There once was a poor gardener who desired a fine yield. On this he pondered until at last he exclaimed to himself ‘I will diligently do the work of a plougher’. So he went to work on his very ordinary field.

As he ploughed and ploughed, mockers laughed and asked ‘why does this fool hoe continually?’ Still others said of him, ‘surely, he will die tilling’, for while many made their patches give grain and herb into their hands, not even as much as a tiny plant was seen on his land. He only carried on ploughing.

Earnestly, he tended his field all the more with vigour and joy, smiling and whistling, singing and dancing so that he seemed sillier by the hour!

Passers-by shook their heads in embarrassment of him.

He continued this work until finally, on one fine day, there lay before his eyes a large territory of well-prepared ground, spread out, far and wide, like the broadest train of a bride. He gazed in great delight.

Now it happened that when seasons changed and waters rained down, he (along with bird and wind) sowed seeds. These seeds took root and the roots grew deep.

The seeds awoke and sprouted, piercing through the dirt, as stems reached toward the sun, and stalks stretched like worshippers hands.

Leaves unfolded, vines climbed, and each plant flowered according to its kind. The shades of glorious colour which now dressed his garden were uncountable.

Those who previously mocked now flooded to see this awesome sight, and to buy from him.

His yield was so great and so vast, that all manner of vegetation used for clothing, textiles, soaps, perfumes, dyes, medicines, and food for both animal and man was harvested there.

His garden gave material for furniture, houses and boats. Many useful woods, bamboos, and fibres for tools utilised for sport or work did his garden provide.

The seed from his field planted many new gardens more marvellous than his.

And seeing that for as long as the earth existed there would never be an end to the fruit of his labour, that human-kind would forever benefit from what begun in his field, he thanked the Maker for blessing his efforts and for bestowing him wisdom, and could breathe his last and be forgotten.