because the rules say I can enter more than once. *grins*

A man named Ponggori lived in a beautiful little town with his wife, and raised bees. He talked to his bees all the time, just as if they were his children. He praised them for their industry, and for the incredible quantity and quality of the honey they produced. The more he talked to them, the more honey they made. It was the richest, sweetest, most golden-hued honey that anyone had ever tasted.

One year he had such a large surplus of honey that he decided to go over the mountain to the big city, and sell it there. He left early in the morning with his donkey loaded with many jars of honey, in various sizes. It was late in the morning when he arrived in the city, so he immediately set out, going from house to house trying to sell his honey. He worked all day without a break, but without any luck. No one would buy.

Finally, in the late afternoon, he arrived at a big house, home of the city’s richest man in the city. “Well,” he thought to himself, “I might as well try here. Perhaps, if I offer him a taste, he will buy some of the honey. I don’t want to disappoint the wife and the bees by bringing it all home!”

He led his laden donkey through the gate and along the path. Since he was a peddler, he went around to the back, thinking that would be the correct entrance for him to appear at. But when he got there, he found himself in a beautiful garden, with the rich man taking his ease, sitting in a comfortable seat and sipping tea.

The rich man was surprised to be confronted by a peddler and his donkey. “What are you doing here?” he cried.

“I am sorry, sir,” the beekeeper said. “I thought this would lead me to the correct door, where I could try to sell you some of my honey.”

“Honey? Why should I buy your honey? There are many beekeepers here in the city who sell sweet, golden honey.”

“Ah, but there is no honey in the world that is as rich, sweet and golden as mine!” Ponggori said. “My bees are the most contented, happiest bees in the world.”

“Hmph!” grunted the rich man. “That is quite a boast. Prove it! give me a taste.”

Ponggori reached across his donkey and unpacked a small jar. Handing it to the rich man, he said “Willingly will I give you some to taste. I am certain that you will agree with me that you have never tasted honey nearly as good as mine.”

The rich man took the jar, opened it, and tasted. Then he tasted again, and again, and again, until he had emptied the jar. All the time he wore an expression of extreme pleasure and surprise.

“All right, it is the best I’ve tasted. I will buy all that you have with you. How much do you want?”

Ponggori named a price that was about twenty-five percent lower than his normal selling price. The rich man jumped out of his chair and shook his fist in Ponggori’s face.

“That is too much!” he shouted. “I can buy honey cheaper from our own beekeepers! ” He offered a price that was less than half of Ponggori’s. “Take it, or go!” He sat down, and waited.

“That is unreasonable,” Ponggori said. “It will barely cover the cost of producing the honey, to say nothing of losing a whole day traveling here!”

“You lie!” the rich man roared. “Everyone knows that peddlers charge high for their goods, and always say it is because of the cost of making or producing their goods.”

Ponggori thought for a while. He didn’t want to take the honey home again, but if he accepted the offer, he would lose money. Then he had an idea.

“All right. I will let you have this load for your price, if you promise to buy all the honey I bring next time.”

The rich man agreed, and called for a servant to help Ponggori unload the donkey and take the honey inside. As Ponggori turned to leave, he turned back, as if he had just had a sudden thought.

“Sir, I would like to invite you to visit me in our town. It is extremely beautiful, and there are many natural wonders to see. We also brew a fine drink. I am sure you could do with a relaxing day away from all of your duties and business here. If you come, my wife will make you a feast such as you have never tasted before.”

The rich man looked at him. He really could do with a quiet, restful day, and that was impossible to find if he stayed in the city. “All right,” he said. “I will come tomorrow.” And so it was arranged.

The next morning Ponggori and his wife were up before the sun, busy making rice-cakes. Just before mid-day they were finished. Then they took all of the rice-cakes out to their back garden, and tied them to the trees there. It looked as if the trees were bearing rice-cakes, the way an apple tree bears apples. They were just finished when they heard people calling out, in the street.

“The rich man is here,” Ponggori told his wife. “I will go and greet him. You know what to do.” She nodded, and went into the kitchen. Ponggori went out, arriving at his front door just as the rich man rode up on his horse. A neighbour took the horse, and Ponggori welcomed the visitor.

“Welcome, sir. Come in and rest, the meal is almost ready.” Turning, he called out to his wife “wife, bring the rice-cakes we gathered from the trees this morning.” Turning back to the rich man, he said “we wanted to be sure that you would have the freshest rice-cakes, so we waited to pick them today.” His wife came in carrying a basket loaded with lovely golden-brown rice cakes. The rich man thought they smelled good, looked tasty. But he was much more interested in where they came from.

“You picked them?” he asked. “What do they grow on?”

“Oh,” Ponggori said. “We have trees that bear rice-cakes.”

The rich man asked to see the trees, and Ponggori acted very bored. “Oh, please,” he said. “I am so tired of people always wanting to see my trees. They tramp on the flowers and upset the bees so! And they always pester me, wanting to buy a tree. I would rather not show them”

However, the rich man was insistent, and Ponggori finally gave in, with a very big sigh. They went out to the garden, and the rich man’s eyes almost popped out of his head. There were trees all around the garden, and each one was loaded with lovely, delicious looking, golden-brown rice-cakes. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I must have one of these trees for my garden. I really must! Ponggori, I do insist that you sell me one!”

Once again Ponggori made a show of being greatly reluctant, but at last he allowed one of the trees to be carefully dug up. It was wrapped with great tenderness and put in a wagon driven by one of the neighbours. Off went the rich man on his horse, smiling happily, riding beside the wagon, and making sure that it was driven carefully, so as not to disturb the tree. Once at his home, he had his gardener and the man from the town plant the tree in the most favourable spot in the garden.

Over time, he saw to it that the tree was given the best, most tender care. He looked forward to the day when he would see his first crop of rice-cakes growing and ripening on his very own rice-cake bearing tree. But the tree didn’t prosper. Gradually it became weaker and weaker, until at last all the leaves fell off, and it died. The rich man took to his bed, stricken ill by disappointment. All he ever said, until the day he, too, died, was “What did I do wrong? Why did my lovely rice-cake tree die?” Ponggori and his wife continued to keep their bees, and sold the honey only on their own side of the mountain. With the help of the bees, they became almost as wealthy as the man from the city.

click here for the original story