imaginable place, in hopes of finding a bit of bread. If it was only a bit of dry bread, a crust, a bone left by a dog, a little mouldy pudding of Indian corn, a fish bone, a cherry stone—in fact anything that he could gnaw. But he could find nothing, nothing at all, absolutely nothing.
And in the meanwhile his hunger grew and grew; and poor Pinocchio had no other relief than yawning, and his yawns were so tremendous that sometimes his mouth almost reached his ears. And after he had yawned he spluttered, and felt as if he was going to faint.
Then he began to cry desperately, and he said:
'The Talking-cricket was right. I did wrong to rebel against my papa and to run away from home. . . . If my papa was here I should not now be dying of yawning! Oh! what a dreadful illness hunger is!'
Just then he thought he saw something in the dust-heap—something round and white that looked like a hen's egg. To give a spring and seize hold of it was the affair of a moment. It was indeed an egg.
Pinocchio's joy beats description; it can only be imagined. Almost believing it must be a dream he kept turning the egg over in his hands, feeling it and kissing it. And as he kissed it he said:
'And now, how shall I cook it? Shall I