The Ploughman and His Sons

La Fontaine January 17, 2015
1 min read
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    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.

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