The Crow and the Pitcher

Water lay inside a tall pitcher with a narrow neck. The water sat far below the reach of a crow's beak, and one thirsty crow still had to find a way to drink it.

The ancient Greeks told this little story a very long time ago, as a fable attributed to Aesop. It has flown far ever since, farther than any crow could fly.

That season, the drought went on and on. Not a single drop of rain fell on the forest. The small streams dried down to their beds, leaving only a layer of cracked mud spread over the ground like a spider's web. High in the trees, the leaves shriveled in the sun and dropped with a patter onto the parched earth. The grass along the paths turned a faded yellow and went brittle under every passing breeze. All across the forest, flocks of birds flew back and forth. They glided from hill to valley and swooped from tree to tree, yet they could not find a single puddle to drink from.

One crow had been flying like that all morning. Its wings grew wearier by the minute, and its throat was so dry that every caw hurt. The crow circled from one empty stream bank to the next patch of cracked earth, peering down at the foot of every tree and every slab of stone. Its hope grew smaller with each circle it flew. Now and then it perched for a moment on a bare branch and looked all around. Then it forced itself back into the air, because sitting still would never find it water.

Near noon, with the sun straight overhead, the crow dropped down to a clearing at the edge of the forest. There an old clay pitcher stood quietly among tall weeds. The crow tilted its head and peered into the mouth of the pitcher, and its heart seemed to beat faster. There really was water. A thin layer of it glittered at the bottom, holding a small halo of light that trembled with every gust of wind.

The crow hurried to perch on the rim and pushed its neck down as deep as it could to reach the water. But the pitcher was tall and slender, and its neck was so narrow that the crow's beak touched only the cool, empty air inside. The surface of the water still lay far below, out of reach. The crow tilted its head this way and twisted its neck that way, trying one thing after another, but its beak could not reach a single drop.

The crow hopped down to the ground and pushed against the side of the pitcher with all its strength. It hoped to tip the pitcher over so the water would spill out. But the pitcher was too heavy and too steady. It only wobbled slightly and then stood still, not budging at all. The crow stepped back, gathered speed and threw its whole body against the pitcher once more. The pitcher simply stood there, unmoved, as if it had no idea anyone was trying to shake it. The crow stood catching its breath, wings drooping. Its throat was so dry that it felt it could not bear another moment.

Panting, the crow settled down beside the pitcher, its eyes still fixed on the glimmer of water at the bottom. Just when it seemed there was nothing left to try, an idea flashed into the crow's head. Right beneath its feet, scattered all over the clearing, lay countless small pebbles.

The crow picked up one pebble in its beak, stretched its neck up high, and let the pebble drop with a plop into the pitcher. The water rippled and rose a tiny bit, just enough to notice. The crow picked up a second pebble and dropped it in, and the water crept up a little more. The crow kept going, one pebble after another, patiently picking each one up and dropping it in. It never rushed, even though its throat still burned with thirst.

Now and then the crow stopped and tilted its head to look inside. The water was still a good way below the rim, so it turned back to fetch more pebbles. The sun still blazed overhead. The pebbles kept falling one after another, each with a small plop, steady as the soft beat of a drum in the quiet, empty clearing.

The pebbles piled up at the bottom of the pitcher, and the water rose with them, slowly but without ever stopping. At last the crow picked up one more pebble and dropped it in, and now the water had risen almost to the rim. The crow bent its head down, and this time its beak touched the cool water at once.

The first sip slid down the crow's dry, aching throat, cold and wonderfully satisfying. It drank another mouthful, more slowly, as if to savor every sip after a long, exhausting morning. When it had finished, the crow raised its head, gave its wings a gentle shake, and stayed on the rim a little longer to get its strength back. Then the crow soared up into the clear blue sky. Behind it the old clay pitcher still stood in the middle of the clearing, the pebbles lay at the bottom, and the surface of the water still trembled with small ripples.