The Moon’s Quiet Bucket

Moss had had the giggliest day of his whole life.

In the morning a goat ate the end of Dad’s scarf. At lunch Mom flipped a pancake, and it landed on the cat. At bath time the soap shot out of Moss’s hand and went ploop into his own boot.

Now it was bedtime, and Moss was still giggling.

He shut his eyes tight. He lay very still. He thought about sleepy things, like pillows and yawns. Then he thought about the cat wearing a pancake.

“Hee hee hee,” went Moss. He could not stop.

In Hush-by-the-Hill, every night, the moon let down a tin bucket on a long silver string, right into the middle of the square. At bedtime everybody put in the noises they would not need till morning.

Dad’s snore went in first, folded twice so it would fit. Then the creak from the gate, and the woof from the dog next door, and the drip from the tap, and Mom’s sneeze. The moon pulled them all up and kept them safe, and at breakfast the moon gave them back.

That was why Hush-by-the-Hill was so quiet at night. Down the hall, Dad was fast asleep without a single snore.

Mom put her head round the door. “Still awake?” she said.

“Hee hee,” said Moss. “Mom, can I put my giggles in the moon’s bucket? Then I could go to sleep like everyone else.”

“The bucket has gone up for tonight,” said Mom.

Moss pulled the blanket over his nose. “Hee,” he said, a little sadly.

She sat on the bed and thought.

“There is a little bell on the string,” said Mom. “If you ring it, the moon will let the bucket down again. Only giggles are the jumpiest noise there is. They won’t stay in anything.”

“I can try,” said Moss.

So Mom wrapped him in his dressing gown. She tied the belt in a big double knot, so it would not come undone. Moss already had his stripy socks on, because his feet got cold. Mom put his slippers on over them, and out they went.

* * *

The square was silver with moonlight. Every window had a little lamp in it.

Mom opened their gate. It swung wide without a creak. Moss giggled.

The dog next door was sitting on the step. The dog opened a big mouth to say hello, and nothing came out at all. So the dog wagged instead. Moss giggled again.

They passed the pump. A drop fell from the tap without a sound.

In the middle of the square hung the long silver string, and on it was a little bell. Moss stood on tiptoe and rang it.

Ting.

High in the sky, the moon was round and patient. Down came the bucket, slowly, slowly, till it sat on the cobbles with a soft clink.

On the side it said QUIET PLEASE, in letters much too small to read.

“What does it say?” said Moss.

“It says Quiet Please,” said Mom.

“How do you know?”

“Everybody knows,” said Mom.

Moss peeked inside. There was Dad’s snore, folded twice. There was the woof, and the drip, and Mom’s sneeze. At the very bottom lay the gate’s creak, curled up like a sleeping cat.

He leaned over the edge and giggled, very gently, away from the creak. “Hee hee hee.”

The giggles landed in the bucket. Then they hopped straight back out. Hop, hop, hop. Up his sleeve, out of his collar, and back into his mouth.

That was once.

Moss giggled again, very softly, right down low. The giggles hopped out, bounced off Mom’s nose, and came straight back to Moss. Mom had to press her lips together very hard so she would not giggle too.

That was twice.

Moss giggled into the bucket and clapped both hands over the top. The giggles hopped out between his fingers. “Hee hee hee hee!” went Moss, louder than ever.

That was three times.

Moss sat down on the cobbles to think. He looked at the bucket. He looked at the big knot on his dressing gown. He looked at his stripy socks.

“Mom,” said Moss. “I have a sensible idea.”

He took off one slipper. He took off one sock. He held the sock open like a little bag, and he giggled into it, every giggle he had left. Then he tied a knot in the top, tight as tight.

The sock wiggled. It jumped a tiny jump. But the giggles could not get out.

Moss laid the sock in the bucket, next to the snore, and nowhere near the creak.

“That is a very sensible idea,” said Mom.

Moss rang the bell. Ting. The moon pulled the bucket up, very slowly. All the way up, the bucket jiggled. When it reached the top, the moon gave one tiny wobble, as if somebody had tickled it.

Moss opened his mouth to giggle. Out came a great big yawn.

* * *

They walked home in the hush. Past the tap, past the dog asleep on the step, and through the gate with no creak.

Moss kicked off his slippers and climbed into bed, one sock on and one bare foot. Mom tucked the blanket up to his chin.

“Goodnight, my sensible Moss,” said Mom.

But Moss was asleep before she reached the door.

High above the village, the moon kept everything safe till morning. Dad’s snore, folded twice. The gate’s creak, curled up like a cat. The dog’s woof, the tap’s drip, and Mom’s sneeze. And last of all, in one stripy sock with a knot in the top, Moss’s giggles.

They would be waiting for him at breakfast.

And all night long, Hush-by-the-Hill was quiet and safe, and just a little bit tickled.