By midmorning the garden wheelbarrow had a timetable. Frogs lined up along the lettuce, climbed onto the rim as if it were a deck, and would not shove off until the nearest cabbage had given a slow, leafy nod. Only then did the gardener roll them, very gently, toward the cool strip of shade by the fence.
We asked at the kiosk beside the square. "I thought someone had left wet gloves on the handle," said a man with a bag of radishes. "Then the gloves blinked. Very polite. They waited for the cabbage like it was the harbor master."
The gardener, who prefers not to hurry between beds, pinned a card to the side: Passengers must greet the cabbage. Returns at tea. A toad in the complaint-and-thanks notebook wrote, in a damp print, "Smooth crossing. Shade excellent. Would ride again."
The next afternoon the same two frogs came back and sat a little closer to the front, so they could nod to the cabbage first.