Читать книгу Pinocchio - Carlo Collodi - Страница 10

Pinocchio is hungry, and he looks for an egg to make himself an omelette; but just as he breaks it in the pan the omelette flies through the window

It was growing dark, and Pinocchio remembered that he had eaten nothing all day. There was a painful feeling in his stomach that closely resembled appetite.

With boys appetite grows fast. In fact, after a few minutes his appetite became hunger, and in no time he was as hungry as a wolf. His hunger was unbearable.

Poor Pinocchio hurried to the fireplace where a kettle was boiling and put out his hand to lift the lid and see what was in it; but the kettle was only painted on the wall. Imagine his disappointment! His nose, which was already too long, grew three inches longer.

He ran about the room, searched in every cupboard and in every possible place for a little bread – even dry bread. He would have been grateful for a crust, or a bone left by a dog, for a fishbone or a cherry stone – in short, for anything he could chew. But he found nothing, just nothing, absolutely nothing.

He kept growing hungrier every moment, yet he could do nothing but yawn. He yawned so tremendously that his mouth reached his ears; and after he yawned he spattered, and he felt as if he hadn’t any stomach left.

At last, in despair, he began to cry, saying, ‘The talking cricket was right. I did wrong to revolt against my father and run away from home. If my father were here now, I shouldn’t be dying of yawning. Oh, hunger is a dreadful illness!’

Suddenly, in a rubbish heap, he noticed something white and round that looked like an egg. In less than no time he grabbed it. It was really an egg.

To describe his joy would be impossible; you can only imagine it. He feared he might be dreaming. He turned the egg from one hand to the other, and patted it and kissed it as he said, ‘Now, how shall I cook it? Shall I make an omelette? No, it would be better to poach it. But perhaps it would be more tasty if I fried it in a pan. Or shall I just boil it in the shell? No, the quickest way would be to poach it. I am just dying to eat it.’

Without further ado, he set a stewing pan over a brazier of red charcoal. Instead of oil or butter, he put some water in it and when the water began to boil – tac! he broke the eggshell and held it over the pan that the contents might drop into it.

But instead of the yolk and white of an egg, a little chicken flew out and, making a polite curtsy, said gaily, ‘A thousand thanks, Master Pinocchio, for having spared me the trouble of breaking the shell! Take care of yourself, and give my love to the folks at home. I hope to see you again.’

With that, the chicken spread its wings and, flying through the open window, was soon lost to sight.

The poor puppet stood there as if bewitched, with his eyes fixed, his mouth open, and the broken eggshell in his hands. When he recovered a little from his first bewilderment, he began to cry, and scream, and stamp on the floor in despair; and as he sobbed he said, ‘Indeed, the talking cricket was right. If I hadn’t run away from home, and if my father were here, I should not now be dying of hunger. Oh, hunger is a dreadful illness!’

His stomach was complaining more than ever and, as he did not know how to quieten it, he decided to go out again into the village, in the hope of meeting some charitable person who would give him some bread.