The Hen and the Pig
The Maggid of Dubno, raising funds for needy families, once found himself climbing the marble steps of a wealthy man’s mansion. Let’s call him Isaac Goldfarb. Goldfarb was the sort of man who counted his blessings twice daily—mostly to ensure none had escaped his vault.
The Maggid, seasoned in the art of extracting donations from reluctant pockets, began by mentioning the generosity of less affluent members of the community. "Even the young widow Leah," he noted, "who mends clothes for a living, gave what she could." He watched Goldfarb's face, hoping to detect a spark of embarrassment. No such luck.
Instead, Goldfarb leaned back in his fine leather chair—imported from Italy—and explained why he could not contribute. "Rabbi," he said, "just between us, I have prepared my will, and most of my money will go to charity. So you understand why I am not at liberty to give you anything today."
The rabbi, who had heard more excuses than a Manhattan traffic court judge, merely smiled. "Tell me, Reb Goldfarb, do you know the difference between a hen and a pig?"
Goldfarb blinked. Not the response he expected.
"Consider the humble hen," the Maggid continued, warming to his theme. "She's a modest creature, offering only an egg or two each day. Yet the farmer and his wife treat her like their own child. Should she wander into the house, tracking dirt across freshly swept floors, they'll gently shoo her out, maybe even tossing her some grain for her trouble.
"But the pig!" Here the Maggid's eyes twinkled. "Now, there's an animal of substance. Pounds of meat, valuable lard—a veritable treasure trove on trotters. Yet, let it dare step one hoof in the wrong direction, and down comes the broomstick! Should it venture indoors..." He made a whistling sound followed by a crack that made Goldfarb jump slightly.
"Your point, Rabbi?" Goldfarb's patience, never his strong suit, was wearing thin.
"Ah, yes. You see, the hen gives what she can, when she can, throughout her life. The pig, on the other hand..." The Maggid paused, letting the moment stretch. "The pig offers its greatest contribution only after it's no longer around to enjoy its wealth."
He fixed Goldfarb with a penetrating stare. "So tell me, my friend: which would you rather be? The hen or the pig?"
They say Goldfarb’s donation that day set a new record for the community fund. Whether it was an act of spiritual enlightenment, or an attempt to avoid starring as livestock in the Maggid’s next sermon—well, that remains a matter of spirited debate.
(Adapted from "The Maggid and His Parables," pp. 216-217.)
