The Crow and the Pitcher

A crow crossed the fields in search of water. The ditches were dry. The pond had shrunk into cracked mud. At a deserted farmhouse she finally found a clay pitcher standing beside the door.

There was water at the bottom, bright and wonderfully near. Yet the neck was narrow, and her beak could not reach it.

She tried to tip the pitcher. It was too heavy. She struck the rim with her beak, but the clay was thick. Flying away seemed foolish when the thing she needed was directly in front of her. Staying seemed equally foolish if she had no new plan.

The crow paused on the doorstep. Around her lay a scatter of pebbles, washed clean by an earlier rain. She picked one up and dropped it into the pitcher.

A small splash answered her.

She peered inside. The pebble rested below the water. She fetched another, then another. Each disappeared with the same modest sound.

The task was slow. No single stone seemed important. But after a while the crow noticed that the water was climbing. She no longer had to bend her neck so far to see it.

She worked until the surface reached the narrow part of the pitcher. Then she put in her beak and drank.

Across the empty farmyard, nothing looked much different. There was still a crow, a pitcher, and a handful of stones.

Only their arrangement had changed, and that had made all the difference.