The first daughter
squinted with both eyes, yet the woman loved her as she loved salt, for
she herself squinted with both eyes. The second daughter had one
shoulder higher than the other, and eyebrows as black as soot in the
chimney, yet the woman loved her as well as she loved the other, for she
herself had black eyebrows and one shoulder higher than the other. The
youngest daughter was as pretty as a ripe apple, and had hair as fine as
silk and the color of pure gold, but the woman loved her not at all,
for, as I have said, she herself was neither pretty, nor had she hair of
the color of pure gold. Why all this was so, even Hans Pfifendrummel
cannot tell, though he has read many books and one over.
The first sister and the second sister dressed in their Sunday clothes
every day, and sat in the sun doing nothing, just as though they had
been born ladies, both of them.
As for Christine--that was the name of the youngest girl--as for
Christine, she dressed in nothing but rags, and had to drive the geese
to the hills in the morning and home again in the evening, so that they
might feed on the young grass all day and grow fat.
The first sister and the second sister had white bread (and butter
beside) and as much fresh milk as they could drink; but Christine had to
eat cheese-parings and bread-crusts, and had hardly enough of them to
keep Goodman Hunger from whispering in her ear.
This was how the churn clacked in that house!
Well, one morning Christine started off to the hills with her flock of
geese, and in her hands she carried her knitting, at which she worked to
save time.
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