The Thirsty Crow

(Fan yourself and sound a little tired.)

It was a very hot summer day. The sun blazed, the fields were dry, and there was not a single cloud in the sky. A little crow flew and flew, looking for water. Its wings were tired and its throat was dry.

“Caw… caw…” croaked the crow. “Water, water, where is the water?” It saw dry ponds, dry rivers and dry ditches. Nothing but dust.

At last, under a shady tree, the crow saw a clay pot. “Water!” it cried, and swooped down. Deep at the bottom of the pot, the water shimmered like silver.

The crow pushed its beak in. It stretched and stretched, but the water was too far down and the crow’s beak was too short. It tried again, but still could not reach.

(Tap your forehead, as if thinking.)

The crow did not give up. It sat down and thought. “I cannot break the pot. I cannot tip it over. But what if I could make the water come up to me?”

(Let your child say “plop” with you.)

Then the crow saw some small pebbles on the ground. It picked up one pebble, flew to the pot, and dropped it in. Plop! Then another. Plop! And another. Plop! Plop! Plop!

Slowly, the water began to rise. A little higher, and a little higher, until at last the crow could reach it. Sip, sip, sip. “Aah!” sighed the crow. Cool, sweet water.

(Slow down and let your voice get sleepy.)

The crow’s throat was cool and its tummy was full. It flew home as the sun went down and the sky turned pink and gold, to tell everyone about its clever idea. That night, in its cosy nest, the little crow fell asleep dreaming of rain. Goodnight, little crow.