Once upon a lifetime in a far-away place, lived a little old man and his little old wife in a little old house on the edge of a town.  They didn’t have a son or daughter of their own.  They didn’t have a dog, or a bear, or a cat, or a monkey or chimp, or a mouse, or a rat, but they had each other, that was more than enough.

They had pots of money, for this simple reason: they didn’t have children or expensive vet bills.  Animals and children are expensive to keep; the better that they look, the more they cost to own.  The smelly, ugly ones are far the best to have, and I’m not just talking animals, understand!

They lived their twilight years in happy contentment, never thinking of anyone but each other, until one cold and sunshiny winter morning they heard a gentle knock upon the kitchen door. 

“Who can that be, my husband dear?” the woman said. 

“I do not know, my darling wife,” the old man said.  For though they had been married for so many years they never could remember one another’s names.

“I’m not expecting a letter,” the old man said.

“I’m not expecting the baker,” the woman said.

“I’m not expecting the preacher,” the old man said.

“I’m not expecting the florist,” the woman said, and shot a meaningful glance at the empty vase, for the old man had not bought her flowers for years.

“We’re not expecting anyone,” the couple said.

“Perhaps it is robbers, come to take our money!”  (For as I have already said, they had money; pots and pots of money not spent on childish things nor paid to vets for sick animal medicine)  The couple hugged each other in fear of their lives.

“Are you the town postman?” the old couple called out.

“No, I am not,” came a voice from outside the door.

“Are you Tom, the baker?” the old couple called out.

“No, I am not,” came a voice from outside the door.

“Are you the preacher man?” the old couple called out.

“No, I am not,” came a voice from outside the door.

“Are you bringing flowers?” the old woman called out, and the old man wondered if it was her birthday.

“No, I am not,” came a voice from outside the door.

“Are you robbers come to steal our pots of money?”

“No, I am not,” came a voice from outside the door.

“Then who are you?” they cried.  They didn’t know, you see.

“I’m a norphan” they heard, from outside of the door.

The couple crept doorwards, hugging each other still.

“A norphan?” they called out, not sure to believe it.

“Yes, I’m a poor norphan.  Please let me in your house.  I’m cold and I’m hungry, and it’s so cold out here.”

The old man and the old woman opened the door, and there stood a norphan, a young lad called Michael.

“I’m Michael,” said Michael, “and I’m a poor norphan.”

The old couple could see Michael was poor indeed.  His clothes were all ragged and his feet were both bare.  He shivered and trembled in the cold winter wind.  His fingers and his toes were deep night-sky purple.  His body was thinner than a twig on a tree.

“Have you no family?” the old woman asked him.

Michael looked sad as he shook his head slowly.  “No.”

“Have you no parents?” the old man asked quietly.

Michael looked sadder and shook his head again.  “No.”

“What do you want of us?” the old woman asked him.

“Some food would be lovely, hot fresh from the oven.  Some soup, if you have some, with bread to mop it up.  My clothing is so thin, something warm would be nice.  A bed with warm blankets so I can sleep snugly.”

“And what would you give us?” the old man asked Michael.

“A smile at our breakfast when I wake up cheerful.  A song all through lunchtime between mouthfuls of food.  A hug before dinner when waiting for starters.  A sleepy goodnight kiss when I’ve drunk my hot milk.”

The man took a pencil and a sheet of paper, and wrote in a column a neat list of figures.  He added them up with much scratching of his head, and wrote down the total in big, tidy writing.

The man and the woman both looked at the figures, and then with much sadness their pots and pots of gold.  Then with slow shaking of heads they closed the back door, leaving poor Michael alone in the cold winter.

The moral of this tale:  Love can’t buy you money.