She looked up at the sky, opened wide her eyes, and continued —
“Look up at the sky, don't wink . . . and you'll see angels.”
Motka looked at the sky, and a minute passed in silence.
“Do you see them?” asked Sasha.
“No,” answered Motka in her bass voice.
“But I can. Little angels fly about the sky, with wings . . . little, little, like gnats.”
Motka thought a moment, looked at the ground, and asked —
“Will grandmother burn really?”
“She'll burn, my heart.”
From the stone to the bottom of the hill was a gentle, even slope covered with green grass so soft that it invited repose. Sasha lay down and slid to the bottom. Motka with a serious, severe face, puffed out her cheeks, lay down, and slid, and as she slid her shirt came up to her shoulders.
“How funny I felt!” said Sasha in delight.
The two children climbed to the top intending to slide down again, but at that moment they heard a familiar, squeaky voice. Terror seized them. Toothless, bony, stooping grandmother, with her short grey hair floating in the wind, armed with the long stick, drove the geese from tha kitchen garden, and screamed —
