Emma and the Missing Spoon

The bakery sits at the bottom of Crumb Hill, where the streets are still dark and sleepy.

Emma the baker is already awake. "Up before the sun, up before the sun," she sings, tying on her apron.

Every morning she bakes rolls for the whole hill. She wants them warm and ready when the sun peeks over the roofs.

But today her big wooden spoon is not on its hook.

"Where did it go?" says Emma.

On the floor, there are tiny footprints made of flour. They lead to the window. Emma follows them, and there on the roof sits a small brown bird, holding her spoon.

On Crumb Hill, birds carry little things from nest to nest, and never the same way twice. Nobody minds. But Emma needs her spoon.

"Please, bird," she says, and reaches up.

Hop! The bird jumps to the chimney, and the spoon slips away.

Emma fetches a ladder. She climbs up and stretches out her hand. Flap! The bird flies to the next roof. The spoon slips away again.

"Up before the sun," Emma sighs, "and now I'm chasing a bird."

The sky turns a little bit gray. Emma sits on the ladder and watches. The bird is not being naughty. It tugs at a loose thread on her apron and looks at her fluffy flour sack.

"Oh," says Emma. "You want something soft. For your nest."

She climbs down and pulls a puff of cotton from the sack, soft as a cloud. She holds it out on the windowsill and waits.

The bird tilts its head. Then it swoops down, grabs the cotton, and drops the spoon.

Plop! The spoon lands in the flour bowl, and a white puff floats up.

Emma laughs and begins to stir. The dough is soft as a pillow. The oven hums. Outside, the sun peeks over the roof like a round orange, and the bird tucks its cotton into a nest, tap, tap, tap, while the rolls turn golden and warm.