By Baker Street
There was a poor man who had laboured all his life to earn a meagre living. He worked for minimum wage at car-washes and on garbage trucks. He had no wife and children and very few friends. He lived in a small room on the poor side of town where he rented. His possessions were few and not expensive. He painted a bit during his off-days, but in his entire life, he never made a penny from his art. He was a poor, but contented man, and battled it out in life for his daily existence. The years went by and while others grew rich, he remained the same. He kept working at his minimum wage jobs and living on the poor side, until one day when developed a tumour, and died shortly thereafter. Not many people attended his funeral; just a few old friends and the little blood relatives which he had. He was buried in a paupers grave, and after the small service, the graveyard was quiet and deserted. A dove had been sitting in tree nearby and had watched the proceedings. Now that everyone had gone he sat looking about him. He preened his feathers gently and then took off in flight. And as he flew, he flew over the poor man’s grave, and took his soul.