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 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.

the farmer's patient care and toil

are oftener wanting than the soil.