The Crow and the Pitcher

It was the driest day of a long, dry summer. It hadn't rained for many weeks. The river was almost empty, and every puddle in the fields was gone. A thirsty crow flew from farm to farm, looking for water, but he couldn't find any.

At last, he landed in a dusty yard. In one corner, under the hot sun, stood a tall clay pitcher. The crow looked inside. There was some water at the bottom, but only a little. He pushed his beak into the neck of the pitcher. The neck was too narrow, and the water was too far down.

He tried to push the pitcher over, but it was too heavy. He was too tired to fly to another farm. For a moment, he just sat on the edge of the pitcher with his feathers open in the heat.

Then he saw a few small stones on the ground, and he had an idea. He picked up one stone with his beak and dropped it into the pitcher. Plop. Then he dropped another, and another. Each stone pushed the water up a tiny bit. It was slow work, and the sun was very hot. After twenty stones, he could see the water shine. After a few more, he could reach it.

The crow drank and drank until he wasn't thirsty anymore. Then he looked at the stones that were still on the ground and gave a happy little caw. "One stone didn't help much," he said. "But many stones did. Little by little, you get there."