The children’s cheeks were like roses, and at times an odor came from the flax mill that made the mouth of the passer-by water and long for roast chicken. When the children came out with greasy and shiny lips, the neighbors thought: “What in the world are those Kudernas roasting?”.

Once Manchinka came from the flax mill and told her mother that Mrs. Kuderna had given her a piece of have, and that it was so good, “just like almonds.”

“A have!” thought the mother, “where would they get a have? I hope Kuderna hasn’t taken to poaching; he’d get himself into trouble if he did.” When Celia, Kuderna’s eldest daughter, came over with the baby — that girl always carried a baby, for a little one came to the flax mill each year — the miller’s wife asked her: “Cilka, what did you have good for dinner, today?”

“Oh nothing, only potatoes,” replied the girl.

“What! nothing but potatoes? Manchinka said your mother gave her a piece of have, and that it was very good.”

“O, I beg you to excuse me, that wasn’t a have, that was a cat; Daddy got it at Red Hura; it was fat like a pig. Mammy fried out the grease, and Daddy will rub himself with it; the blacksmith’s wife told him to do it when he began to cough, so he should not get consumption.”

“God save our souls!” exclaimed the horrified woman, spitting with disgust.

“Oh, but you don’t know how good they are! but squirrels are better still. One day Daddy met the forester’s apprentice carrying three squirrels which he had shot for his owl; he asked him for them, because he had heard that their flesh was better than that of hares, since they live on nothing but hazel nuts. The apprentice said it was so, and gave them to him. Daddy took them home and skinned them. Mammy roasted them and cooked some potatoes, and we had a very good dinner. Sometimes Dad brings us crows, but they are not very good. But not long ago we had a feast! Mammy brought a goose from the manor. The girl killed it in stuffing it with meal rolls to fatten it, and the lady would not eat it; so they gave it to us, and we had meat for several days and lard for a long time.” Here the girl’s story was interrupted by the miller’s wife, who said: “Go, Go, I feel the cold chills creeping over me. Mary, you godless child, don’t you ever dare eat meat at Kuderna’s again! Go quickly and wash yourself, and don’t touch anything.” Going on like this, she pushed Celia out of doors.

Manchinka cried, and assured her mother that the hare was good; the mother said nothing more, but showed her disgust by spitting. The miller came, and hearing what had happened turned his snuff box and said: “Well wife, what are you scowling for? who knows on what the girl may thrive! Tastes differ; I don’t know but I should like to invite myself to Kuderna’s for a good squirrel dinner.”

“You’d better keep such stuff to yourself!” scolded the wife. The miller closed his eyes, and a mischievous smile played about his lips.

Not only the miller’s wife, but other people also had a feeling of repulsion toward the Kudernas, and all because they ate cats and squirrels, which nobody else ate. But to the Proshek children it was all the same whether their friends from the flax mill had crow pie or pheasants for dinner, if only they came to play with them behind the barn; and they willingly shared with them their food, glad to see them happy. Celia, who was ten years old and had the care of the baby, placed a bun in its chubby fists, laid it down in the grass, and went to play with the rest; or she sat down and braided from plaintain stalks little caps for the boys and baskets for the girls. When they had played till they were tired, the whole company rushed into the yard, and Manchinka announced to the mother that they were very hungry. The mother was not at all surprised at this news, and fed them all, even those whose lips were repulsive to her on account of the squirrels. The miller, however, always teased her, and when the children came in he began: “I don’t know what is the matter, I feel a pressure upon my breast. How is it, Celia, haven’t you a piece of have at your house? Couldn’t you----”

His wife coughed and went away. Grandmother shook her finger at him saying: “What a rogue you are, sir! if I were your wife, I would give you roast crow with peas.” The miller turned his snuff box, closed his eyes, and smiled grimly.

When they sat in the garden, the foreman of the mill usually joined their party. They discussed the morning’s sermon, told what the announcements had been, for whom prayers had been said, and whom each one had seen at church; from this their conversation drifted to the crops, the flood, storms and hail, weaving and bleaching linen, how the flax was this year, till at last they came to discuss soldiers and the prison. The foreman was very talkative, but towards evening as the farmers began to come in with the grist, remembering the rule, “first come first served,” he was obliged to go to the mill, while the miller went to see what was doing at the inn.

In the winter, the children spent the whole afternoon on top of the large oven that was built in the corner of the room. The servant had her bed there, and Manchinka, her dolls and playthings. When the children were all together, the oven was full, the niche in the corner that served as a step being occupied by the dog. On the top of that oven a wedding was celebrated every Sunday. The chimney sweep was the groom, and Nicholas served as the priest. Then there was eating, drinking, and dancing, until somebody stepped on the dog’s tail. The dog yelped and the conversation in the room was interrupted. The mistress of the house cried: “See here, you youngsters, don’t you break down that oven for I must bake to-morrow!” But they were already as still as mice.