She had no bed to lie down on, but was made to lie by the hearth among the ashes, and they called her Cinderella.
It happened once that her father was going to the fair, and asked his wife’s daughters what he should bring to them. “Fine clothes,” said the first. “Pearls and diamonds,” said the second. “Now, child,” said he to his own daughter, “what will you have?” “The first sprig, dear father, that rubs against your hat on your way home,” said she. Then he bought for the two first the fine clothes and pearls and diamonds they had asked for: and on his way home, as he rode through a green copse, a sprig of hazel brushed against him, so he broke it off and when he got home he gave it to his daughter. Then she took it, and went to her mother’s grave and planted it there, and cried so much that it was watered with her tears; and there it grew and became a fine tree, and soon a little bird came and built its nest upon the tree, and talked with her and watched over her, and brought her whatever she wished for.