hurriedly, “Good-by, Mr. Fish; excuse me, and a thousand thanks for your kindness.”
Having said this, Pinocchio took the little road and ran as quickly as he could. At every slight noise he heard he looked around, for fear he might be followed by the terrible Dogfish as big as a five-story house, and with a mouth large enough to swallow a train of cars with the engine attached.
After having run for half an hour, he arrived at a little country called “The Country of the Busy Bees.” The streets were filled with those who ran here and there attending to their little duties, everybody having something to do.
“I understand!” exclaimed that good-for-nothing Pinocchio. “This country is not for me. I was not born to work.”
Meanwhile he was very hungry because he had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours,—not even a chick pea. What could he do? There were only two ways to get food,—either to beg or to work for it. To ask for alms he was ashamed, because his papa had told him that the only ones who had a right to beg were the truly poor, sick, or blind. The poor deserve help as do those also who are too old to work. All the others must do something, and if they suffer from hunger it is the worse for them.
