Said farmer Jones, in a whining tone,
To his good old neighbor Gray;
"I've worn my kness through to the bone,
but it ain't no use to pray."

"I've prayed to God a thousand times,
to make my corn fields grow;
And why yours beats it so and climbs,
I'd give the world to know."

Said farmer Gray to his neighbor Jones,
in his easy quiet way:
"When prayers get mixed with lazy bones,
They don't make farming pay."

"Your weeds, I see, are strong and tall,
In spite of all your prayers;
You may pray for corn till the heavens fall
if you don't dig up the tares."

"I mix my prayers with a little toil
Along in every row;
And I work that mixture into the ground
Quite vig'rous with a hoe."

"So while I'm praying I use my hoe,
and do my level best,
To keep down the weeds along each row;
And God, He does the rest."

"It's well to pray both night and morn,
As every farmer knows;
But the place to pray for plentiful corn
Is right between the rows."

"You must use your hands while praying, though,
If an answer you would get;
For prayer-worn knees and a rusty hoe
Never raised a big crop yet."

"An' so I believe, my good old friend,
if you mean to win the day;
From sowing clean to the harvest end
You must hoe as well as pray."

---Morris---