I knew a man who liked to write and bought himself a pen from his allowance. His only flaw–he didn’t like to work and when he wrote he found he couldn’t sell his story. He also liked to paint but couldn’t pay for pigments nor the place to store the canvases in piles. And then one day he came across a painter on the street and ‘fore the man could sign his name to one, he bought it. He went up just three blocks and sat and wrote his name and then he charged another man a double price and went back for another.
Now this went on for quite a while, and soon he wearied of the walk and struck a deal as marketeer and bought the right to sign as well. It worked out well until the brusher saw his friend get rich while spending his own take on paint and stretchers. Before the grumbling could be heard, and quick as light the artist signed in front of sidewalk crowds that searched for pens as one ran out of ink.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology