Seeing the apricot tree laden with ripe fruit, Jia Er’s mind was instantly filled with thoughts of money. After picking two full baskets of apricots, he carried them on a shoulder pole and headed to the street to sell them. An old woman stopped him and asked whether the apricots were sour or sweet. Assuming she had no teeth and couldn’t eat sour things, he quickly replied that every single one was sweet. Little did he know the old woman was buying them for her pregnant daughter-in-law, and the sale fell through. Then an elderly man playing chess called him over. Before buying, the old man also asked whether the apricots were sour or sweet. Learning from his previous mistake, Jia Er hurriedly said they were sour—only to find out the old man only wanted sweet ones. And so, as dusk approached, the shrewd Jia Er hadn’t sold a single apricot. Just as he was feeling downcast, another customer appeared. A burly man pushing a cart, parched from his journey, also asked whether the apricots were sour or sweet. Thinking on his feet, Jia Er replied that they were both sour and sweet, a perfect blend. But his cleverness backfired—the burly man, straightforward in his tastes, preferred either pure sweetness or pure sourness and had no interest in mixed flavors.