A little girl passing by with a water-pitcher saw it shaking, and asked: “Why do you shake yourself, little tree?”
“Why may I not?” said the tree:
“The little Spider’s scalt herself,
And the Flea weeps;
The little door creaks with the pain,
And the broom sweeps;
The little cart runs on so fast,
And the ashes burn.”
Then the maiden said: “If so, I will break my pitcher”; and she threw it down and broke it.
At this the streamlet, from which she drew the water, asked: “Why do you break your pitcher, my little girl?”