The Thirsty Crow

It was the height of summer. The sun blazed down on the fields like a ball of fire, turning the soft green grass into brittle brown straw. The ponds had dried up into mud cakes. The streams had vanished. A black Crow flew slowly across the sky. His wings felt heavy. his beak was open, panting for air. Caw… Caw… His throat was dry. His tongue felt like sandpaper. He was very, very thirsty. “Water,” he croaked weakly. “I must find water, or I will not survive the day.” He flew over a quiet village. He looked into the wells, but they were deep and dark, and the water was far out of reach. He checked the animal troughs, but they were bone dry. The village dogs lay in the shade of the porches, too hot even to bark at him.

The Crow felt dizzy. He landed on an old garden wall to rest. “Is this the end?” he thought. Just as he was about to close his tired eyes, he saw something in the corner of the garden, under the shade of a mango tree. It was a large clay pitcher. His eyes lit up with hope. “Water?” he whispered. He gathered his last bit of strength and hopped down to the pitcher. He perched on the rim and looked inside. Yes! There was water in it! It shimmered cool and invitingly in the shadows. But his joy turned to despair. The water level was very low, right at the bottom of the pitcher. And the pitcher had a tall, narrow neck. The Crow tried to push his head in. Bonk! His head was too wide. He tried to stretch his neck. He strained and stretched, but his beak was still inches away from the water. “So close, yet so far!” he cried. He tried to tilt the pitcher. He pushed with his wing. He pushed with his chest. Ugh! It was a heavy clay pot, half-buried in the earth. It wouldn’t budge. “Oh no,” cried the Crow. “Am I to die of thirst with water right under my nose?”

He sat back and thought. He looked around the garden, desperate for a solution. He saw some small, smooth pebbles lying on the gravel path nearby. He looked at the pebbles. He looked at the pitcher. An idea sparked in his clever little brain. Use your head, he told himself. “If I cannot bring my beak down to the water, maybe I can bring the water up to my beak!” He picked up a pebble in his beak. It was small, but it was solid. He flew onto the rim of the pitcher and dropped it in. Plink! The stone hit the bottom. He looked inside. The water didn’t seem to move. He didn’t give up. He flew down, picked up another pebble. Plink! Then another. Plunk! And another. Splash!

It was hard work. The sun was still hot. But the Crow didn’t stop. Back and forth he went. One by one, he collected the stones. Ten stones… twenty stones… His wings were tired, but he kept going. Fifty stones! Slowly, very slowly, the physics of nature took over. The stones piled up at the bottom, displacing the water. The water level began to rise. Higher… and higher… Finally, after dropping a hundred pebbles, the cool, clear water reached the rim of the pitcher. The Crow dipped his beak in. Ah! It was the most delicious, refreshing water he had ever tasted. It tasted like life itself. He drank and drank until his belly was full and cool. He flapped his wings, feeling strong again. He looked at the pitcher one last time—a testament to his hard work. He flew away into the blue sky, cawing happily. He had proven that being smart is just as important as being strong.

Moral of the Story: Where there is a will, there is a way. Use your brain to solve problems, not just your strength.