The Quiet Rattle Underhill — Under the cool tin roof, Rocco listened to a tiny rattle-tap, rattle-tap. He wanted the sound to stop before the sleepy field mice woke. Read the full story →
Under the cool tin roof, Rocco listened to a tiny rattle-tap, rattle-tap. He wanted the sound to stop before the sleepy field mice woke. So he rolled out from his shady shed and followed it past the green hills, tires humming low on the dusty track.
At the dirt mound, the rattle grew louder. Rocco climbed slowly—bump, scrunch, bump—and a pebble popped from his tread. That was the small price: a scratch on his shiny fender. Beneath the mound, where nobody had thought to look, rested a blue tin bell left from last year’s parade. “There you are,” Rocco whispered. He carried it home, jingling softer than rain, and next time you see his big tire on the mound, can you spot where the rattle-tap began?
