"My bucket is gone!" Bob cried in a panic. To a six year old, it was the worst thing that could happen. "Mum!"
Every day he had got his bucket from in front of his house where he kept it, and filled up the water for breakfast and cleanup. He was very careful to put it back every day. It had always been there, and there was nothing that could pull him out of his dreary routine than an upset such as this.
He stormed inside looking anxiously for his mother. "Mom, did you take my bucket?" His tiny voice was frantic, not sure what he was going to do.
"Of course not, Bobby," His mother calmly replied. "Are you sure that is where you left it?"
"I always do, mother," he answered, annoyed, his eyes darting around, as if searching for the bucket inside, " Where did it go?!?"
"Now dear, I'm sure it will turn up. Go next door to Carby's and see if you could borrow theirs. Hurry up now, so breakfast won't be late."
"Yes, mum." He replied, defeated. It wasn't as if there weren't enough buckets to go around in the neighborhood, but he wanted his. It wasn't just any normal bucket. He had gotten it just after his father had died, he had helped a neighbor harvest and was paid with the broken bucket. When he repaired it, however, he added to it. He shaved the handle so it fit his hand perfectly, and created a lid so he wouldn't spill when he carried it. This way, not only did he take fewer trips, he also stayed much drier than others. Many people had laughed the first few times Bob had brought it out, but the snickers quickly died down when they realized how nice it would be to stay as dry as him in the wintertime.
How could his mother be so calm when his bucket, the one he had worked so hard on had turned up missing? But there was nothing else for him to do. "Perhaps," he thought, "I will find it on the way to the stream." And he set out to the Carby's house to borrow a bucket.
