This morning the benches along the lime walk looked slightly overdressed. Each had a pair of neat little pockets sewn to the slats, just deep enough for a handful of acorns and just high enough that a squirrel would not have to choose between sitting and keeping lunch.
We asked the tailor at his stall by the fountain. He held up a scrap of green wool as if it were a blueprint. "The squirrels were always polite," he said. "They sat at the far end. Then an acorn would roll between the boards, and they would spend the afternoon looking sorry. I only copied the pockets from my own coat. Smaller needle. Same idea."
The park keeper posted a tiny card: Please do not sit on Tuesday's savings. By evening a gray squirrel had filled the left pocket, patted it twice, and returned to share the bench with a woman reading the weather. A day later the same squirrel brought a friend. The friend inspected both pockets, approved the stitching, and left a single acorn as a compliment.