and he made such wide gapes that the corners of his mouth touched his ears. After having yawned he felt as if his stomach would go away. Then weeping and despairing, he said: “The Talking Cricket was right. I have behaved badly in turning my back on my papa and running away. If my papa were only here now, I should not find myself dying of yawns. Oh! what a horrible sickness hunger is!”
Suddenly it appeared to him that he saw something on the top of a rubbish heap that very much resembled a hen’s egg. It required but a second to jump to the spot and there he really saw a nice big egg.
It is impossible to describe the joy of the marionette. It is necessary to be a marionette in order to understand it. Fearing that it might be a dream, he turned the egg around in his hands and touched it and kissed it, and kissing it said: “And now, how ought I to cook it? Shall I make an omelet? No, it is better to poach it; or would it not be more savory to scramble it? Or instead of cooking it, I might drink it raw. No, the nicest way is to cook it in a saucepan.”
No sooner said than done. He placed a saucepan above a heap of burning shavings. In the saucepan, instead of oil or butter, he put a little water. When the water began to smoke—tac!—
