Two old-believers. They did all the talking.
Mother. Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits
She could call up to pass a winter evening,
But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something.
Summoning spirits isn’t “Button, button,
Who’s got the button,” I would have them know.
Son. Mother can make a common table rear
And kick with two legs like an army mule.
Mother. And when I’ve done it, what good have I done?
Rather than tip a table for you, let me