The Well

     Every morning Mr. Jones would walk a mile down the dirt road, wooden bucket in hand, from his cottage to the well for his daily water. Neighbors who saw him thought him crazy to walk such a long way to a well long dry, and never miss a day no less. No one ever bothered to watch for his return with his bucket brimming with water.

     One day one of the neighbors did bother  and asked if he could walk along.

     'Suit yourself. It isn't my road.'

     The two walked along in silence. When the well came into view, the neighbor ran ahead.

     'I'm going to prove to you this well is dry. Then I want you to show me where you really fetch the water from.'

     That said, he picked up some stones and dropped them into the well. Instead of a splash, the stones landed with a clacked when they landed.

     'See? Now we both know there's nothing down there but dry ground and some stones.'

     Mr. Jones said nothing. He removed a pocket knife from his dungarees, rolled his shirtsleeve and sliced his forearm.

     'What are you doing, man? You are as crazy as everyone says!'

     Mr. Jones paid no attention to his neighbor as he let his blood drop into the well. After a few minutes he tied his kerchief around his wound and lowered his bucket into the well. When he drew it up again, the bucket was filled to the brim with water.

     'I don't believe this! I want to taste this water of yours.'

     Mr. Jones presented his bucket and the other man dipped his cupped hand into it.

     'That's the best water I ever put to my lips! Amazing! We both heard those rocks I tossed in strike the bottom. Yet you have a bucket filled with fresh cool water.'

     Mr. Jones only shook his head and turned to walk back home. The neighbor grabbed his arm.

     'You're not going anywhere until you to tell me how you did this.'

     Again, Mr. Jones shook his head. 'You were hear. You saw everything I did. That's all there is to it. I'm going home now. Come or stay.' Mr. Jones shook his arm free of the other man's grip

and proceeded to walk away.

     The other man returned his attention to the well. 'Jones didn't drop his bucket that far down. I bet I can touch the water,' he thought to himself as he bent over the edge of the well. He couldn't feel any water, so he stretched himself a bit further over the wall of the well. This time when he reached down he lost his balance and fell in.

     Mr. Jones heard the thud of the body hitting the bottom. Without looking he knew the man's fate and smiled as he continued his homeward trek.

     The next day Mr. Jones grabbed his bucket as was his daily ritual and headed down the dirt road. When he was close enough he saw only the pitched roof of the well above the surface of a beautiful pool of clear water.

     'This should get me through the Summer,' he whispered to himself as he dipped his bucket.