"Satan take you, let us make the sign
of the cross over you!" . . . And the same marvel happened to his better-
half. She had just begun to mix the dough in a huge kneading-trough,
when suddenly the trough sprang up. "Stop, stop! where are you going?"
Putting its arms akimbo, with dignity, it went skipping all about the
cottage. . . . You may laugh, but it was no laughing-matter to our
grandfathers. And in vain did Father Athanasii go through all the
village with holy water, and chase the Devil through all the streets
with his brush; and my late grandfather's aunt long complained that, as
soon as it was dark, some one came knocking at her door, and scratching
at the wall.
Well! All appears to be quiet now, in the place where our village
stands; but it was not so very long ago--my father was still alive--that
I remember how a good man could not pass the ruined tavern, which a
dishonest race had long managed for their own interest. From the smoke-
blackened chimneys, smoke poured out in a pillar, and rising high in the
air, as if to take an observation, rolled off like a cap, scattering
burning coals over the steppe; and Satan (the son of a dog should not be
mentioned) sobbed so pitifully in his lair, that the startled ravens
rose in flocks from the neighboring oak-wood, and flew through the air
with wild cries.
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