The Poor Man’s Purse

Once upon a time, there was a box.

From the outside, it did not look like a special box. It was made of wooden slats, plain light wood, with rope handles. Nor was it very large. Many people who looked at it would ask how it would be possible to be of any use, for any purpose!

When you opened it, the scents of a cellar would billow up. One could surmise had been closed for centuries, must and mold building up to near-intolerable levels.

Let’s face it: At the start of this story, this box was not very special.

Fortunately, there is a story to tell – and I promise the box will be very interesting soon enough!

It belonged to a man – a man whose name has been lost to the eons, and so we shall call only by his status in life: Poor Man.

He was poor in all respects. Financially, he and his family barely scraped by. Oh, there was food, but it was not in great quantity, nor what the upper class had on their tables. His health was likewise weak, and as he wandered down the lanes of the township, he could hear the whispers behind him.

“Oh, that Poor Man.”

So we shall call him the Poor Man, for this was how he was known.

Though much in the house was up to be sold, an item that the Poor Man refused to relinquish was this – his much beloved, very unimpressive, wooden box.

“Why don’t you sell it?” someone would ask. “Not that you’d get enough money to even fill it.” (And this was an insult, the box was quite small).

“Oh,” the Poor Man would say. “I suppose that I just think it to be very special. And how could I get rid of such a special thing?”

Naturally, it left everyone scratching their head, including his Poor Wife, who would tut and shake her head at her husband’s odd ways. “But we wouldn’t get much for it,” she would acknowledge. “So there’s not much reason to sell it.”

Now, this would not be much of a story if we did not move things on a little bit, so we shall drop into the timeline as the Poor Man takes a journey, through the Deep Woods.

There is not a clear reason for his journey, so we will make one up. His sister, perhaps, was unwell, and he wanted to see her, before she should perish.

Too dark? Very well. His sister had just given birth to a nephew, and he wanted to see them.

Whatever the reason, he went off upon his journey, visited his sister. He helped as his Poor Body would allow, bemoaned his poverty and inability to help financially, then began the return trip. It was here, deep within the Deep Woods that our story begins to look more interesting.

This was the oldest forest in the land, and here in the Deep of the Deep Woods, the Poor Man came upon an old, ramshackle cottage.

Now, you and I know that if you find a cottage in the middle of the woods, you should leave it and run back to civilization. But the Poor Man did not have as many stories as we did, and so instead, hailed it as he passed.

It was quite the surprise, then, when it hailed him back.

“Excuse me,” he said, for while he was Poor in many things, manners was no one of them, “Did the house just speak to me?”

“No,” the voice from inside the house replied, “I am the owner of this house, yes, but I am not the house. Are you the clothes that you are wearing?”

“No,” the Poor Man said, “But I am the body that I inhabit.” Poor in many things – metaphysical philosophy was not one of them, however.

The voice chortled, which is a strange word for a strange way to laugh, and said, “Come in, voice of the body you inhabit and have lunch with me. I’m just about to set the table.”

Now, the Poor Man might have been dumb enough to call to the house, but even he knew it was unwise to eat food from a ramshackle cottage in the middle of the woods.

“Ah,” he said, “But if I eat your lunch, then mine will turn soggy and be a miserable dinner. Best to eat my own food, and then it will not go to waste.”

A woman appeared in the door, a bright smile on her face as she nodded to the words. “You make a good point, sir,” she said. “Maybe we should split, half your lunch and half mine?”

The Poor Man paused. It made sense, in a convoluted way. “No,” he finally said. “What? Why?”

The woman shrugged.

I’m very bad with dialogue, can you tell? I’ll skip to the good part.

In the course of their conversation, the Poor Man admitted that he was, indeed, impoverished and unable to support his sister’s family, let alone his own. And the woman, a kind and considerate soul who only wanted to share a meal with someone, said she would help.

“You have a box,” she said, “One that you say is special.”

Don’t ask how she knows this – if an old woman in a ramshackle cottage is telling you things about yourself and you haven’t already run? You’re holding out for the wrong reasons.

Again, however, the Poor Man did not have the luxury of learning from other people’s stories. And so he said, “Yes. It is quite small, but it is dear to my heart.”

“Very well,” the woman said. “Then I will grant you this. If you return here with the box to have a meal with me, it will become special to all, not just you.”

The Poor Man agreed, for he didn’t know how to say no, and returned home. He told his wife of what had happened, and while confused, she agreed it probably was for the best not to anger the strange woman in the ramshackle cottage that knew about special, useless boxes. And so, the following day, the Poor Man returned to the cottage, box in tow.

The woman had set up a table outside, but all that was on it was a single sandwich. The Poor Man, at a loss, started to apologize for not bringing his own meal, but the woman quickly shushed him.

“Give me your box,” she said, then put the sandwich into it and closed the lid. Then she handed the box back and told him to open it.

With confusion, trepidation and a good bit of anxiety, the Poor Man did so. As he lifted the lid, he was surprised to find two sandwiches within.

“It will double whatever you put in there,” the woman said. “Provided there is enough space to fit it.” The man lifted the sandwich in surprise and reverence, declaring it to be holy. “No,” the woman said. “Just roast beef on rye.”

Sorry. Hunger has a way of influencing the story.

Now, I could explain in great detail how pleased the Poor Man was to find that this second roast beef sandwich was just as hearty and filling as the first. But that would be far less interesting than what the Poor Man realized he could do.

As he walked home, he tested this now very special box. He put a leaf in – it duplicated. He closed the lid again, and when he opened it, four leaves were held within. “Incredible!” he said, closing it again. He opened and closed it several times, but once it was filled with leaves, it stopped reduplicating. He emptied the box (for what good were leaves?) and hurried home.

His wife, who was of course worried that her husband had been taken and eaten by whatever creatures lived out in the Deep Woods, met him at the door.

“Look at this remarkable box!” her husband said, waving it wildly in the air.

The Poor Wife, in this moment, knew her husband had finally gone insane and burst into tears.

“No, no,” the Poor Man said. “Our financial struggles are over. We are saved, and all because of a box!”

He ushered her into the kitchen and closed the door and curtains, then with trembling hands, showed her how the box reduplicated whatever could fit into it.

“Think of it,” he said. “We could become a side-show! We could be magicians, touring the land and earning more money than you or I could dream of!”

“Or,” said his Poor Wife, who was rather unimpressed with the plan, “We could just reduplicate the money we have.”

“Ah, yes,” the Poor Man replied. “That would make more sense, I suppose.”

And so it continued for all their days. The Poor Man and his Poor Wife were no longer poor. They were careful not to become too rich too quickly, for fear they would give away the secret, but they did not want for anything the rest of their lives.

A wonderful story, yes?

Well, of course, it is not over.

If this were a modern fairy tale, it would end there, with the Poor Man and his Wife becoming wealthy, benevolent souls who kept their friends and family from starving.

If this was a Grimm variation, perhaps a scorpion would climb into the box, or some kind of poison, and through their greed, they would lose it all, including their life.

However, this is neither. It is a story about real people, even if they never existed. And many real people make very wise decision. Like, for example, not telling anyone about your magic box that copies whatever you put into it.

Along with their secret, they made sure to keep up with regular lunches with their new friend in the Deep Woods. After all, they didn’t want a Grimm story ending, either. The last thing you need is for your child to be duplicated, or even yourself!

And, when they passed on, the Not-So-Poor Man and his wife gifted the box to their children.

Just as Real People make wise decisions, many Real Children do no. So take heed, for after years of wild spending, they awoke to find their box gone.

And who could they tell that they had lost it? No one would believe these now-Poor Members of Society had a box that would do such a thing.

A box? Perhaps.

A special, magical box? Madness.

And so, it disappeared from history. But, as forgotten history is apt to do, it reappeared into legend. A Poor Man’s Box, it was called in the stories whispered over cookfires.

But as the legend continued, the natural course of language took over. A Poor Man’s Box that made you rich? Impossible.

Much better, these storytellers decided, to call it what it must have been. A purse.

Ah, this, you have heard of. The Poor Man’s Purse.

But a purse it is not, nor does it belong to a Poor Man.

A moral? You want a moral? What a child to want a moral with your story.

Very well. Perhaps it is that you must be wise like your parents, or you will end up destitute.

No? Perhaps the moral is that some of the most special things in the world are plain and unordinary.

You don’t like that one, either? Very well, how about you take another peppermint and run a long and play?

No, I suppose I never have run out of candies. I can’t, after all. I must make sure that there is enough for all the children, should they want some.

Now go outside and play. I must rest my voice for the next story.