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.

Then the old witch thought this really too bad, so she set out the
three caskets, one red, one green, and one blue, and said she'd no
longer any need of her services, for she wasn't worth keeping, but
for wages she should have leave to choose whichever casket she
pleased.