It is said that on a bridge in a certain city there was a beggar. He could not play the lute, could not sing, did not even know how to write down his tragic situation on paper, scatter it on the ground to expect mercy from passersby.

Every day, he could only squat against the bridge, huddled with his face in his knees, next to his thin legs, an old bowl. Fortunately, people crossing the bridge are very crowded, sometimes people also bring a few silver coins to throw in the bowl.

When night comes, the beggar will return to his abode – a suburban vegetable garden, long abandoned. A ramshackle fence surrounded the abandoned vegetable garden, inside was a dilapidated hut, where the old beggar had sheltered from the cold for several cold winters.