‘Fire, fire! do not scorch me like this; you can’t think how it hurts.’
‘Ah! Medio Pollito,’ answered the fire, ‘you would not help me when I was dying away in the wood. You are being punished.’
At last, just when the pain was so great that Medio Pollito thought he must die, the cook lifted up the lid of the pot to see if the broth was ready for the King’s dinner.
‘Look here!’ he cried in horror, ‘this chicken is quite useless. It is burnt to a cinder. I can’t send it up to the royal table;’ and opening the window he threw Medio Pollito out into the street. But the wind caught him up, and whirled him through the air so quickly that Medio Pollito could scarcely breathe, and his heart beat against his side till he thought it would break.
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‘Oh, wind!’ at last he gasped out, ‘if you hurry me along like this you will kill me. Do let me rest a moment, or—’ but he was so breathless that he could not finish his sentence.
‘Ah! Medio Pollito,’ replied the wind, ‘when I was caught in
