Now in the course of digging, he came upon a fine bit of root, quite dry and fit for fuel, which he set aside carefully—for the Rat is an economical creature—in order to take it home with him. So when the shower was over, he set off with the dry root in his mouth. As he went along, daintily picking his way through the puddles, he Saw a Poor Man vainly trying to light a fire, while a little circle of children stood by, and cried piteously. “Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the Rat, who was both soft-hearted and curious, “What a dreadful noise to make! What is the matter?” “The children are hungry,” answered the Man; “they are crying for their breakfast, but the sticks are damp, the fire won’t burn, and so I can’t bake the cakes.” “If that is all your trouble, perhaps I can help you,” said the good-natured Rat, “you are welcome to this dry root and I’ll warrant it will soon make a fine blaze.” The Poor Man, with a thousand thanks, took the dry root, and in his turn presented the Rat with a morsel of dough, as a reward for his kindness and generosity. “What a remarkably lucky fellow I am!” thought the Rat, as he trotted off gayly with his prize, “and clever, too! Fancy making a bargain like that—food enough to last me five days in return for a rotten old stick! Wah! Wah! Wah! What it is to have brains!” Going along, hugging his good fortune in this way, he came presently to a Potter’s yard, where the Potter, leaving his wheel to spin round by itself, was trying to pacify his three little children, who were screaming arid crying as if they would burst. “My gracious!” cried the Rat, stopping his ears, “what a noise! do tell me what it is all about.” “I suppose they are hungry,” replied the Potter ruefully; “their mother has gone to get flour in the bazaar, for there is none in the house. In the meantime I can neither work nor rest because of them.” “Is that all?” answered the officious Rat; then I can help you. Take this dough, cook it quickly, and stop their mouths with food.” The Potter overwhelmed the Rat with thanks for his obliging kindness, and choosing out a nice well-burned pipkin, insisted on his accepting it as a remembrance. The Rat was delighted at the exchange, and though the pipkin was just a trifle awkward for him to manage, he succeeded, after infinite trouble, in balancing it on his head and went away gingerly, tink-a-tink, tink-a-tink, down the road, with his tail over his arm for fear he should trip on it. And all the time he kept saying to himself, “What a lucky fellow I am! and clever, too! Such a hand at a bargain!” By and by he came to where some cowherds were herding their cattle. One of them was milking a buffalo, and having no pail, he used his shoes instead. “Oh fie! oh fie!” cried the cleanly Rat, quite shocked at the sight. “What a nasty, dirty trick! Why don’t you use a pail?” “For the best of all reasons—we haven’t got one!” growled the Cowherd, who did not see why the Rat should put his finger in the pie.