After a walk of half an hour he reached a little village called 'The village of the Industrious Bees.' The road was alive with people running here and there to attend to their business: all were at work, all had something to do. You could not have found an idler or a vagabond, not even if you had searched for him with a lighted lamp.
'Ah!' said that lazy Pinocchio at once, 'I see that this village will never suit me! I wasn't born to work!'
In the meanwhile he was tormented by hunger, for he had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours—not even vetch. What was he to do?
There were only two ways by which he could obtain food—either by asking for a little work, or by begging for a halfpenny or for a mouthful of bread.
He was ashamed to beg, for his father had always preached to him that no one had a right to beg except the aged and the infirm. The really poor in this world, deserving of compassion and assistance, are only those who from age or sickness are no longer able to earn their own bread with the labour of their hands. It is the duty of every one else to work; and if they will not work, so much the worse for them if they suffer from hunger.
At that moment a man came down the
