“Poor little goose! But do you not know that in that way you will grow up a perfect donkey, and that everyone will make fun of you?”
“Hold your tongue, you wicked, ill-omened croaker!” shouted Pinocchio.
But the Cricket, who was patient and philosophical, instead of becoming angry at this impertinence, continued in the same tone:
“But if you do not wish to go to school why not at least learn a trade, if only to enable you to earn honestly a piece of bread!”
“Do you want me to tell you?” replied Pinocchio, who was beginning to lose patience. “Amongst all the trades in the world there is only one that really takes my fancy.”
“And that trade—what is it?”
“It is to eat, drink, sleep and amuse myself, and to lead a vagabond life from morning to night.”
“As a rule,” said the Talking-Cricket, “all those who follow that trade end almost always either in a hospital or in prison.”
“Take care, you wicked, ill-omened croaker! Woe to you if I fly into a passion!”
“Poor Pinocchio! I really pity you!”
“Why do you pity me?”
“Because you are a puppet and, what is worse, because you have a wooden head.”
At these last words Pinocchio jumped up in a rage and, snatching a wooden hammer from the bench, he threw it at the Talking-Cricket.
Perhaps he never meant to hit him, but unfortunately it struck him exactly on the head, so that the poor Cricket had scarcely breath to cry “Cri-cri-cri!” and then he remained dried up and flattened against the wall.
V
The Flying Egg
Night was coming on and Pinocchio, remembering that he had eaten nothing all day, began to feel a gnawing in his stomach that very much resembled appetite.
After a few minutes his appetite had become hunger and in no time his hunger became ravenous.
Poor Pinocchio ran quickly to the fireplace, where a saucepan was boiling, and was going to take off the lid to see what was in it, but the saucepan was only painted on the wall. You can imagine his feelings. His nose, which was already long, became longer by at least three inches.
He then began to run about the room, searching in the drawers and in every imaginable place, in hopes of finding a bit of bread. If it was only a bit of dry bread, a crust, a bone left by a dog, a little moldy pudding of Indian corn, a fish bone, a cherry stone—in fact, anything that he could gnaw. But he could find nothing, nothing at all, absolutely nothing.
And in the meanwhile his hunger grew and grew. Poor Pinocchio had no other relief than yawning, and his yawns were so tremendous that sometimes his mouth almost reached his ears. And after he had yawned he spluttered and felt as if he were going to faint.
Then he began to cry desperately, and he said:
“The Talking-Cricket was right. I did wrong to rebel against my papa and to run away from home. If my papa were here I should not now be dying of yawning! Oh! what a dreadful illness hunger is!”
Just then he thought he saw something in the dust-heap—something round and white that looked like a hen’s egg. To give a spring and seize hold of it was the affair of a moment. It was indeed an egg.
Pinocchio’s joy was beyond description. Almost believing it must be a dream he kept turning the egg over in his hands, feeling it and kissing it. And as he kissed it he said:
“And now, how shall I cook it? Shall I make an omelet? No, it would be better to cook it in a saucer! Or would it not be more savory to fry it in the frying-pan? Or shall I simply boil it? No, the quickest way of all is to cook it in a saucer: I am in such a hurry to eat it!”
Without loss of time he placed an earthenware saucer on a brazier full of red-hot embers. Into the saucer instead of oil or butter he poured a little water; and when the water began to smoke, tac! he broke the eggshell over it and let the contents drop in. But, instead of the white and the yolk a little chicken popped out very gay and polite. Making a beautiful courtesy it said to him:
“A thousand thanks, Master Pinocchio, for saving me the trouble of breaking the shell. Adieu until we meet again. Keep well, and my best compliments to all at home!”
Thus saying, it spread its wings, darted through the open window and, flying away, was lost to sight.
The poor puppet stood as if he had been bewitched, with his eyes fixed, his mouth open, and the eggshell in his hand. Recovering, however, from his first stupefaction, he began to cry and scream, and to stamp his feet on the floor in desperation, and amidst his sobs he said:
“Ah, indeed, the Talking-Cricket was right. If I had not run away from home, and if my papa were here, I should not now be dying of hunger! Oh! what a dreadful illness hunger is!”
And, as his stomach cried out more than ever and he did not know how to quiet it, he thought he would leave the house and make an excursion in the neighborhood in hopes of finding some charitable person who would give him a piece of bread.
VI
Pinocchio’s Feet Burn to Cinders
It was a wild and stormy night. The thunder was tremendous and the lightning so vivid that the sky seemed on fire.
Pinocchio had a great fear of thunder, but hunger was stronger than fear. He therefore closed the house door and made a rush for the village, which he reached in a hundred bounds, with his tongue hanging out and panting for breath like a dog after game.
But he found it all dark and deserted. The shops were closed, the windows shut,
