Singing buckets

In the evening, when my father and I walkedinto the house, we found the barrel of the house singing.

The bucket was picked up from the beach theother day, and the barnacles were half broken and the surface of the plank wasunevenly covered with salt. It was placed under his father's old sewingmachine, and a jolt of rhythm struck and the sound of intermittent singing cameout of the bucket. We heard it outside the door and thought it was the radio.

"It's singing! My father was breathingfaster. He lowered me, lifted his crutch, and panted like a drunk, his face redas drunk. He took two steps, and then he stepped forward two steps, staring atit fiercely, like a tiger in a standoff at the door.

In spite of our frightened and frightenedgaze, the cask of the barrel came out of the gap between the mouth and thefloor, clear and clear. I looked at it, wiped my tears, and was attracted tothe song. The floor twitched slightly under the sound of the song, and my heartbegan to tremble. How beautiful it is! I have never heard such a touchingmelody, and I can't sing it myself. Although my father was proud of my voice,but now I heard such a wonderful song, what was my poor, flowery voice?Although I can received a lot of applause when my father took me show, peopleoften give the money to us, but if they listened to the barrel to sing, whowould ignore me? How difficult my voice is!

My father pulled me away from behind and heput his stick down. "Incredible, unbelievable..." His chest was nolonger sharp, his gray cheeks trembled and his eyes were confused and moved. Hestood watching the barrel, with soft expression on her face, seemed to see apoor child, then call me to help him put it out from under the sewing machine.

The casks were picked up and put there forthe broken legs of the sewing machine. But we dare not to look at it again as anormal wooden bucket. His father carried it to the small table at dinner, andlooked at it awkwardly with his hand rubbing the edge of the table. He lookedat the casks for a moment, then looked at me, embarrassed, but said nothing. Inthe evening, the barrel was placed on the porch. Through the door of the room,I heard it humming a gentle song all night, seemingly tireless in themoonlight.

Before this evening, my father, a poortailor, had a dream: to make me a singer. He saved my life by buying me stacksof tapes and showing me around and throwing all the money on me. The nextmorning, at the dinner table, he announced that he wanted to cultivate thebarrel and me. There is a kind of eager joy in his eyes, his hands rubbingalong the table, put the words several times: "go to the show will bringbuckets later, it will be a good helper." The barrel seemed to be able tounderstand him, nudged me and touched my hand. I touched it, and it was shakinglike a docile, cuddly dog.

We cleaned the barrel and took it to thestreet. My father came up with an idea. He let me hide in a bucket, and when hegot enough of the audience, I jumped out of it. So I curled up in a barrel,nervously pulling my skirt. I can't see anything, just hear your own heartbeatand father hot outside feeling of voice: "come and see, how the magicbarrel! Have you ever seen singing barrel?" "He repeated the words,and his voice was far and away. I imagined him running around with his cane,and suddenly he was afraid, as if he were going to throw me in the bucket. Iwas touching the wall, and I was afraid to cry.

Then a song came into my ears. It was abarrel. "oh, sister, don't be sad..." "Wait! It's singing!"Cried the man outside, and suddenly the noise of the crowd rose like atide. The barrel was singing louder and louder. I sat in the cradle, and thetears were just coming back. The more the barrel sings, the more peopleoutside, the more I hold the board and giggle. The sound of the barrel sang,and I forgot to jump out of the room in the loud and loud applause.

In this way, the barrel is integrated intoour daily life and performance. It always wins people's new eyes. Every time itstarts to sing, one can't help but take a big step back, and then slowly,slowly, watch it with care and interest. The most common question they ask is,"how do you teach it to sing?" His father rubbed the handle of hiscrutch, and his face was red with tension and joy: "it could havesung."

In front of the crowd, father likes topretend that he not care for barrel, even if the barrel singing won loudcheers, he also with a straight face or to abandon expression said: "alas,I do it." People laughed and threw money at their father. I know my fatherdid it to hear more of the praise of the barrel, because he took me to theshow. But since the first day he lifted me out of the bucket, I didn't show itto me. In the past, anyone who mentioned "tailor" would have said,"there's a little girl in the family who loves singing." And now,they say, "oh, I know, that's the tailor who has a singing bucket."

The addition of barrels made my life muchbetter. Finally, my father bought a new sewing machine, and tilted the old oneinto the miscellaneous, leaning over a pile of crumbling wooden shelves. Thenarrow table was replaced.

One morning I opened my eyes and found itwas very late. "why didn't father and barrels wake me up to thestreet?" I went from room to room, Shouting, hoping someone would answerme. As father play hide and seek with me before, he hid in the utility room,when I walked past suddenly from under the canvas held out his hand to catch myankle, dressed as a monster scared me, call and laughed. I ran to the otherroom and stood there for a while, but he didn't show up. "Daddy?""I cried, and began to panic. I went to the middle of the room and satdown wearily on my broken sewing machine and began to SOB. I'm afraid he'llthrow me here.

I don't remember how I fell asleep. I wokeup from my bed and heard the noise of the dishes on my door. I went out, and myfather looked very tired, and the sweat on his face went down the dirt, and hepulled a white streak out of his red cheeks. His hands were blackened by hisjob, and he was sweating from time to time, rubbing two hands on the edge ofthe table or the handle of the stick. The barrels of the barrel were sometimesbouncing, and sometimes they slipped into the corner, like an energetic littlemonkey. When I came out, it rolled back to me and rubbed my hand.

The next morning they didn't call me, andthe third day didn't. I had to find some small things in the dusty corner. Iturned to a box of buttons, and the box was grey, and I didn't know when it wasthrown in. As a tailor, his father's craft was really bad, and he was able tofind out what he was doing, and he had to do a little thing with patches andbuttons, and he saved up a big box of buttons. I learned to nail my buttons andput them in a variety of shapes on my father's dress. I wore this dress tofollow father singing everywhere, sometimes we back already very late, I wassitting in his shoulder, as they walked along, he'll be pointed to the heavenlyconstellations read it to me.

In this way, the day I stay in the utilityroom, bored manner in the utility room climbing up and down, standing on aboutshelf play the balance beam, singing a song at random, the memory of his fatheris filled with my mind, and from fresh into gloom. My father never called meagain, and he took all my tapes and advised me to give up my room to thebucket. He spent the whole day in front of the new sewing machine, and he wasbusy making accessories for the barrels, and he often forgot to call me atdinner. Sometimes I stood by his side and he took a big circle and finallyasked me where I had gone.

My father was a stranger to me, and Iwanted to let him know how sorry I was, but he would never listen to me again.Luckily there were barrels, which occasionally slipped out of my father'scontrol and came to play with me. I spoke to it, and it rocked and shook andsang, "sister, don't be sad." It rubbed against my hand, like adocile pony, and made me glad every time.

For a long time, it came to accompany me.We climbed onto the shelves and played on the balance beam, and I lifted it upas we climbed higher and higher on the old sewing machine and table. I've cometo think of the barrels as being special to make people happy, no matter whohates it. Once, I didn't help it on purpose, it was in a hurry and it wasbumpy. "Sing a song," I said. "I'll lift you up." The caskhad to sing. I picked it up, stood on the shaking shelf, lifted it carefully,and suddenly the door opened and my father stood at the door.

I was so scared that one of them fell offwithout stepping on it. The shelves of shelves collapsed, and the barrel cameoff, and I closed my eyes and thought I was going to die. After a good time Iopened my eyes and saw my father standing at the door. I got up and my mind wasin a mess.

My father looked straight at me and saidnothing, his face growing red and his chest heaving. At last he was pantinglike a bellows, and he was trembling with the gray of his cheek. He took a stepforward with his stick, and lifted his cane. He stared at me with his eyesbulging, holding his cane for two seconds, and finally he was on the ground."Shit!" He finally uttered the first sentence. He coughed as hegritted his teeth, dragged the wooden pail on the ground and turned to go out.The clam of the cane came in through the open door, and I looked down at thebuttons on my skirt and couldn't cry.

Not long after, I learned that the barrelhit the old sewing machine and smashed two boards. The father refilled the twopieces anxiously, but he could not restore his voice. He changed a lot of kindsof material, with a barrel ran a lot of places, sell the new table and sewingmachine, but it's singing or sinking day by day, until the faint, who alsocouldn't hear. A month later, his father was gone, and he became depressed asif he were ten years old. He didn't stay at home often, only to come back witha bottle of wine.

The only thing I can do with the barrel nowis that I can't help it. I sat beside it, thinking that I would soon lose mypartner, and I would cry. The barrel of my hand was too slow to comfort me. Istroked the plank, waiting to hear it sing "sister, don't be sad,"but it didn't respond. It will never move again.

I put the bucket outside the door andwaited for someone to pick it up. There was only a wisp of sea in the house, asif none of this had happened. No one had ever seen the barrel. I just heardthat on a warm, sunny night, the drunken father got back and tripped over thedoor and kicked it off.