Pinocchio Read Free Page B

fish skeleton, a cherry pit—in short, anything he could chew on. But he found nothing, a big fat nothing, nothing at all.
    And meanwhile poor Pinocchio’s hunger kept growing and growing. His only relief was yawning, and he yawned so wide that the corners of his mouth met his ears. And after yawning, he would spit, and it felt as though he were spitting out his stomach.
    Losing hope, he wept and said, “The Talking Cricket was right. I was wrong to rebel against my daddy and to run away from home. If my daddy was here, I wouldn’t be yawning to death now! Oh, what a terrible sickness hunger is!”
    Just then he thought he glimpsed, atop a heap of sweepings, something roundish and white that looked very much like a chicken egg. He was up and on it in a single motion—it really was an egg.
    Words cannot describe the puppet’s joy; you must imagine it yourself. Almost convinced it was a dream, he turned the egg over and over in his hand, touching it and kissing it. And as he kissed it, he said, “Now how should I cook it? I know, I’ll make an omelet! No, better to fry it up in a pan. Or maybe it would be tastier if I poached it? Or what if I boiled it instead? No, the quickest way is to fry it up in a pan—I can’t wait any longer!”
    Wasting no time, he set a small frying pan on a brazier that was full of live coals. Instead of oil or butter, he put a little water in the pan, and when the water began to steam— crack! —he broke the eggshell and tried to pour its contents into the pan.
    But instead of egg white and egg yolk, out came a very cheerful and refined Chick, who bowed handsomely as he said, “A thousand thanks, Sir Pinocchio, for having saved me the trouble of breaking the shell myself! Farewell, take care, and all my best to your family.”
    With those words, he stretched out his wings and flew through the open window, disappearing from view.
    The poor puppet stood there as if bewitched, eyes wide, mouth agape, half an eggshell in each hand. When the shock wore off, he began to weep and wail and stamp his feet on the ground in despair. Through his tears, he said, “So the Talking Cricket was right! If I hadn’t run away, and if my daddy was here, I wouldn’t be dying of hunger now! Oh, what a terrible sickness hunger is!”
    And because his belly was rumbling more than ever and he had no idea how to quiet it, he decided to go out and pay a quick visit to the nearby village, in the hope of finding some charitable soul who might give him a bit of bread.

6
    I T TURNED out to be a truly hellish night: thunder roared, lightning seemed to set fire to the sky, and a bitter, blustery wind whistled furiously, kicking up dust clouds and making the trees groan and creak across the countryside.
    Pinocchio was terribly afraid of thunder and lightning, but his hunger was greater than his fear. And so he dashed out the door at top speed, and after a hundred or so leaping strides he reached the village, panting, his tongue hanging out like a hunting dog.
    But everything was dark and deserted. The shops were closed; the doors of houses were closed; the windows were closed. There wasn’t so much as a dog in the street. It looked like the land of the dead.
    At this point, Pinocchio, overcome by despair and hunger, ran to the doorbell of a house and began ringing it loudly, telling himself, “Surely someone will come.”
    Indeed a little old man in a nightcap did come, and he yelled angrily from his window, “What do you want at this hour?”
    â€œWould you be so kind as to give me a bit of bread?”
    â€œDon’t move, I’ll be right back,” replied the little old man, who assumed Pinocchio was one of those annoying miscreants who get their kicks by ringing the doorbells of decent folk, just to prevent them from getting a good night’s sleep.
    After half a minute the window opened again, and the same little old man