Baba Yaga came to the window and asked,—­

“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.