Not so long ago, in a land not too far from here, there once lived a happy, hardworking carpenter. Contentedly, he lived in a humble country cottage, kindly caring for his beautiful wife and two playful daughters. Although the carpenter was poorer than some, he was certainly well-off enough to adequately feed and clothe his own family. Four times a year, at the end of every season, he would trek to the nearest town in order to buy meat, to replace his tools, and to mend his family’s clothes. And, without fail, each one of these trips was more successful than the last.
One year, however, everything changed. The town often visited by the carpenter spontaneously implemented several new welfare measures. The town’s officials suddenly concluded that the poor and impoverished in their land, both citizens and non-citizens, hardworking and non-working alike, required immediate financial assistance. Therefore, they declared, the rich must be taxed in order to feed the poor. Their reasoning was simple: “The poor need it more!”
That spring, the unsuspecting carpenter fell prey to these new ordinances. The town’s officers were lurking in the streets, waiting for a decently-fed citizen like him. Spotting the carefree carpenter, they stopped him and began to search his person. He feebly attempted to protest, but the officials only responded by patronizing him with haughty sermons on the betterment of society, and smugly lecturing him on the dangers of the wealthy accumulating too much wealth. Before the carpenter could open his mouth once more, they deftly plucked the money bag right out of his hands. Enraged, the carpenter demanded to know why his hard-earned money should be taken from him in this way. After all, without his wallet, how would he manage to feed his family? Loudly, and with feigned surprise, the officials answered this apparently thickheaded fellow’s question with what could only be the most plain, obvious answer: “The poor need it more!”
After this, the carpenter only made two more trips to town. During the first, at the end of summer, the carpenter did not bring any money with him, but instead brought his carpentry tools. After his previous encounter with the town’s officials and their new ordinances, he wisely decided to offer manual labor in exchange for the goods and services he and his family so desperately needed. However, those cunning officials, after once again apprehending this hardworking man, proceeded to mercilessly snatch his entire toolbox! Dumbfounded, the carpenter, struggling to speak, began to inquire as to how he might work and feed his family without saws, hammers, or nails. The officers did not hesitate to answer him. They informed him that there had been an unusual amount of unemployment around the town as of late, and that any spare tools would assist the impoverished in their search for sustainable income. Then, they departed from him, cheerily singing, “The poor need it more!”
The last time the carpenter visited town, in the the late chill of fall, he arrived as a much poorer man. In fact, he only traveled to beg for food and to seek a benefactor who might offer to patch his hole-torn coat for the winter. The officials found him anyway. Seething, he remained silent while the the officers roughly tore that ragged coat from his back. In stark contrast to his stillness, they spoke plenty, babbling to him about the sickness that had spread among the town’s poor, possibly because of the fast approaching winter. As they ran off to find another unjustly prosperous capitalist, who would also be strongly encouraged to donate in such a time of need, they flippantly reminded the carpenter, “The poor need it more!”
That winter, the hardworking carpenter caught sick and died. Perhaps it was because he could not afford the medicine needed to recover. Perhaps it was because there had not been enough food for him or his wife or his two daughters. Perhaps it was because he had come home half-frozen, night after frigid night, after scrounging for bits of kindling in the forest surrounding his shabby cottage. His beautiful wife and two playful daughters wretchedly mourned his passing. His last act in life had been to construct a coffin out of extra materials left over from his career of carpentry. This way, he had reasoned, his family would not be forced to sell themselves to properly bury his remains. By now, the officials had taken to roaming the countryside too, searching for unwilling benefactors. Most likely, they would have taken the coffin too, in order to bury the perished poor among them; however, they had not yet located the small country cottage.
Three days after the carpenter’s burial, a harsh knock sounded on the door of the neglected cottage. The carpenter’s widow screamed and almost fainted when she recognized the very officials that her husband had vividly described time and time again. As she lay on the dirt floor, pleading for mercy, promising that she had nothing more to give, the officials glanced at each other, genuinely bemused and not recognizing this soiled, impoverished woman. They were not come to do any harm, they proudly assured her. Instead, they were bearers of great news and glad tidings. With that, the head officer violently spilled a bag of various odds and ends on the mean, cold floor. Silenced, the wife stared at the soil-spattered contents of the upended sack. There was a small bag of coins. Next to that was a familiar yet well-used toolbox full of saws, hammers, and nails. Finally, there was a long, weather-worn coat desperately in need of patching. With a trembling lip, the carpenter’s widow numbly gazed at the floor, questioning the officials with her silence. The officers smiled in smug satisfaction, and, glancing around the hovel, lightly commented on her obvious poverty. These things on the floor, they loftily intoned, had been acquired from some nameless woodworker who was guilty of hoarding wealth, thereby forcing the poor to suffer. Now, in true generosity, they, the heroes, had come to bring these items to her and to her meager household. After all, they proclaimed, “The poor need it more!”
Three days after the carpenter’s burial, a harsh knock sounded on the door of the neglected cottage. The carpenter’s widow screamed and almost fainted when she recognized the very officials that her husband had vividly described time and time again. As she lay on the dirt floor, pleading for mercy, promising that she had nothing more to give, the officials glanced at each other, genuinely bemused and not recognizing this soiled, impoverished woman. They were not come to do any harm, they proudly assured her. Instead, they were bearers of great news and glad tidings. With that, the head officer violently spilled a bag of various odds and ends on the mean, cold floor. Silenced, the wife stared at the soil-spattered contents of the upended sack. There was a small bag of coins. Next to that was a familiar yet well-used toolbox full of saws, hammers, and nails. Finally, there was a long, weather-worn coat desperately in need of patching. With a trembling lip, the carpenter’s widow numbly gazed at the floor, questioning the officials with her silence. The officers smiled in smug satisfaction, and, glancing around the hovel, lightly commented on her obvious poverty. These things on the floor, they loftily intoned, had been acquired from some nameless woodworker who was guilty of hoarding wealth, thereby forcing the poor to suffer. Now, in true generosity, they, the heroes, had come to bring these items to her and to her meager household. After all, they proclaimed, “The poor need it more!”
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