There was a man who had much gold; or should I say, his gold had him? His riches he had buried in the ground, and there his heart lay too. His sole amusement, night and day, at leisure or at work, was thinking of his cache, and only thinking: for he would not spend a penny till the afterlife, at soonest.
Often, too, he visited his gold—too often. He was noticed by a ditcher, who investigated, and absconded with the loot.
Our miser, one fine day, found not his nest-egg, but its nest.
He sobbed and wailed, and gnashed his teeth, and tore his clothes and hair.
“What is the matter?” asked a passerby.
“My treasure! Someone stole my treasure!” blubbed the miser miserably. “I kept it underneath this rock.”
“Beneath a rock! What for? It would have surely served you better in a locked-up desk at home, from which you could conveniently withdraw some when you needed it.”
“Withdraw some! Are you crazy? Do you think that money just regenerates itself? I never touched the stuff.”
“Then tell me,” said the other, “why the weeping? What’s the difference now it’s gone? Replace that rock, and nothing’s changed!”
Why pile up sums you will not spend? The miser’s life’s just like the beggar’s. Whose is better? Whose is worse?
You don’t possess what you don’t use.