"Are you weaving, little niece? Are you weaving, my pretty?"
"I am weaving, auntie," says the little girl.
When Baba Yaga went away from the window, the little girl spoke to the
thin black cat who was watching the mouse-hole.
"What are you doing, thin black cat?"
"Watching for a mouse," says the thin black cat. "I haven't had any
dinner for three days."
"How lucky," says the little girl, "that I picked up the scraps of
meat!" And she gave them to the thin black cat. The thin black cat
gobbled them up, and said to the little girl,--
"Little girl, do you want to get out of this?"
"Catkin dear," says the little girl, "I do want to get out of this,
for Baba Yaga is going to eat me with her iron teeth."
"Well," says the cat, "I will help you."
Just then Baba Yaga came to the window.
"Are you weaving, little niece?" she asked. "Are you weaving, my
pretty?"
"I am weaving, auntie," says the little girl, working away, while the
loom went clickety clack, clickety clack.
Baba Yaga went away.
Says the thin black cat to the little girl: "You have a comb in your
hair, and you have a towel. Take them and run for it while Baba Yaga
is in the bath-house. When Baba Yaga chases after you, you must
listen; and when she is close to you, throw away the towel, and it
will turn into a big, wide river. It will take her a little time to
get over that. But when she does, you must listen; and as soon as she
is close to you throw away the comb, and it will sprout up into such a
forest that she will never get through it at all."
"But she'll hear the loom stop," says the little girl.
"I'll see to that," says the thin black cat.
The cat took the little girl's place at the loom.
Clickety clack, clickety clack; the loom never stopped for a moment.
The little girl looked to see that Baba Yaga was in the bath-house,
and then she jumped down from the little hut on hen's legs, and ran to
the gates as fast as her legs could flicker.
The big dog leapt up to tear her to pieces. Just as he was going to
spring on her he saw who she was.
"Why, this is the little girl who gave me the loaf," says he. "A good
journey to you, little girl;" and he lay down again with his head
between his paws.
When she came to the gates they opened quietly, quietly, without
making any noise at all, because of the oil she had poured into their
hinges.
Outside the gates there was a little birch tree that beat her in the
eyes so that she could not go by.
"How lucky," says the little girl, "that I picked up the ribbon!" And
she tied up the birch tree with the pretty blue ribbon. And the birch
tree was so pleased with the ribbon that it stood still, admiring
itself, and let the little girl go by.
How she did run!
Meanwhile the thin black cat sat at the loom. Clickety clack, clickety
clack, sang the loom; but you never saw such a tangle as the tangle
made by the thin black cat.
And presently Baba Yaga came to the window.
"Are you weaving, little niece?" she asked. "Are you weaving, my
pretty?"
"I am weaving, auntie," says the thin black cat, tangling and
tangling, while the loom went clickety clack, clickety clack.
"That's not the voice of my little dinner," says Baba Yaga, and she
jumped into the hut, gnashing her iron teeth; and there was no little
girl, but only the thin black cat, sitting at the loom, tangling and
tangling the threads.
"Grr," says Baba Yaga, and jumps for the cat, and begins banging it
about. "Why didn't you tear the little girl's eyes out?"
"In all the years I have served you," says the cat, "you have only
given me one little bone; but the kind little girl gave me scraps of
meat."
Baba Yaga threw the cat into a corner, and went out into the yard.
"Why didn't you squeak when she opened you?" she asked the gates.
"Why didn't you tear her to pieces?" she asked the dog.
"Why didn't you beat her in the face, and not let her go by?" she
asked the birch tree.
"Why were you so long in getting the bath ready? If you had been
quicker, she never would have got away," said Baba Yaga to the
servant.
And she rushed about the yard, beating them all, and scolding at the
top of her voice.
"Ah!" said the gates, "in all the years we have served you, you never
even eased us with water; but the kind little girl poured good oil
into our hinges."
"Ah!" said the dog, "in all the years I've served you, you never threw
me anything but burnt crusts; but the kind little girl gave me a good
loaf."
"Ah!" said the little birch tree, "in all the years I've served you,
you never tied me up, even with thread; but the kind little girl tied
me up with a gay blue ribbon."
"Ah!" said the servant, "in all the years I've served you, you have
never given me even a rag; but the kind little girl gave me a pretty
handkerchief."
Baba Yaga gnashed at them with her iron teeth. Then she jumped into
the mortar and sat down. She drove it along with the pestle, and swept
up her tracks with a besom, and flew off in pursuit of the little
girl.
The little girl ran and ran. She put her ear to the ground and
listened. Bang, bang, bangety bang! she could hear Baba Yaga beating
the mortar with the pestle. Baba Yaga was quite close. There she was,
beating with the pestle and sweeping with the besom, coming along the
road.
As quickly as she could, the little girl took out the towel and threw
it on the ground. And the towel grew bigger and bigger, and wetter and
wetter, and there was a deep, broad river between Baba Yaga and the
little girl.
The little girl turned and ran on. How she ran!
Baba Yaga came flying up in the mortar. But the mortar could not float
in the river with Baba Yaga inside. She drove it in, but only got wet
for her trouble. Tongs and pokers tumbling down a chimney are nothing
to the noise she made as she gnashed her iron teeth. She turned home,
and went flying back to the little hut on hen's legs. Then she got
together all her cattle and drove them to the river.
"Drink, drink!" she screamed at them; and the cattle drank up all the
river to the last drop. And Baba Yaga, sitting in the mortar, drove it
with the pestle, and swept up her tracks with the besom, and flew over
the dry bed of the river and on in pursuit of the little girl.
The little girl put her ear to the ground and listened. Bang, bang,
bangety bang! She could hear Baba Yaga beating the mortar with the
pestle. Nearer and nearer came the noise, and there was Baba Yaga,
beating with the pestle and sweeping with the besom, coming along the
road close behind.
The little girl threw down the comb, and grew bigger and bigger, and
its teeth sprouted up into a thick forest, thicker than this forest
where we live--so thick that not even Baba Yaga could force her way
through. And Baba Yaga, gnashing her teeth and screaming with rage and
disappointment, turned round and drove away home to her little hut on
hen's legs.
The little girl ran on home. She was afraid to go in and see her
stepmother, so she ran into the shed.
Scratch, scratch! Out came the little mouse.
"So you got away all right, my dear," says the little mouse. "Now run
in. Don't be afraid. Your father is back, and you must tell him all
about it."
The little girl went into the house.
"Where have you been?" says her father; "and why are you so out of
breath?"
The stepmother turned yellow when she saw her, and her eyes glowed,
and her teeth ground together until they broke.
But the little girl was not afraid, and she went to her father and
climbed on his knee, and told him everything just as it had happened.
And when the old man knew that the stepmother had sent his little
daughter to be eaten by Baba Yaga, he was so angry that he drove her
out of the hut, and ever afterwards lived alone with the little girl.
Much better it was for both of them.
"And the little mouse?" said Ivan.
"The little mouse," said old Peter, "came and lived in the hut, and
every day it used to sit up on the table and eat crumbs, and warm its
paws on the little girl's glass of tea."
"Tell us a story about a cat, please, grandfather," said Vanya, who
was sitting with Vladimir curled up in his arms.
"The story of a very happy cat," said Maroosia; and then, scratching
Bayan's nose, she added, "and afterwards a story about a dog."
"I'll tell you the story of a very unhappy cat who became very happy,"
said old Peter. "I'll tell you the story of the Cat who became
Head-forester."