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Pinocchio is hungry and looks for an egg to cook himself an omelet; but, to his surprise, the omelet flies out of the window.

Pinocchio is hungry and looks for an egg
to cook himself an omelet; but, to his surprise,
the omelet flies out of the window.

Chapter Five

As retold for Aaron

Pinocchio is hungry and looks for an egg to cook himself an omelet; but, to his surprise, the omelet flies out of the window.

I have seen little boys and girls tramp on crickets and salt slugs without a thought. I have also seen ant colonies destroyed by curious chidren who are afterwards struck with dismay, as if they hadn't realized the finality and irreversibility of their actions.
It may be that Pinocchio, even if he had thrown the hammer with the intent of striking the Cricket, had no idea the Cricket would be killed.
Feeling suddenly afraid, the puppet climbed onto the bed, scrunched into a corner and huddled with his arms pulling his legs tight to his chest and his head resting on his knees. Because he realized he couldn't change what he'd done, he tried to forget about the little cricket but found it was hard, of not impossible, to do. The more he tried to forget about the cricket, the more he seemed to be bothered by thoughts of him.
Then, perhaps because Pinocchio was only a Marionette with a wooden head, his thoughts of the cricket were chased off by a queer, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. "What is this?" he wondered, then seeing the boiling pot above the fireplace he knew what this new feeling was. He'd had nothing to eat and was hungry!
A little boy's appetite grows very fast. In a few moments, the queer, empty feeling in Pinocchio's stomach had become bigger and bigger, and the hole which grew with it was big as a hungry bear emerging from a winter's hibernation. Pinocchio ran over to the pot he saw boiling above the fireplace and stretched out his hand to take the cover off so he could see what food was in it. To his amazement, the pot was only painted!


Incredibly, Pinocchio's nose became at least two inches longer. Poof, right there and then, it grew. Why this would be so Pinocchio didn't know, but worried that it was hunger which caused his nose to grow, he ran all about the room, digging in all the boxes and drawers for something to eat. He even looked under the bed, though one hardly knows what he thought he might find there. Even a bone left by a dog would have tasted good to the Marionette at that moment. But he found nothing.
Meanwhile, his hunger grew and grew. The only relief poor Pinocchio found was to yawn. He yawned, and it was such a great yawn that his mouth stretched out to the tips of his ears. Soon, he became dizzy and faint. He wept and wailed to himself, "I'm only a little Marionette, how am I to find something to eat? If Father was here, he would know how to feed me, I'm sure, and I wouldn't be hungry. That Talking Cricket was right; I have a great deal to learn. I can't take care of myself all on my own, not if I don't even know how to find myself something to eat, and, oh, how horrible it is to be hungry!"
Then, Pinocchio saw among the sweepings in a corner, something round and white. It looked very much like some hen's eggs he'd seen for sale when he was making his way home. In a jiffy he pounced on it, and, to his delight, found it was indeed an egg.
"An egg! An egg!" Pinocchio joyfully cried out, leaping up and down. Then, as he realized his good fortune, he sat at the table and lovingly turned the egg over and over in his hands examining it. "So, you're not just a dream," he said, grateful, reassured at last the egg wouldn't disappear.
Fondling the egg, kissing it, he talked to the egg as if it was alive, saying, "How shall I cook you? You're food, I know that much for sure. I've seen eggs for sale and I've seen people eating them. Wooden chairs and tables aren't food, but eggs are. Shall I drink you? No, I'm pretty sure that one cooks eggs. I tell you what, little egg. I'm going to fry you in a pan and then eat you."
There was a foot warmer under the table that Geppetto had earlier filled with hot coals. Pinocchio found a pan and placed it over the coals. Not knowing how to go about frying an egg, the Marionette, instead of putting a little oil or butter into the pan, poured into it some water. Pinocchio also didn't know how long an egg should cook, so as soon as the water started to boil, being a little impatient--tac!--he broke the eggshell.


In place of the white and yolk of the egg, out came a little yellow chick. Gay, smiling over its escape from the shell, the chick fluffed its feathers, and bowed politely to the astonished Marionette "Thank you, Mr. Pinocchio, for breaking my shell! It was getting a little too warm in there, and though I'm sure I would have been able to eventually break the shell myself, I'm very glad to be free before it got any hotter!"
Pinocchio hadn't a chance to think what to reply, when the chick spread out his little wings, and, darting to the open window, he flew away into space and out of Pinocchio's sight.
As if turned to stone, the Marionette stood stock-still, his eyes wide open, his mouth agape, the empty halves of the eggshell in his hands. As he came to, he murmured, wonderingly, "What was my food doing with a little live chick inside of it? I'm lucky I broke the egg when I did and let it out."
Pinocchio was glad to have released the chick, but still, he was hungry, and as it dawned on him this meant he had nothing to eat, he began to cry and shriek at the top of his lungs, stamping his feet on the ground, and wailing, "If I had not run out the door and down the street, Father would be here now, and I wouldn't be dying of hunger! Oh, how horrible it is to be hungry! Why didn't the Cricket tell me how to feed myself?!"
The Marionette's stomach grumbled so violently, that he finally decided he must go out and look for food. If he did, hopefully he would find a charitable person who might give him a bit of bread to quiet his hunger. Even a tiny bit of bread would do.

Pinocchio and the egg

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Rewritten by J. Kearns (in some places considerably, in other places not so considerably, and in others not much at all) from the translation by Carol Della Chiesa of C. Collodi's original story
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