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"Where’s wee Tucker?" Mrs. Crawford asked
her husband. "I put him doon on the floor to hang the pots and pans and
now he’s gone. Are you no watching him?"
Mr. Crawford was sitting
at the table, cleaning his bagpipes. "He’s probably crawled into the
living room. I’ll go and find him," he said, putting his tools down and
walking into the other room. He came back a few minutes later. "He’s not
there. Tucker. Tucker," he called out, listening carefully for a ‘goo
goo’ or a ‘ma ma’, but not hearing anything.
Just then MacTavish, the
scotty dog came in the house through the doggie door. "Woof. Woof," he
barked.
Mr. and Mrs. Crawford
looked at him. "Wee Tucker’s gone oot through the doggie door. You
weren’t watching him at all, were you?" she scolded. She opened the back
door and went out, followed by MacTavish. Mr. Crawford came out a little
later with the bagpipes in his arms.
"Tucker. Tucker," Mrs.
Crawford called. She heard no answer. She went over to the pile of peat,
stacked neatly behind the house. He wasn’t there. "Tucker. Tucker," she
called again. She walked over to the garden. She moved the cabbage
leaves and looked under them. He wasn’t there either. "Tucker. Tucker."
Mrs. Crawford saw a few sheep prancing about in the field next to their
house. She climbed over the fence and walked up to them. "Have you seen
wee Tucker?" she asked them. They just went baa and ran away.
Mr. Crawford sat on a
large stone. He held his bagpipes in his arm and started playing a tune.
MacTavish lay on the ground next to him, wagging his tail. Their other
son, Clifford, came out of the house. "Have you seen wee Tucker?" he
asked his father.
He stopped playing the
bagpipes, "No laddie. I’ve haven’t. But your mum is out looking for him.
Do you want to help her or stay here and listen to me play the bagpipes?
Tucker will surely show up soon."
Clifford would much
rather stay and listen to his father play the bagpipes than wander
around looking for Tucker, who was probably curled up in a ball sleeping
somewhere.
A few minutes later Mrs.
Crawford came back. She walked up to them. "Clifford, you take MacTavish.
Both of you go and look in some of the haystacks and if he’s not there,
then search the heather. Your father and I will go towards the stream
and look," she commanded. The two men jumped up. Mr. Crawford carefully
put his bagpipes down on the ground, where they wouldn’t get damaged,
and went off to look for Tucker. "Tucker. Tucker," Mrs. Crawford called.
"Tucker. Tucker,"
Clifford cried out as he lifted up some golden-colored hay with his
hands. MacTavish barked.
"Tucker. Tucker," Mr.
Crawford called as he looked in the rowan trees and ferns for the wee
lad.
Just then Mrs. Crawford
started making a ruckus. "There’s my wee Tucker," she said, delighted to
have found her baby. Mr. Tucker came running. When he saw wee Tucker, he
gasped and gulped. There was the baby, jumping up and down on his
bagpipes. The bag was filled with air and Tucker was climbing all over
it. Each time he jumped on it, it made a loud, scratchy, squeaking
sound. He had a red rattle with small spikes in it and kept hitting the
bag with it.
"My bagpipes," he
whispered.
Mrs. Crawford looked at
him. "You leave him alone. If you’d helped me look for him instead of
playing wi’ your bagpipes, then this wouldna have happened. Now, let him
be."
Mr. Crawford, seeing he
wasn’t going to win this battle, went into the house. He came back out
with another set of bagpipes and started to play. Soon Clifford and
MacTavish came running back and joined them. Clifford started to dance
around his father. MacTavish went over and licked Tucker’s face with his
rough tongue. Wee Tucker dropped his rattle, giggled, and bounced
around, making as many squeaky noises as he could. Mrs. Crawford clapped
her hands. It was a festive time at the Crawford house that afternoon. |
