The Crow and the Pitcher

It was the hottest part of the summer, and Crow had been flying for hours. Her throat was parched, her wings were heavy, and she was beginning to feel desperate for something to drink.

At last she spotted what she was looking for: a clay pitcher sitting in the shade of a farmyard wall. She swooped down, landed on the rim, and peered inside.

There was water — just enough, cool and still, at the very bottom of the pitcher. She leaned in and stretched her beak as far as it would go.

It wasn't far enough.

She tried knocking the pitcher on its side. It was too heavy. She tried hopping to a different angle. No good. She stood on the rim and thought hard.

The water was there. She simply could not reach it.

Then she looked around her. The yard was scattered with small stones. She flew down and picked one up in her beak — a smooth round pebble — and dropped it into the pitcher.

Plink. The water level barely moved.

But it moved.

She flew for another stone. Plink. And another. Plink. And another. Her wings were aching and it was slow, painstaking work, and anyone watching might have thought she was wasting her time. But Crow was patient and she was persistent, and she had noticed something important: the water rose a little with each stone, and each little rise counted.

Stone after stone after stone. The pitcher was filling from the bottom up, and the water was climbing.

After a long while — a long, hot, determined while — the water reached the brim.

Crow dipped her beak and drank. She drank slowly and deeply, and the cool water was the best thing she had ever tasted.

When she was done, she looked at the pitcher full of stones, and at the sun blazing overhead, and she felt a quiet kind of satisfaction.

The problem had seemed impossible. It had not been impossible. It had only required patience, and thinking, and the willingness to keep going one stone at a time.