Poor Pinocchio ran quickly to the fireplace, where a saucepan was
boiling, and was going to take off the lid to see what was in it, but
the saucepan was only painted on the wall. You can imagine his feelings.
His nose, which was already long, became longer by at least three
inches.

He then began to run about the room, searching in the drawers and in
every imaginable place, in hopes of finding a bit of bread. If it was
only a bit of dry bread, a crust, a bone left by a dog, a little moldy
pudding of Indian corn, a fish bone, a cherry stone--in fact, anything
that he could gnaw. But he could find nothing, nothing at all,
absolutely nothing.

And in the meanwhile his hunger grew and grew. Poor Pinocchio had no
other relief than yawning, and his yawns were so tremendous that
sometimes his mouth almost reached his ears. And after he had yawned he
spluttered and felt as if he were going to faint.

Then he began to cry desperately, and he said:

"The Talking-Cricket was right. I did wrong to rebel against my papa and
to run away from home. If my papa were here I should not now be dying of
yawning! Oh! what a dreadful illness hunger is!"

Just then he thought he saw something in the dust-heap--something round
and white that looked like a hen's egg. To give a spring and seize hold
of it was the affair of a moment. It was indeed an egg.

Pinocchio's joy was beyond description. Almost believing it must be a
dream he kept turning the egg over in his hands, feeling it and kissing