Gus Guards the Laughing Gate — Behind the herb beds, the gate gave its first creak of the afternoon: eee-ork. Gus lifted his chin, sniffing mint, damp soil, and the sunny dust on the path. Read the full story →
Behind the herb beds, the gate gave its first creak of the afternoon: eee-ork. Gus lifted his chin, sniffing mint, damp soil, and the sunny dust on the path. He liked to stand where the latch clicked, counting each creak so the yard would know exactly how busy it had been.
By the fifth creak, a silver trail glimmered along the bottom rail. A snail in a pebble-sized striped shell slid onto the hinge and said, “You’re counting wrong.” Gus blinked so hard his ears flopped. The snail tapped the wood with one tiny feeler. Creaks from people were ordinary, but creaks from squirrels were worth two, and creaks from a breeze carrying barbecue smoke were worth ten.
Gus lowered his nose until his tag swung like a small bell. The gate creaked again, though nobody touched it. From inside the wood came a chuckly little groan, as if the gate had been waiting all day to join the game. Gus counted it proudly—eleven—and stayed exactly where mint, latch, snail, and gate all belonged; can you spot the place where the scorekeeper might be hiding?
