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But then a whistle was heard, which made Petró’s heart grow cold within him; and it seemed to him that the grass whispered, and the flowers began to talk among themselves in delicate voices, like little silver bells; the trees rustled in waving contention; Basavriuk’s face suddenly became full of life and his eyes sparkled. “The witch has just returned,” he muttered between his teeth. “See here, Petró: a beauty will stand before you in a moment; do whatever she commands; if not you are lost for ever.” Then he parted the thorn-bush with a knotty stick, and before him stood a tiny izbá, on chicken’s legs, as they say.
All, at once, recognized Basavriuk’s countenance in the sheep’s head: my grandfather’s aunt thought it was on the point of asking for vodka.... The worthy elders seized their hats, and hastened home.
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