A crow was cursed with such a thirst
He feared that he would die.
When he beheld a pitcher filled
With water finger-high.
But this, though he might stretch and strain,
Was much too low for him to gain.
“There is no way!” a gloomy jay
Commented as he stared.
But said the crow, “No fruit is plucked
By one who never dared.”
And so he set about to fill
The jar with pebbles from his bill.
First two, then four and then a score
One after one he dropped,
And others still and other still,
With zeal that never stopped,
And others, others, though as yet
He gaping bill remained unwet.
But bit by bit, thanks to his wit,
The water level rose,
Until it finally had saved
This wisest of the crows.
For piled-up pebbles may create
The towers and the hills of fate.
