Dancer trots up the snowy hill toward the mouth of Grumblebeard's Cave, her bells jingling nervously. The cave is dark, with icicles hanging like grumpy frowns. You take a deep breath and step forward. Before you can call out, a booming voice echoes from inside: "IF YOUR ANOTHER GROUP OF NOISY CAROLERS, TURN AROUND!" Grumblebeard stomps into view—a tall, shaggy, snow-dusted creature with eyebrows so bushy they practically flap in the wind. He crosses his arms. "Well? What do you want? And make it quick! I've got icicles to polish!" You swallow. "Um… we're looking for a piece of paper. Santa's list blew away, and—" "HA!" he interrupts. "I KNEW someone was littering!" He stomps toward the cave entrance, muttering the whole way. "Always dropping things… on my cave… like it's a trash can… no respect for a hardworking mountain troll…" He yanks a crinkled scroll off a jagged icicle and waves it in your face. "THIS thing! Stuck right to my front door! Nearly tripped over it and sprained my grumble toe!" You gasp. It's the Nice List.