Two men met on the road from Anywhere to Nowhere. It was a long journey in both directions, and as such they were both tired from their travels. They decided to sit for a while under a large oak tree, and share a meal. Each asked where the other was going.
'Nowhere,' said one.
'Anywhere,' said the other. They sat for a moment in silence as the dappled sunlight that fell through the leaves played on their faces. The man headed for Anywhere chewed thoughtfully on a sandwich he had pulled from his pack. Soon, curiosity got the better of him. 'What do you do for a living?' he inquired.
'I guess you could say that I'm an artist,' said the artist. 'And you?'
'I am a merchant,' said the merchant.

A few minutes passed in idle chatter, as the pair discussed the weather, and the price of eggs in China. A small starling swooped down from the sky, and alighted on one of the lower branches, which drifted and swayed in the light breeze. The artist looked up at it with an expression that the merchant would have assumed was pride, had he not known better. The starling cocked its head on the side, and a moment of recognition passed between it and the artist. The artist smiled, and the bird chirped a happy tune, then took to wing, and soared away over the fields. The merchant was puzzled, sure that he had missed something, but decided not to draw attention to the fact.
'What do you paint?' he asked the artist.
The artist gestured expansively around him, saying 'I paint the flowers. I paint the trees, the grass and the sky.'
'Are you any good?' asked the merchant.
'What do you think?' replied the artist, once more gesturing toward the horizon. Again the merchant was confused, but merely nodded knowingly rather than ask for an explanation.

Another moment of silence passed, as the artist munched happily on an apple he had produced from somewhere, and looked out over the fields. He seemed content merely to sit, but the merchant again attempted to strike up a conversation.
'I have contact with some rather wealthy art collectors,' he said, 'perhaps I could help you to sell some of your paintings.'
'I have nothing for you to sell,' said the artist. 'Besides, I do not wish for money.'
Perplexed, the merchant inquired, 'Then why do you paint?'
'To make people happy.'
'Anyone in particular?' asked the merchant, still vexed.
'Everybody,' replied the artist. 'Am I making you happy?' The merchant had to admit that, whilst he was confused, he had quickly come to like this man.
'Consider this,' the artist began. 'Why are you a merchant?'
'Simple,' the merchant said in return. 'I wish to make money.'
'Why do you want to make money?'
'So that I can provide my sweetheart with whatever she desires.'
'Exactly. You wish to make her happy. You and I are in the same business,' concluded the artist. 'I simply work on a larger scale.'

The merchant had long since finished his sandwich, as had the artist finished his apple. So, to the sound of rustling leaves and swaying grasses, the merchant stood to repack his bag. It was short work, and he soon turned to wish the artist farewell. As they bid each other goodbye, the artist produced a splendorous flower from behind his back. It was an amazing splash of colour, but also held a silent grace.
'For your sweetheart,' said the artist. 'I hope it makes her happy.' The merchant thanked the artist profusely, and just as he was turning to leave, stopped.
'Will we meet again?' he asked.
'You can be sure of it,' replied the artist. The merchant shouldered his pack, and walked away. A few metres down the track, he turned to wave goodbye, but the artist was gone.