The hammer rang once. A spark jumped off the anvil and did not go out. It waited. They followed.

It rolled into the library and up onto an old book of fables, lying open on a table. It stopped on the white edge of the page, the margin. The margin opened like a path.

Inkling stepped onto it. Beto followed. The words of the story stood beside them like a tall black fence.

The page had once been torn and mended with a strip of thin paper. In the corner of the strip, someone had drawn a tiny hammer.

At the bottom of the page, in slanting letters, it said: Little by little does the trick.

"That's the moral," said Inkling. She was eight and quick. "I noticed it. So I know the story already. Something happens little by little. Done."

An alert young hare came bounding down the margin. His name was Yonder.

"Guess first, then read on," said Yonder. "If you start at the end, the story can't surprise you."

Inkling frowned. Then she looked up at the top of the page.

The title said: THE CROW AND THE PITCHER.

"The title is a clue," said Yonder. "What's around the bend?"

"A crow," said Inkling slowly. "And a pitcher, whatever that is. I think the crow is thirsty. I think it will try to drink."

"I bet the crow will try something," said Yonder, and his ears went up.

They walked along the words.

A crow was dying of thirst. It found a pitcher with a little water at the bottom. But the water was too low, and the pitcher's neck was too narrow, and the crow's beak could not reach it.

A small hedgehog with question-shaped quills popped up from the gutter of the book. Her name was Nettle.

"Wait, why that?" said Nettle. "Why doesn't it just tip it over? Poke it with a question."

"Maybe it's too heavy," said Beto. "From where? What is a pitcher anyway?"

A round coconut with a bristly husk rolled up to them. His name was Pith.

"Look at the words around it," said Pith. "Water. A beak. A narrow neck. Crack it open and find the meat."

Beto read the line again. "Water inside. A neck. You pour from it. It's a jug!"

"A pitcher here is a jug," said Pith. "Swap in a word you know."

"And little by little?" asked Inkling.

"One small step, then another," said Pith. "Keep reading. You'll see the steps."

The crow tried to push the pitcher over, but it was too heavy. Then it had an idea. It picked up a pebble and dropped it in. Then another. Then another. With every pebble the water rose a little. At last the water came up to the top, and the crow drank.

They reached the bottom of the page. Inkling wanted to say every word again.

A sturdy, warm-handed harvester was waiting at the end of the margin, with an armful of wheat. Her name was Sheaf.

"One armful, not every stalk," said Sheaf. "What did it want, and what did it do? Keep the important middle. Let the loose bits fall."

Inkling closed her eyes. The crow wanted water. The water was too low. It couldn't tip the jug. It dropped in stones one by one. The water came up.

She opened her eyes.

"A thirsty crow couldn't reach the water in a jug," said Inkling, "so it dropped in stones one by one until the water came up, and it drank."

Sheaf tied the wheat with a single stalk. Yonder thumped his foot. Nettle said, "Oh, that's it."

Inkling looked at the moral at the bottom again. Little by little does the trick. Now it meant something.

The page glowed, as if somebody had finally read it properly. A paper bookmark slid out from the binding. It had a hare on it.

Back on the Green

The spark dimmed to a warm dot and settled back on the anvil. The Green was just the Green again.

At bedtime, Inkling's little brother wanted the last page of his book first.

"Guess first," said Inkling. "The title is a clue."