The Ploughman and His Sons (French Folk Tale)

The farmer”s patient care and toil

Are oftener wanting than the soil.

A wealthy ploughman drawing near his end,

Call”d in his sons apart from every friend,

And said, “When of your sire bereft,

The heritage our fathers left

Guard well, nor sell a single field.

A treasure in it is conceal”d:

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 unsearch”d a single clod.”

The father died. The sons–and not in vain:

Turn”d 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.