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.
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.
"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.