Last Saturday the big silver pail vanished from the milking shed. We searched the barn, the lane and the orchard. Ottoline looked in the well. Dumpling looked unconcerned, which was suspicious in itself.
At last, at dusk, a small clue appeared. A trail of little paw prints, in spilled cream, led from the shed across the yard to the old chicken coop. And there in the corner sat Pudding, curled inside the pail, fast asleep, looking like a king in a silver boat.
We did not have the heart to move him. We bought a second pail. This one has a dent and a name, and the name is Pudding’s Throne.
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