The Annual Noun Census

Every fifth spring, Nelson conducted the Annual Noun Census from his Filing Annex on the second floor.

The Annex was wall-to-wall cabinets, each drawer labeled in his careful hand. The platypus dozed on a stack of .

"Census time," Nelson said, sharpening his pencil. "I count every noun in town, precisely."

The first resident shuffled in. "I brought a ," she said. Nelson frowned. "Too vague. Name the exact one." She tried again, a , and Nelson nodded. "Specific nouns file faster."

A cart rolled past, loaded with crates of and . Nelson logged each plural, minding every spelling rule.

A whole of musicians crowded the doorway. "Collective noun. Singular when they play as one, plural when they squabble." They were squabbling.

Someone wheeled in , a proper noun so specific it wore capital letters. Nelson approved.

The platypus tipped a box of across the floor. Nelson counted each one, then turned a single into its correct plural without a stumble.

A baker hurried past balancing a , a compound noun stacked two words high.

By dusk he had recorded a precise , a gleaming , a battered , and the rarest entry of the day: , which nobody could describe.

"Name it exactly," Nelson insisted, "or it does not count." The resident found the perfect , and Nelson smiled.

He closed the ledger and named the settling over the Annex, then the quiet of a job done right, and one last he could not explain.

"Census complete. Every noun accounted for, down to the last letter."