“Well, what must be, must be,” said his son. “Anyhow, I cannot ask the King: but I’ll train you to do it.”
So he led his father to a place which was dotted all over with clumps of grass. The young courtier tied up a number of bundles of this grass, and arranged them in rows. “Now, look here, father,” said he, “this is the King, that is the Prime Minister, that is the General, here are the other grandees,” pointing to each bundle as he said the name. “When you come into the King’s presence, you must begin by saying: ‘Long live the King!’ and then ask your boon.” To help him to remember, the son made up a little verse for his father to say, and this is the verse:
“I had two oxen to my plough, with which my work was done.
Now one is dead: O, mighty king, please give me another one!”
“Well,” said the Farmer, “I think I can say that.” And he repeated it over and over, bowing and scraping to the bunch of grass that he called the King.
Every day for a whole year the Farmer practised; and how the ploughing got on meanwhile I do not know. Perhaps he lived on the seed-corn, and did not plough at all.
At the end of the year he said to his son:
“Now I know that little verse of yours! Now I can say it before any man! Take me to the King!”
So together father and son trudged away to the King’s palace. There on a throne he sat, in gorgeous robes, with his courtiers all around him, the Prime Minister, the General, and all, just as the young man had told his father. But the poor Farmer! his head was beginning to swim already.
“Who is this?” said the King to the Farmer’s son, who, as you know, was a courtier, so the King knew him.