The only political allusion made was when Pushkin named the "fox" Araktseieff; but even at that the postmaster shook his head disapprovingly. Why disturb the harmony of the evening by such reference? Then, as the company is about to separate, the postmaster suddenly remembers that he has forgotten to give Pushkin his newspaper, which he had brought in his coat-pocket. The paper was opened. Old-fashioned newspapers used to be sent out in envelopes. What news? "A military review." No one reads that. Well, then, France: The French are content. How satisfactory! Turkey: Peace concluded with the Greeks. Evident enough! England: The Channel Fleet returned to Dover. And a good thing too! In Russia nothing of interest has transpired. Heaven be praised! After which each, lighting his lantern, repairs home. The master of the house seeks his wife's room. The good little woman has had time for her first sleep, and is not angry with his friends for staying so long at cards. Good little wife! Next day they rise late, because the snow has fallen so deep in the night that their windows are blocked and they cannot see out. What matter! One is not merely a Nimrod, but a Tyrtæus as well. If one cannot go forth to Diana, one can toy with the muses at home; they are good friends, too. A man lights his pipe, paces the room, and poetizes, pausing at every comma and full stop to give his dear little wife a kiss; she, the while, busied in doing her hair in becoming fashion. If a rhyme be hard to find, he takes his wife on his knee and looks into her eyes, and--the rhyme is soon found. In the afternoon the friends turn up again--the postmaster, a gentleman farmer, and a landed proprietor. They have not been deterred by the heavy snow. Two had driven over; for the third, Bethsaba had sent the sledge, that the party might be complete. She set out the card-table. "It is paradise--perfect paradise!" But once the serpent succeeded in wriggling into paradise. At the end of the game, when the long score had to be reckoned up, in order to see how many copecks had been won, the postmaster was fain to turn out all his pockets to scrape together enough small coin wherewith to pay his debts. In so doing he extracted several letters. "No news to-day?" the gentleman farmer asks him. The only newspaper in that part came to Pushkin, so the neighbors always came to him to hear the news. "What are you twaddling about? Did I not bring a paper yesterday? Do you think a press correspondent can afford to lie every day? Quite enough to have to do it three times a week. Poor devil! he must bless the intermediate days. If you must have a paper, read yesterday's." "So we have, from beginning to end." "I bet you've not read about the review." "Right you are. Hand it over."