In the unheated oven stood a broken pot with some kind of milky liquid.

On the top of the oven a falcon was screeching and trying to break the cord by which it was tied, and a moulting hawk sat quietly on the edge of the oven, looking askance at the hen and occasionally bowing its head to right and left.

Daddy Eroshka himself, in his shirt, lay on his back on a short bed rigged up between the wall and the oven, with his strong legs raised and his feet on the oven.

He was picking with his thick fingers at the scratches left on his hands by the hawk, which he was accustomed to carry without wearing gloves.

The whole room, especially near the old man, was filled with that strong but not unpleasant mixture of smells that he always carried about with him.
'Uyde-ma, Daddy ?' (Is Daddy in ?) came through the window in a sharp voice, which he at once recognized as Lukashka's.
'Uyde, Uyde, Uyde.