Vera’s Unwatched Basket — Under the warm tick-tick of grasshoppers, Vera tucked her mother’s old reed basket against her chest and counted the painted eggs inside. Read the full story →
Under the warm tick-tick of grasshoppers, Vera tucked her mother’s old reed basket against her chest and counted the painted eggs inside. She wanted to reach the hill festival before the sun touched the tallest cloud, because the smallest blue egg carried a tiny paper note from her little brother.
Halfway up the spring hills, she heard a scrape-scrape under the wildflowers. Three field mice were rolling pebbles into empty nests made from dry grass. Their own eggs had cracked in last night’s wind. Vera’s paws tightened around the basket handle. If she gave away eggs, the festival game would not have enough. If she walked on, the nests would stay hollow.
“One each,” Vera whispered, and set down the blue egg, the starry egg, and the striped egg where nobody from the festival could see. The basket felt lighter, but the air smelled sweeter, like clover after rain. When she reached the hilltop, the remaining eggs rattled against something hidden in the reeds: her brother’s note, slipped under the basket rim all along. Next time you spot that old reed basket, see if you can guess which gifts were never meant for applause.
