A pious man had a magnificent tree in his garden. For years it had been the pride of his land — tall, shady, heavy with fruit. Travelers and neighbors loved to rest beneath it.
But something was wrong. A shed, a demon, had taken up residence in its branches. The tree had become a gathering point: people rested there, let their animals graze nearby, trampled through the surrounding field, and destroyed the crops the man depended on. The garden was slowly being eaten alive by its own most beautiful feature.
The man decided to cut the tree down.
The demon, hearing the axe being sharpened, appeared to him in a rush of desperation. "Don't," the demon pleaded. "Please. Don't cut it. I will pay you. I have money. I have jewels. Take them and leave the tree standing."
The pious man looked at the creature and felt something cold move through him. He understood, in that instant, that the demon's offer was a form of avodah zarah — idol-worship. To accept gifts from a spirit in exchange for sparing its dwelling-place was to enter into a private covenant with a power other than God. The tree had become an altar for the wrong lord.
He cut it down anyway.
When the trunk fell and the workmen began clearing the roots, they found, buried beneath the base of the tree, a genuine treasure — coins, vessels, valuables — placed there long ago and forgotten by whoever buried them (Gaster, Exempla No. 395).
The Ben Attar collection preserves this tale with a quiet moral: the pious man had refused to take wealth on the demon's terms, and precisely because he refused, heaven gave him the same wealth directly, on its own terms. The lesson is that a righteous refusal is not a loss. Sometimes it is the only way the blessing can arrive clean.