The Crow and the Pebbles

A little crow flew above a meadow on a very warm afternoon. The stream had shrunk to a silver thread, and every puddle beside it was dry.

Beyond a garden gate, the crow noticed a red clay pitcher. He landed beside it and peered inside. A little water shone at the very bottom.

He stretched his neck through the opening, but his beak could not reach the water. He tilted his head and tried again, carefully keeping both feet balanced.

Perhaps the pitcher could be tipped over. The crow pushed its rounded side, first gently, then firmly. It stayed upright, too heavy for such a small bird.

The crow stepped back into the shade to think. Near his feet lay smooth little pebbles. He picked up one and looked from it to the pitcher.

Plip! The pebble fell into the water. The crow watched the tiny ripple settle. Was the water a little higher now? He fetched another pebble to find out.

One pebble followed another. The crow carried only stones that fitted comfortably in his beak. Each one sank, and slowly the water rose above the growing pile.

The sun moved across the garden wall while the crow kept working. At last, the bright surface was close enough. He rested one foot against the pitcher and leaned forward.

Cool water touched his beak. He drank, paused, and drank again. The pitcher had not become lighter, and his neck had not grown longer. His idea had changed the problem.

Refreshed, the crow flew back over the meadow. Below him, the small pebbles rested inside the pitcher. A difficult afternoon had become a lesson in patient, thoughtful work.