Keaton and the Mantel Heckler — Every evening, Keaton waited above the hearth until the last log sighed and the room smelled of pine ribbon, warmed wax, and orange peel; then he gave one tiny jingle, just enough to make the wrapped boxes wonder. Read the full story →
Every evening, Keaton waited above the hearth until the last log sighed and the room smelled of pine ribbon, warmed wax, and orange peel; then he gave one tiny jingle, just enough to make the wrapped boxes wonder. One night a soot-dusted cricket dropped from the chimney hook and said, “A bell that polite is basically a cough.” Keaton held his ring still. Because of that, the cricket performed louder: rasping carols, bowing with one leg, insulting the solemn reindeer stitched near Keaton’s toe. Because of that, everyone listened too hard, and the room fell into a patient, crackling hush. At last, when the cricket’s final squeak vanished into the holly, Keaton rang once—clear, round, ridiculously grand—and even the mantel berries seemed to blink, quietly rewarded by the little jingle he had saved since the last log sighed.
