Meanwhile night began to fall, and Pinocchio, remembering that he had eaten nothing, felt a little gnawing in his stomach that was very much like appetite.
But boys' appetites travel fast, and in fact, after a few minutes the appetite turned into hunger, and the hunger, in the twinkling of an eye, became a wolfish hunger, a hunger so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Poor Pinocchio ran straight to the hearth, where there was a pot boiling, and went to lift the lid, to see what was inside: but the pot was painted on the wall. Just imagine how he felt. His nose, which was long already, grew at least four fingers longer.
Then he started running round the room and rummaging through all the drawers and all the cupboards in search of a bit of bread, even a bit of stale bread, a little crust, a bone left over by the dog, a bit of mouldy polenta, a fishbone, a cherry stone, in short anything to chew on: but he found nothing, a great big nothing, nothing at all.
And meanwhile his hunger grew, and kept on growing: and poor Pinocchio had no other relief than yawning, and he gave such long yawns that sometimes his mouth stretched right up to his ears. And after yawning, he would spit, and he felt his stomach fainting away.
Then, weeping and despairing, he said:
“The Talking Cricket was right. I did wrong to rebel against my father and run away from home.... If my father were here now, I wouldn't be dying of yawns! Oh, what a horrible illness hunger is!”
And then, all of a sudden, he thought he saw in the rubbish heap something round and white that looked exactly like a hen's egg. To make a leap and pounce on it was the work of a moment. It really was an egg.
The puppet's joy is impossible to describe: you must imagine it for yourselves. Almost believing it was a dream, he turned this egg over and over in his hands, and he touched it and kissed it, and as he kissed it he said:
“And now how shall I cook it? Shall I make an omelette?... No, it's better to bake it in a dish!... Or wouldn't it taste better if I fried it in the pan? Or what if I boiled it soft, for sipping? No, the quickest of all is to cook it in a dish or a little pan: I'm too eager to gobble it up!”
No sooner said than done, he put a little pan on a brazier full of glowing embers: instead of oil or butter he put a little water in the pan: and when the water began to steam, crack!... he broke the eggshell and made as if to tip the egg into it.
But instead of the white and the yolk, out popped a little chick, very cheerful and very polite, who made a fine bow and said:
“A thousand thanks, Signor Pinocchio, for saving me the trouble of breaking the shell! Goodbye to you, keep well, and kind regards to all at home!”
So saying, it spread its wings, and darting out of the open window, it flew away out of sight.
The poor puppet stood there as if bewitched, with staring eyes, his mouth open and the eggshells in his hand. When he had recovered from his first dismay, however, he began to cry, to scream, to stamp his feet on the floor in despair, and as he cried he said:
“The Talking Cricket was right after all! If I hadn't run away from home and if my father were here, I wouldn't be dying of hunger now. Oh, what a horrible illness hunger is!...”
And because his insides kept grumbling more than ever and he didn't know how to quiet them, he thought he would go out and dash over to the nearby village, in the hope of finding some charitable person who might give him a bit of bread for alms.