And in the ditch near them Two women are squabbling; One cries, "To go home now 120 Were worse than to prison!" The other, "You braggart! In my house, I tell you, It's worse than in yours. One son-in-law punched me And left a rib broken; The second made off With my big ball of cotton; The cotton don't matter, But in it was hidden 130 My rouble in silver. The youngest--he always Is up with his knife out. He'll kill me for sure!" "Enough, enough, darling! Now don't you be angry!" Is heard not far distant From over a hillock-- "Come on, I'm all right!" A mischievous night, this; 140 On right hand, on left hand, Wherever the eye falls, Are sauntering couples. The wood seems to please them; They all stroll towards it, The wood--which is thrilling With nightingales' voices. And later, the high-road Gets more and more ugly, And more and more often 150 The people are falling, Are staggering, crawling, Or lying like corpses. As always it happens On feast days in Russia-- No word can be uttered Without a great oath. And near to the tavern Is quite a commotion; Some wheels get entangled 160 And terrified horses Rush off without drivers. Here children are crying, And sad wives and mothers Are anxiously waiting; And is the task easy Of getting the peasant Away from his drink? Just near to the sign-post A voice that's familiar 170 Is heard by the peasants; They see there the Barin (The same that helped Vavil, And bought him the boots To take home to his grandchild). He chats with the men. The peasants all open Their hearts to the Barin; If some song should please him They'll sing it through five times; 180 "Just write the song down, sir!" If some saying strike him; "Take note of the words!" And when he has written Enough, he says quietly, "The peasants are clever, But one thing is bad: They drink till they're helpless And lie about tipsy, It's painful to see." 190