The Crow and the Pitcher

Crow was thirsty. She had been flying all morning and the sun was hot.

She spotted a tall clay pitcher sitting in a farmyard and flew down to drink. But when she looked inside, she could see the water — glimmering and cool — far, far down at the bottom. She stretched her beak. She couldn't reach it.

She tried tipping the pitcher. Too heavy.

She tried reaching further. Not far enough.

She sat down on the rim and thought.

Then she had an idea.

She flew to the path nearby and picked up a small pebble in her beak. She flew back and dropped it into the pitcher. Plunk! The water rose — just a tiny, tiny bit.

She picked up another pebble. Plunk! Another tiny bit.

And another. Plunk!

And another. And another. And another.

Pebble after pebble after pebble, the water crept higher. Crow kept going, even when her wings were tired.

Then — at last — the water reached the top of the pitcher. Crow dipped her beak in and drank and drank until she was not thirsty at all.

She flew up to the fence post and looked at the pitcher, full of her pebbles.

"If you can't do a thing one way," she said to herself, "you find another way."

And she ruffled her feathers in the sun, feeling very pleased and not thirsty at all.