Polly at the Market

Berta kept her promise. At nine in the morning she was already knocking at the green door, basket in paw, and they walked together to the square where the Saturday market opens. The street smelled of oranges and fresh bread. "Good morning!" Polly called out at the first stall, and the whole row of awnings seemed to answer at once.

At the fruit stall a goat in a striped apron was stacking apples into a perfect pyramid. Polly pointed at something green and spiky. "What is this? I have never seen this fruit." The goat laughed, cut a thin slice, and held it out. That is how Polly learned that in this neighborhood you taste first and decide later. "I want two apples and one of those, to try it."

"How much is it all together?" The goat named a price, Berta nodded that it was fair, and Polly counted out the coins one by one, proud of every single number. "A bag, please. I have to carry everything home." On the walk back, with the bag swinging under one wing, Polly decided that the market would be a Saturday habit. Some lessons taste better than they sound.