A countryman was selling pears in a bustling marketplace, pushing his cart. The pears were of superior quality, fragrant and sweet, yet priced steeply.
A Daoist priest, clad in ragged robes and a battered hat, approached the cart and bowed low. “Good sir, have pity and spare me a single pear.”
The countryman frowned. “Be off with you! Where did you come from, you vagrant priest? Do you think you are worthy of eating my pears?”
The Daoist remained, unperturbed by the scolding, and smiled faintly. “There are hundreds of pears on this cart. I ask only for one. For you, sir, the loss is negligible—why be so stingy?”
Bystanders urged the vendor. “Just give the priest a bruised one to keep him quiet and be done with it.”
The countryman refused. “All my pears are excellent; I have no inferior ones.” Finally, a waiter from a nearby establishment, unable to bear the sight, paid for a pear and presented it to the Daoist.
The Daoist thanked him profusely and then addressed the onlookers. “A mendicant never hoards; I possess fine pears, please, everyone, taste them.”
The crowd retorted, “If you have pears, why beg for one? Why not eat your own?”
The Daoist explained, “I particularly need this pear as a seed.” Saying this, he devoured the fruit in large bites until nothing remained but the core.
Holding the pear seed in his palm, the Daoist unhooked a small spade from his shoulder, dug a shallow pit in the earth, buried the core, and covered it with soil. He then called out, “Who has water? Perhaps you could lend some to this poor priest to water his tree.”
Someone immediately offered, “I will fetch some water right now.”
The Daoist smiled. “Remember, it must be boiling water—truly scalding hot.”
A short while later, the person returned with a kettle of boiling water. The Daoist carefully poured the water onto the patch of earth. The onlookers, sensing some trickery, were intrigued and watched with wide-open eyes.
Presently, a marvel occurred. A tender sprout suddenly burst from the soil, growing rapidly in the breeze until it stood tall and robust, transforming into a large, lush pear tree laden with fruit—pears that were golden, enormous, and glossy.
The Daoist pointed to the tree and laughed. “Everyone, please, help yourselves; do not be shy.” The crowd surged forward, quickly dividing and snatching the pears, devouring them in moments.
The Daoist smiled faintly. “The pears are gone, and the tree is of no further use.” With that, he grasped his iron spade and swung it forcefully, cutting down the pear tree in just a few swift chops.
The Daoist slung the severed trunk, branches, and leaves over his shoulder, laughing heartily as he departed.
The countryman watched the Daoist’s magical display, stunned and silent for a long time, his eyes wide. He had completely forgotten his business of selling pears. Only when the Daoist had vanished from sight did he snap back to reality.
He spun around to look at his cart. It was utterly empty. Then he noticed one of the cart handles was broken, the break fresh and raw. As if waking from a dream, he let out a loud cry, “Thieving priest! Don’t go! Give me back my pears!”
He rushed in pursuit. Turning a corner near a wall, he saw half a cart handle lying on the ground. The wood, its length and grain, looked remarkably familiar. After a brief thought, clarity dawned: the pears the Daoist had grown were his own; the tree he had felled was none other than the handle of his own cart.