Читать книгу Pinocchio - Carlo Collodi - Страница 9

The story of Pinocchio and the talking cricket in which we see that naughty children do not like to be corrected by those who are wiser than they are

Well, I must tell you children, that while poor Geppetto was led to prison through no fault of his own, that rascal Pinocchio, left alone, ran home across the fields as quickly as possible. In his hurry he jumped over high banks, thorn hedges, and ditches full of water, like a kid, or a young hare running away from the hunters.

When he arrived home, he found the door ajar. Pushing it open he went in, and locked it securely after him. Then he threw himself down on the ground with a great sigh of relief.

But the relief did not last long, for he heard someone in the room saying ‘Cri-cri-cri!’

‘Who is calling me?’ said Pinocchio, frightened.

‘It is I.’

Pinocchio turned and saw a big cricket creeping up the wall. ‘Tell me, cricket, who are you?’

‘I am the talking cricket, and I have lived in this room a hundred years or more.’

‘But now this is my room, and you will oblige me by going away at once, without even turning round.’

‘I shall not leave,’ replied the cricket, ‘until I have told you a great truth.’

‘Well then, tell me, and be quick about it!’

‘Woe to those boys who revolt against their parents, and run away from home. They will never do any good in this world, and sooner or later they will repent bitterly.’

‘Sing away, cricket, just as long as you please! But as for me, tomorrow at sunrise I am going to leave; for if I stay here the same will happen to me as happens to other boys: I shall be sent to school, and one way or other, by love or by force, I shall be made to study.’

‘You poor fool! Don’t you know that, if you spend your time like that, you will grow up to be a great donkey, and everyone will make fun of you?’

‘Be quiet, you good for nothing, croaking cricket!’ shouted Pinocchio.

But the cricket, who was patient, and a philosopher too, instead of being offended by such impudence, continued in the same tone, ‘But if you don’t like to go to school, why don’t you learn a trade, so that you may at least earn your bread honestly?’

‘Do you want me to tell you something?’ answered Pinocchio, beginning to lose his patience. ‘Of all the trades in the world, there is only one which really attracts me.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘To eat, drink, sleep, and amuse myself, and to lead a vagabond life from morning to night.’

‘Let me tell you,’ said the talking cricket, as calm as ever, ‘that those who follow that trade finish, nearly always, in a hospital or in prison.’

‘Be careful, you cricket of ill omen! If you make me angry, woe betide you!’

‘Poor Pinocchio! I am really sorry for you!’

‘Why are you sorry for me?’

‘Because you are a puppet, and – what is worse – you have a wooden head.’

At these last words Pinocchio lost his temper and, seizing a mallet from the bench, threw it at the cricket.

Perhaps he did not mean to hit him, but unfortunately the mallet struck him right on the head. The poor cricket had scarcely time to cry ‘Cri-cri-cri’, and there he was, stretched out stiff, and flattened against the wall.