The Firebird and Other Russian Fairy Tales by Arthur Ransome Read Free Book Online Page B

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.”
    â€œBut she’ll hear the loom stop,” says the little girl.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œWhy, 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.
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œAre you weaving, little niece?” she asked. “Are you weaving, my pretty?”
    â€œI am weaving, auntie,” says the thin black cat, tangling and tangling, while the loom went clickety clack, clickety clack.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œGrr,” says Baba Yaga, and jumps for the cat, and begins banging it about. “Why didn’t you tear the little girl’s eyes out?”
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œWhy didn’t you squeak when she opened you?” she asked the gates.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tear her to pieces?” she asked the dog.
    â€œWhy didn’t you beat her in the face, and not let her go by?” she asked the birch tree.
    â€œWhy 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.
    â€œAh!” 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.”
    â€œAh!” 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.”
    â€œAh!” 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.”
    â€œAh!” 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