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.”