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Picture Book
"Where’s Wee Tucker?"

"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.

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