The Crow and the Pitcher

On a bright summer morning, a little crow flew over the meadow. The sun warmed her dark wings, and the grass whispered below. She stopped beside her usual puddle for a drink. But the puddle had dried into a patch of pale mud. The crow tilted her head. Somewhere, she thought, there must be water.

Beyond a low stone wall stood a shady pear tree. Beneath its branches, the crow spotted a tall clay pitcher. She fluttered down and perched on the rim. Far inside, a little water gleamed. What a lovely sight! She bent her head and stretched her neck, but her beak could not reach the water.

The crow stepped down and walked around the pitcher. Perhaps she could tip it gently onto its side. She pushed with her beak, then leaned against it with her shoulder. The pitcher hardly moved. It was much too heavy. The crow stopped pushing and rested in the shade. She needed a different idea.

Beside the tree lay a scattering of smooth pebbles. The crow looked at the pebbles. She looked at the pitcher. Then she picked up one small stone in her beak and carried it to the rim. Plop! Down it fell. A tiny ripple shivered across the water. The crow leaned closer to watch.

She brought another pebble, and then another. Plop, plop! Each stone settled at the bottom of the pitcher. Slowly, the water rose around them. The crow blinked and looked again. Yes, it was higher! She could not reach it yet, but now she knew what to do. She hopped back to the pebbles.

The crow chose small, smooth stones that fitted neatly in her beak. One by one, she carried them to the pitcher. Sometimes she paused beneath the leaves to rest her wings. Then she tried again. The pile of pebbles grew smaller. Inside the pitcher, the water climbed higher. Her patient work was making a difference.

At last, the crow dropped in one more pebble. Plop! The water rose close to the rim. She held on with her feet, bent her head, and dipped her beak into the cool water. A drink at last! She took another little sip, then lifted her head. The pear leaves rustled softly overhead.

The crow rested on a branch above the pitcher. Below her lay a few pebbles she had not needed. Such small stones had helped with such a big problem. She had stopped, looked closely, and tried something new. After a while, she spread her wings and flew across the meadow, ready for the rest of her day.