By eight the spruce in the square had lined its lowest boughs like desks, and the cones sat very still, practicing a hello no louder than a needle dropping.
We asked at the kiosk across the cobbles. “I used to rattle a branch for luck,” said a man with a warm bun. “Today the smallest cone looked at me first. I said good morning to the wood and waited. It opened one scale, like a tiny door, and a squirrel nodded as if I had passed.”
The park keeper posted a note on the trunk: please do not tap for more than one lesson at a time. The squirrel, who has appointed herself usher, flicks her tail only when the branch has been greeted. By evening the cones sat a little wider, and the queue had learned to whisper.