Camp Chime

Stumped away from the cold ash pit toward the edge of the flagstone path to scout the morning perimeter. Right between two stones, an old brass key sat jammed upright in the dirt, caked in dry grit. Looked like honest camp salvage. I planted my bare feet firmly on the stone, clamped both hands around the notched blade, and leaned back with an easy heave. Pop! It broke free with a clean scrape. I dusted the soil off the metal against my knee, gripped a dry pine twig, and gave the round brass loop a solid tap. Ting! A crisp, clear chime rang out across the garden beds. Ha! Pure ring, zero rattle, and the morning muster bell is ready for duty.