Quibble’s Watering Can Secret — Behind the picket fence, while the chimney smoke curled like a question mark, Quibble carried his dented watering can to the cabbage bed. Read the full story →
Behind the picket fence, while the chimney smoke curled like a question mark, Quibble carried his dented watering can to the cabbage bed. He wanted to try his newest garden riddle before the wheelbarrow heard it and squeaked the answer all over the yard. The can felt cool and bumpy in his paws, and its handle had a tiny notch he rubbed for luck. “What vegetable tells the best secrets?” he whispered.
Drip, drip, patter. The cabbages shivered under the silver sprinkle. Quibble leaned closer, ears poking through his wide hat, as if the curly leaves might giggle. He had kept every riddle inside that old can since spring, because Grand Beetle had once said, “Words watered often grow roots.” Quibble had taken that very seriously and a little too literally.
Then the wheelbarrow gave one bold creak. Inside it, the rake, trowel, and hoe were lined up like judges, each handle carved with tiny cabbage-shaped check marks. Quibble blinked. The cabbages were not growing riddles at all; they were growing scorecards, one new leaf for every joke they liked. The biggest cabbage had curled its top leaf into the answer: lettuce.
Quibble snorted so hard the water danced sideways. The cabbages rustled, the tools clacked, and even the shed door seemed to grin. Next time you spot the spray over those leafy heads, see if you can guess which cabbage is still voting on the secret.
