By eight the snowdrift by the garden gate already had a quiet fitting room. Ermines stood in a polite row, each waiting for a tiny black tassel for the tip of a tail. Snow nodded first. The latch nodded next. Only then did a coat count as signed.
We asked at the kiosk by the path. "I thought they were borrowing ink," said the woman who sells jam. "It is only a signature. A white coat without a tassel looks unfinished, and then the whole morning looks a little unsigned."
A notice appeared on the fence in a careful frost print. Tassels are issued one at a time. Coats that are still deciding should not be hurried into the drift. An ermine who waits finds the white that matches.
The next day a neighbor came back with a thermos. The same ermine was still there, brushing the tassel against the snow as if to check the ink. The jam seller left a saucer of warm crumbs and wrote in the little book of thanks: the gate looks properly wintered now.