A little while after she came to the apple tree, which stood there quite crooked with fruit again.
“Be so good as to pluck the apples off me, that my limbs may grow straight, for it’s weary work to stand all awry”, said the Apple tree. “But please take care not to beat me too hard. Eat as many as you will, but lay the rest neatly round my root, and I’ll help you again.”
Well, she plucked those nearest to her, and thrashed down those she couldn’t reach with the pole, but she didn’t care how she did it, and broke off and tore down great boughs, and ate till she was as full as full could be, and then she threw down the rest under the tree.
So when she had gone a good bit further, she came to the farm where the old witch lived. There she asked for a place, but the old hag said she wouldn’t have any more maids, for they were either worth nothing, or were too clever, and cheated her out of her goods. But the woman’s daughter was not to be put off, she would have a place, so the old witch said she’d give her a trial, if she was fit for anything.
The first thing she had to do was to fetch water in a sieve. Well, off she went to the well, and drew water in a sieve, but as fast as she got it in it ran out again. So the little birds sung:
Daub in clay,
Put in straw!
Daub in clay,
Put in straw!
But she didn’t care to listen to the birds’ song, and pelted them with clay, till they flew off far away. And so she had to go home with the empty sieve, and got well scolded by the old witch.
Then she was to go into the byre to clean it, and milk the kine. But she was too good for such dirty work, she thought. Still, she went out into the byre, but when she got there, she couldn’t get on at all with the pitchfork, it was so big. The birds said the same to her as they had said to her step-sister, and told her to take the broomstick, and toss out a little dung, and then all the rest would fly after it; but all she did with the broomstick was to throw it at the birds. When she came to milk, the kine were so unruly, they kicked and pushed, and every time she got a little milk in the pail, over they kicked it. Then the birds sang again:
A little drop and a tiny sup
For the little birds to drink it up.
But she beat and banged the cows about, and threw and pelted at the birds everything she could lay hold of, and made such a to do, ’twas awful to see. So she didn’t make much either of her pitching, or milking, and when she came indoors she got blows as well as hard words from the old witch, who sent her off to wash the black wool white; but that, too, she did no better.