Cinder was a young dragon, and he could not breathe fire. He only coughed, and a few sparks the size of peas jumped out. The big dragons of the mountain laughed. "Cinder, you could not light a candle!"
In midwinter he climbed down the mountain at night, in falling snow, to a village of forty houses. Every window was dark. The baker, Mrs. Marsh, a woman of sixty, sat in a blanket beside her cold oven. "The storm blew snow down the chimney," she said. "The matches are wet, and by morning there will be no bread."
She was not afraid of a dragon. "Can you light an oven?"
"I can only cough sparks," said Cinder.
"Then cough," said Mrs. Marsh.
The sparks died on the wet logs. A big dragon's fire would have burned the bakery down, but tiny sparks could be coaxed along. Mrs. Marsh gave him dry shavings, and he coughed all night. At dawn the oven glowed, and the whole village came to eat warm bread. Mrs. Marsh hung a sign on the door: "Cinder, Official Oven Lighter." His sparks were exactly the right size.
