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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.