By opening time the grocer's counter had gone unusually quiet for a place that sells jam. The wooden abacus, which used to chatter through a bill, now paused between columns as if someone had offered it a chair.
Each bead had a seat no bigger than a lentil. They boarded from the left, sat very straight, and rode across in a row. Only when the total on the slate had nodded would they settle into a tidy five, then rest as if the arithmetic had been a short outing.
We asked beside the pickle jar. "I used to lose the jam in the hurry," said Mrs. Pell, who always buys one extra spoonful of anything that sparkles. "Today the beads waited for me. The five arrived together, like a tiny choir."
The next morning a squirrel on the windowsill watched the first ride of the day, then tapped the glass as if asking whether nuts counted as a column. The grocer promised to check after lunch.