No rain had fallen for many weeks. All the small streams and the
ponds were dried up.
An old crow had been looking for water all the morning. At last he
found some in a pitcher in a garden. He flew down to it and thrust
in his bill; but he could not reach the water.
He walked around to the other side and tried again; but he could
not get a drink. Oh, how very thirsty he was! It seemed as if he
should faint.
"I must have that water. I will have it," he said.
Again he stretched his neck into the pitcher. No, he could not
reach it.
He stopped a second and seemed to be thinking; then he said, "I
will break the pitcher. My bill is strong and hard." So he gave
the pitcher a hard thump. It did not break. He "thumped! thumped!
thumped!" first here, then there. What a strong pitcher that was!
It did not even crack.
"This will not do," he said. "I must try some other plan. I am big
and strong. I will tip the pitcher over."
With that he pushed against it with his breast. It did not move.
It seemed as if he must give up the attempt to get the water, but
he did not once think of doing that.
Near by in the path lay some pebbles. The crow picked up one in
his bill and let it fall into the pitcher. He dropped one after
another into it. He could see the water rising a little. Now he
worked harder than ever.
Before very long the water had risen so high that he could reach
it with his bill. How refreshing it was! He drank as much as he
wished, then flew away.