What toll do you intend to take?”
“Father,” says he, “my name is Ralph.
Out of a bushel I’ll take it half,
From every bushel that I grind,
So that I may a good living find.”
“Thou art a fool,” the old man said;
“Thou hast not learned well thy trade.
This mill to you I ne’er can give,
For by such toll no man can live.”
He called for his youngest son,