This time she made the idle daughter go to the spring and spin.

The lazy girl did not spin fast enough to make her fingers bleed.

So she pricked her finger with a thorn until a few drops of blood stained the spindle.

At once she let it drop into the water, and sprang in after it herself.

The ugly girl found herself in a beautiful field, just as her sister had.

She walked along the same path until she came to the baker’s oven.

She heard the loaves cry, “Pull us out! pull us out, or we shall burn!”

[Illustration]

But the lazy girl said to the brown loaves, “I will not.  I do not want to soil my hands in your dirty oven.”

Then she walked on until she came to the apple tree.

“Shake me! shake me!” it cried, “for my apples are quite ripe.”

“I will not,” said the girl, “for some of your apples might fall on my head.”

As she spoke, she walked lazily on.

At last the girl stood before the door of Mother Frost’s house.

She had no fear of Mother Frost’s great teeth, but walked right up to the old woman and offered to be her servant.

For a whole day the girl was very busy, and did everything that she was told to do.

On the second day she began to be lazy, and on the third day she was still worse.

She would not get up in the morning.

The bed was never made, or shaken, so the feathers could fly about.

At last Mother Frost grew tired of her and told her that she must go away.

This was what the lazy girl wanted, for she felt sure that now she would have the golden shower.

Mother Frost led her to the great gate, but she passed under it, a kettle full of black pitch was upset over her.

[Illustration]

“That is what you get for your work,” said the old woman, as she shut the gate.

The idle girl walked home, covered with pitch.

When she went into the farmyard the cock on the roof cried out: 

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Our sticky lady has come home, too.”

The pitch stuck so fast to the girl that, as long as she lived, it never came off.

WILLIAM AND JACOB GRIMM

    IF EVER I SEE

        If ever I see,
        On bush or tree,
    Young birds in their pretty nest;
        I must not, in play,
        Steal the birds away,
    To grieve their mother’s breast.

        My mother, I know,
        Would sorrow so,
    Should I be stolen away;
        So I’ll speak to the birds
        In my softest words,
    Nor hurt them in my play.

        And when they can fly
        In the bright blue sky,
    They’ll warble a song to me;
        And then if I’m sad
        It will make me glad
    To think they are happy and free.