A cruel old woman kept two servant-maids who spun so skillfully they made the Fates by contrast look like mere unravelers.
A tough taskmaster, the old woman gave her spinners work to do from break of day to fall of night. From break of day to fall of night, they turned the bobbins, spindles, spools, and reels relentlessly.
At dawn each day a rooster crowed; then the old woman leapt from bed, put on her greasy petticoat, and went with lamp to rouse her servant-maids—who swallowed sleep with unslaked thirst, who clung to sleep as jealously as lovers.
Through half-opened eyes they glared, and through clenched teeth they swore: “That cursed cock has got to die.”
They slit its throat—and that alarm-clock rang no more.
Their situation, though, did not improve; it worsened.
Now the crone, afraid to oversleep, awoke betimes, and, like a goblin, wakened them mid-night.
That’s how it often is: Our burden gets more heavy when we try to lighten it. We try to slip a knot, and tighten it.