“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried Lazare.  “My family has no ox.  They have a plow with a broken handle.  Now they are sharpening hoes and spades that will be of no use at all if there is no crop.  I must find a way to help my wife and children.”

The prisoner, Lazare, walked around and around the dungeon.  The mice scampered after him.

Suddenly the man stopped walking.  The mice skidded in their effort to stop too.

“I must depend on the fact that children tell all they know,” said Lazare to the mice.

Then Lazare sat at the rickety table and wrote on the other side of the blue paper:

Dear Ones,

Do not disturb the field.  Treasure may be buried there.

Your loving father,
Farmer Lazare.

This time the prisoner did not have to wait very long for the return of the pigeon.  It was just a few days later, when the sun was high in the sky, that the pigeon came to the barred window.  The note read:

Dear Papa,

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, the souper, the cooper, and the hooper came with spades and turned over all the soil at the north end of the field.

Then the mayor, the hayer, and the accordion player brought oxen and turned over all the soil at the south end of the field.

The writer and the fighter and the old lamp lighter joined with the brewer and the gluer and a young star-struck wooer and spaded over the east and the west of the field.