The Brass Bell

I walked through the gate and followed the sloping path down to the general store porch. Resting on the wooden threshold was a small brass handbell, tipped sideways against a boot scraper. An empty wooden milk crate banged against a handcart nearby. I held my ground and waited until the clatter stopped entirely. Then I stepped forward. I planted both front paws firmly against the bell's cold fluted rim. It rolled half an inch with a faint, muted chime and lodged tight against the iron scraper. It stands quiet now.