'er again.
That year their acres bore
More grain than e'er before.
Though hidden money found they none,
Yet had their father wisely done,
To show by such a measure
That toil itself is treasure.
* * * * *
The farmer's patient care and toil
Are oftener wanting than the soil.