In a bustling little village, nestled among rolling green hills, lived a very wealthy farmer. His barns were always full, his fields stretched far, and his pockets jingled with coins. Not far from him, in a small, wobbly cottage, lived a poor peasant. His fields were tiny, and often, his stomach was empty.

One day, the poor peasant grew very ill. He knew his time was short. He had nothing to leave his family, not even a small plot of land for his own grave. His wife, with tears in her eyes, went to the rich farmer. "Please," she begged, "my husband is dying. Could you spare a tiny corner of your vast land for him to be buried? We have nothing."

The rich farmer frowned. He didn't like giving anything away for free. "My land is for growing crops, not for graves!" he grumbled.

But the farmer's wife, who had a kinder heart, overheard. "Oh, husband," she said gently, "it's such a small thing. Let them have a little spot at the very edge of the far field. It won't hurt our harvest."

Reluctantly, the rich farmer agreed. "Fine! But only a tiny patch, mind you!"

So, the poor peasant was buried in a small mound at the edge of the rich farmer's field.

Soon after, strange things began to happen. The wheat growing near the little grave mound withered and drooped. The farmer's plumpest cows suddenly gave sour milk. His chickens stopped laying eggs. Year after year, whatever the farmer planted near that mound failed, and his animals that grazed nearby grew thin and sickly.

The rich farmer grew poorer and poorer. His barns became emptier, and his pockets stopped jingling. He himself started to feel unwell, weak, and worried.

One night, he couldn't sleep. He felt a strange pull towards the far field. He walked out under the moonlight until he stood before the little grave mound. As he stared at it, a soft, sighing voice seemed to rise from the earth.

"You see," the voice whispered, "you had so much, but you were unwilling to share even a tiny piece of earth freely. Now, the earth itself refuses to give its bounty to you near this spot."

The farmer shivered. He felt a deep regret for his past greed.

"What can I do?" he asked the quiet night.

The voice seemed to whisper again, "To find peace, and for the land to heal, you must learn to give. Share what little you have left with those who are in need."

The next morning, the farmer, now a much humbler man, gathered what few possessions he had remaining. He went to the village and gave his last tools to a struggling young farmer, his remaining grain to a hungry family, and his last few coins to the poorest children.

He became as poor as the peasant he had once scorned. But a strange thing happened. As he gave things away, a lightness filled his heart. He no longer felt sick and worried. He worked hard for his daily bread, but he slept soundly at night.

And the little grave mound? It slowly became covered in wildflowers. The land around it grew healthy and green again, though it no longer belonged to the farmer. He had learned that true richness isn't about what you keep, but what you share.

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