"Never give up, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn."
- Harriet Beecher Stowe
Once upon a time, in a faraway Chinese province, lived a poor scribe who lived with his only and very much loved son. He was so poor, that the only inheritance he could leave to his son was knowledge of calligraphy.
Then, one day, it came time for the poor scribe to depart this valley of tears. Before he passed away, he gave his son two small boxes, one white and one black. “Alas, I have nothing to leave to you except this. Please, my son, remember and keep them always with you. When one day, you are in terrible sorrow, and it seems that life is not worth living anymore, open the black box. White one you keep, and open it when you think that you are the luckiest man on earth.” Saying this, the old man died and the son was left weeping, holding one black and one white box.
As he was now alone, young man went from job to job, often forced to work hard and long, just for daily bread. He wandered from province to province, slept hungry in forests, without any opportunity to find his place under the sun. One morning, he woke up feeling pain from hard work in all his joints and started weeping. “This is the end; I can’t live like this anymore” he thought. Suddenly, as he remembered his fathers dying words, he reached in this bag and with his trembling hands, opened the black box.
- Harriet Beecher Stowe
Once upon a time, in a faraway Chinese province, lived a poor scribe who lived with his only and very much loved son. He was so poor, that the only inheritance he could leave to his son was knowledge of calligraphy.
Then, one day, it came time for the poor scribe to depart this valley of tears. Before he passed away, he gave his son two small boxes, one white and one black. “Alas, I have nothing to leave to you except this. Please, my son, remember and keep them always with you. When one day, you are in terrible sorrow, and it seems that life is not worth living anymore, open the black box. White one you keep, and open it when you think that you are the luckiest man on earth.” Saying this, the old man died and the son was left weeping, holding one black and one white box.
As he was now alone, young man went from job to job, often forced to work hard and long, just for daily bread. He wandered from province to province, slept hungry in forests, without any opportunity to find his place under the sun. One morning, he woke up feeling pain from hard work in all his joints and started weeping. “This is the end; I can’t live like this anymore” he thought. Suddenly, as he remembered his fathers dying words, he reached in this bag and with his trembling hands, opened the black box.