By the door there is a small tit of iron, and a stranger presses it with one finger, and a bell sounds inside the house. No rope. No hand upon the bell. The finger stays without, the ringing lives within, and how the sound crosses the good oak door I cannot tell you, only that it does, and that no man sweats to make it happen.
In my village a stranger at the door meant a raised voice, or a fist upon the wood, or a dog gone mad in the yard. A man announced himself the way the Lord made men to announce themselves: loudly, with his own throat, so you might judge his manner before you drew the bolt. This little iron nub asks nothing of the visitor. He need not shout. He need not even knock. He touches it as gently as a lady touches a rosary and the whole house is made to jump.
I marvel most that they answer it. The bell sounds, and a man rises from his warm bench and goes to the door as a servant goes to his lord, though he does not know who calls. A summons obeyed without knowing the master. That is how the Devil takes an honest soul, my priest would say, one small easy bidding at a time.
They have taught the iron to speak so a man's own voice might rest. God gave us throats to cry out with. These folk have given the crying to a cold little button, and they come running when it calls.