A woman once owned a bucket. It was a coopered wooden pail with three metal hoops binding it together. She had inherited this bucket from her mother, who had inherited it from her mother, who had found it at the well of an old, abandoned farm, somewhere far to the south of where they now lived.
They did not know that whoever drank directly from the bucket would live just a little while longer. Instead, because of their ignorance of the power of the bucket, they drank water that had been poured from the bucket into a pewter jug that they kept on the table in the kitchen. This did them no harm at all, at least no more than the harm that fresh water does anybody.
One rainy evening, the woman went to fetch some water from the well. She took the bucket from the ground, filled it, then carried it home. When she had filled the jug and poured some water into the cooking pot, she put the bucket outside the door; she was sure to fetch some more water later, she thought, and there was little point in taking it all the way back to the well before then.
As it happened, she did not fetch any more water that evening, and so the bucket remained outside in the rain.
First thing next morning, the woman went out to fetch some water. She opened the door to find a young hen that must have escaped from the coop in the night sipping from the half-full bucket. The hen looked at her; she looked at the hen. Suddenly, a fox darted out from beneath the cabin, grabbed the hen by her throat, and shot off into the forest with her between his teeth.
Through the forest the fox ran, past the birches, past the larches, past the spruces, until he came to the oak tree beneath which he had his den. When the fox dropped the hen in his den, he was surprised to find that she yet lived.
“Buck-et!” the hen cried, flapping around the room. “Buck-et! Buck-et!” The fox chased her around his den, but the hen flapped and cried, cried and flapped, and every time the fox thought he had her cornered, she pecked at his eyes, then flapped and cried away from him again.
Finally, she found the hole that led outside. “Buck-et!” she cried as she left.
Away from the oak beneath which the fox had his den, past the spruces, past the larches, and past the birches on the edge of the forest the hen ran.
“Buck-et!” she cried.
Past the well she ran, past the chicken coop.
“Buck-et!” she cried. “Buck-et! Buck-et!”
Through the doorway, and into the kitchen she went, crying “Buck-et!” over and over.
“Buck-et!” she cried. “Buck-et! Buck-et!”
“Well, bless me! It’s the hen the fox took!” the woman said.
“Buck-et!” the hen cried. “Buck-et! Buck-et!”
“Whatever is the matter?” the woman asked. “You’re safe now.”
“Buck-et!” the hen cried. “Buck-et! Buck-et!”
“Now, you calm yourself down,” said the woman.
“Buck-et! Buck-et! Buck-et!” the hen cried. “Buck-et! Buck-et!”
And the hen would not calm down. So the woman took her and killed her and made a tasty fricassée for dinner.
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