The wee folk had cut down a stand of their magic trees.
Crafty strangers had been watching from the undergrowth with great interest.
Their leader approached the wees, “Will you sell us the remainder of those trees?” he said with a smile.
“Why do you want these stumpy things?” asked the Groft of the wees.
“We —have need for many things,” replied the Stroug of the strangers, “We can offer you—gold?”
The deal was struck and both seemed satisfied.
The wees hid their gold at the end of rainbows.
The strangers turned the slices of the magic wood into coins.
For them all went well for awhile.
As the supply ran out, they were using stems, then tearing up pieces they ripped from the soil. It was all valuable to them.
Near the end a few died. Then more and more. Soon all the strangers were gone.
Thus, it seems: That roots are the evil of all money.