In the second drawer of the kitchen there lived four spoons.
There was a big spoon for soup. There was a middle spoon for porridge. There was a jam spoon with a curly handle. And right at the end there was a small spoon who did not have a job.
Every morning the drawer opened. Every morning a hand came in.
"Soup," said the hand, and took the big spoon.
"Porridge," said the hand, and took the middle spoon.
"Jam," said the hand, and took the curly one.
Then the drawer shut, and the small spoon lay in the dark and thought, one day.
One day went past. Then a lot of other days went past, all much the same.
Then one evening the kitchen was different. There was a new chair at the table. It was a very small chair with a tray on the front.
The drawer opened wider than usual. The hand came in. It went past the big spoon, and past the middle spoon, and past the curly one.
It picked up the small spoon.
"This one," said the hand. "This one is exactly the right size."
On the small chair sat a baby with two teeth and very serious eyes.
The small spoon made slow, careful journeys from the bowl to the baby. A little pear. A little pear. A little pear.
Some of it went on the baby's chin. Some of it went on the floor. Most of it went in.
When the bowl was empty, the baby banged the tray and laughed, and the small spoon felt the sound go all the way up his handle.
Afterwards he was washed and dried and put back in the second drawer with the others.
"Where did you go?" asked the big spoon.
"To work," said the small spoon.
And he settled down at the end of the drawer, in the dark, waiting for the morning. It was not far away.