“And that trade—­what is it?”

“It is to eat, drink, sleep and amuse myself, and to lead a vagabond life from morning to night.”

“As a rule,” said the Talking-Cricket, “all those who follow that trade end almost always either in a hospital or in prison.”

“Take care, you wicked, ill-omened croaker!  Woe to you if I fly into a passion!”

“Poor Pinocchio!  I really pity you!”

“Why do you pity me?”

“Because you are a puppet and, what is worse, because you have a wooden head.”

At these last words Pinocchio jumped up in a rage and, snatching a wooden hammer from the bench, he threw it at the Talking-Cricket.

Perhaps he never meant to hit him, but unfortunately it struck him exactly on the head, so that the poor Cricket had scarcely breath to cry “Cri-cri-cri!” and then he remained dried up and flattened against the wall.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V

THE FLYING EGG

Night was coming on and Pinocchio, remembering that he had eaten nothing all day, began to feel a gnawing in his stomach that very much resembled appetite.

After a few minutes his appetite had become hunger and in no time his hunger became ravenous.

Poor Pinocchio ran quickly to the fireplace, where a saucepan was boiling, and was going to take off the lid to see what was in it, but the saucepan was only painted on the wall.  You can imagine his feelings.  His nose, which was already long, became longer by at least three inches.

He then began to run about the room, searching in the drawers and in every 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 moldy 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.  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 were 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 were 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 was beyond description.  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 make an omelet?  No, it would be better to cook it in a saucer!  Or would it not be more savory to fry it in the frying-pan?  Or shall I simply boil it?  No, the quickest way of all is to cook it in a saucer:  I am in such a hurry to eat it!”