MOORE’S RURAL NEW-IO RKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Mittal. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
THE OLD CLOCK. 
BY MRS. M. W. H. 
Thou dear old clock 1 I love to gaze 
Upon thy venerated face; 
Fain would I learn what thou hast seen, 
In four score years, that thou hast been 
The faithful monitor and friend, 
To mark the moments, as they tend 
To that broad Ocean, on whose shore, 
Time’s surges beat forever more. 
As thou hast marked the rolling years, 
O say, what joys, what griefs and fears. 
Have passed before thy wakeful eyes r 
When thus invoked, to my surprise, 
The Clock, though silent many a day, 
Thus said to me, or seemed to say: 
“ All I have seen, since first I took 
My station, in this cozy nook, 
Beside thy grandsire’s desk to stand 
And point, with an unerring hand. 
The hours for sleep, for labor, rest, 
I could not tell, if it were best. 
I watched thy father’s infant ways, 
His manhood's prime, his closing days, 
I saw thy mother when a bride, 
He brought her here, the household’s pride. 
The hours I’ve told in accents clear, 
That gave to love, those pledges dear— 
I’ve kept my round when parents slept, 
Or o'er the loved one’s couch they wept— 
I’ve seen them bend o’er coffined forms, 
Been their companion through life’s storms, 
In their loved home have borne my part, 
(Time’s monitor, to every heart.) 
“ Now I am old, my worn-out case 
Affords an emblem of thy race— 
My wheels are still, my hands are weak, 
My face of age, doth plainly speak; 
Yet as a friend, I beg his grace. 
Still in this home to hold my place 
Beside the bride, the mother, wife, 
Who loves me as a ‘ thing of life'— 
Around her widowed heart be mine, 
Fond memories of the past to twine. 
To all these Truths I would convey, 
Man’s life at most is but a day— 
His morn, though joyous, is but brief, 
Noon, oft precedes a night of grief—’ 
God’s word the cheering hope assures, 
‘ Grief but a waning night endures;’ 
The shadows flee, and morning brings 
Eternal joy upon its wings.” 
Jkntl 
THE TREASURE. 
A CHOICE STORY-FROM THE FRENCH. 
BY ANNE T. WILBUR. 
[Concluded from our last number .] 
The first months were the most painful. 
The young binder had formed habits which 
he found it difficult to break ; constant labor 
had become insupportable. It was necessa¬ 
ry to renounce the capricious love of change 
which until then had alone guided his ac¬ 
tions; overcome fatiguo and repugnance, 
resist the solicitations of his former com¬ 
panions. This was at first a difficult task. 
His courage often failed; he was on the 
point of falling back into his former habits; 
but the importance of the object to be at¬ 
tained, reanimated him. As be brought the 
old soldier his wages, increasing from week 
to week, ho experienced an impulse of hope 
which renewed his courage; it was but a 
little step towards the goal, but it was a step. 
Every day the effort became easier. Man 
is like a vessel, whoso sails are like the pas¬ 
sions : deliver them up to the winds of the 
world, and man is hurried on through every 
current and against every reef; but let them 
bo trimmed by good sense, the navigation 
becomes less dangerous ; cast the anchor of 
habits in the spot chosen, and you have no 
longer anything to fear. 
So it happened to the young mechanic. 
In proportion as his life became moro regu¬ 
lar, his tastes assumed a new direction.— 
The assiduity of labor during the day made 
tho repose of the evening sweeter; tho ro- 
linquishment of boisterous companions gave 
a new charm to tho company of his uncle 
and cousin. The latter had resumed her 
friendly familiarity. Entirely occupied with 
Vincent and Charles, she succeeded in trans¬ 
forming every interview into a fete, of which 
her hoart paid all tho expenses. There was 
each day some now surprise, some charm¬ 
ing attention which strengthened the ties of 
affection. Charles was surprised to find in 
his cousin qualities and graces which he had 
never before taken time to notice. She be 
came insensibly moi-e necessary to him.— 
Without his being aware of it, the object of 
his lifo became changed; the hopes of the 
treasure promised by Vincent was no longer 
his only motive; at each action ho thought 
of Susanna; he wished to deserve her ap¬ 
probation, to become dearer to her. The hu¬ 
man soul is a sort of moral daguerreotypo; 
surround it with images of order, of devo¬ 
tion, of courage; illuminate it with the sun 
of tenderness, and every image will be 
transferred and remain forever imprinted 
there. The lifo which Charles led extin¬ 
guished by dogroes his ardent ambition; he 
saw happiness more simple, more noar; his 
paradise was no longer a fancy droam of 
the Thousand Nights, but a little spot 
peopled with attachments which he could 
enclose in his arms. 
All this took place without his knowledge. 
The young mechanic yielded to the current 
of his nature without seeking to study every 
wave which carried him hither and thither. 
His transformation, visible to those whe 
lived with him, had remained a secret to 
himself; he did not know ho was changod, 
he only felt himself more tranquil, happier. 
The only novelty which ho perceived in his 
sentiments, was his love for Susanna; 
henceforth ho mingled her in all his pro¬ 
jects, and could not view life without her. 
This elemont of happiness, introduced into 
his future, had modified all the rest. Tho 
millions, instead of being the principal ob¬ 
ject, were now only tho means; he lookod 
at them as an important addition but ac¬ 
cessary to bis hopes; so he wished to know 
with certainty whether his love was re¬ 
turned. 
He was one evening pacing the little attic, 
while Vincent and his cousin were convers¬ 
ing beside tho stoVo. Both were speaking 
of"the first master of Charles, who, after 
thirty years of an honest and laborious life, 
had just sold his bindery, in order to retire 
to the country with his aged wife. 
“ There is a couple who have made for 
each other an earthly paradise,” said tho 
old soldier; “always of one mind, always 
good-tempered, always industrious.” 
“Yes,” replied Susanna, earnestly; “the 
wealthiest might envy their lot.” 
Charles, who was at that moment noar the 
young girl, suddenly stopped. 
“So you would wish your husband tc 
love you, Susanna ?” asked he, looking at 
her. 
“ Certainly—if I can—” replied the young 
girl, smiling and blushing a little. 
“You can,” replied Charles, with vivaci¬ 
ty; “and for that you have but to say one 
word.” 
“ What word, my cousin ?” stammered 
Susanna, moro disturbed. 
“ That you will consent to bo my wife ?” 
replied the young mechanic. 
And as ho saw the movement of surprise 
and confusion of his cousin, ho continued 
with respectful tenderness : 
“ O, do not bo disturbed by this, Susan¬ 
na ; I have longed to ask you this question. 
I have waited, for a reason known to my 
uncle; but you see that it has escaped me 
in spite of myself. And now be frank with 
mo ; conceal not your feelings; our uncle is 
hero to listen to us, and he will reprove us 
if we speak amiss.” 
The young man had approached his 
cousin, and taken her hand in his own; his 
voice was tremulous, his eyes moist. Su¬ 
sanna, mute with joy, remained with down¬ 
cast eyes, and tho old soldier looked at both 
with a smile half tender, half ironical. At 
last ho took tho young girl and gently push¬ 
ing her towards Charles, said gaily : 
“ Come, speak, sly one.” 
“ Susanna, one single w r ord !” resumed 
the young man, continuing t > hold the hand 
of his cousin; “will you accept me for a 
husband ?” 
She concealed her face on his shoulder 
with an articulate “ Yes.” 
“ Come, then,” exclaimed Vincent. — 
“Your hands, my children, and embrace 
me. I leave you this evening for confi¬ 
dences ; to-movrow wo will talk of business.” 
Tho next day ho took his nephew aside and 
announced to him that the sum necessary 
for their journey was completed, and that 
they could set out for Spain whenever they 
pleased. 
This intelligence, which should have de¬ 
lighted Charles, gave him sorrowful emo¬ 
tions. He must then quit Susanna at the 
very moment when they were beginning to 
exchange the confidences of affection ; incur 
all the chances of a long, difficult, uncertain 
journey, when it would have b(;en so sweet 
to have remained. Tho young man almost 
cursed the millions which he must go so far 
to seek. Since the interest of his lifo had 
changed, his desires for riches had singular¬ 
ly disappeared. Of what avail will gold be 
in the purchase of happiness ? He has 
found it. 
Nevertheless, he said nothing of this to 
his uncle, and declared that he was ready. 
The old soldior undertook the preparations; 
ho went out for this purpose several days in 
succession, accompanied by Susanna; at 
last he announced to Charles that nothing 
remained but to secure their places in the 
diligence. The young girl was absent; he 
requested his nephew to accompany him 
for this purpose, and, as the fatigues expe¬ 
rienced for some days past had rendered 
his wounds painful, he entered a coach with 
him. 
In one of his expeditions, Vincent had 
taken care to procure the journals which 
had spoken of the famous deposit made on 
the banks of tho Duero ; when ho found 
himself alone with Charles, he handed them 
to him, requesting him to ascertain whether 
they conveyed any information which might 
be useful to them. 
Tho young man saw first the details 
which ho already knew, then the announce¬ 
ment of tho refusal of tho Spanish govern¬ 
ment, finally, the narrative of some unsuc¬ 
cessful researches made by merchants of 
Barcelona. He thought he had read all 
the documents, when his glance fell on a 
letter signed by a certain Pierre Dafour. 
“ Pierre Dafour,” repeated Vincent; “it 
was the namo of tho quarter-master of tho 
company.” 
“Such is, in fact, the title ho takes,” re¬ 
plied Charles. 
“I thought tho brave man was in tho 
other world. Let us see what ho has to 
say, as he was the confidant of the captain.” 
Instead of replying, Charles utterod an 
exclamation. He had just glanced over tho 
letter and changod countenance. 
“ Well, what is the matter ?” asked Vin¬ 
cent tranquilly. 
“ What is tho matter ?” repeated tho 
young mechanic ; “ if what this Dafour says 
is true, the journey is useless.” 
“Why ?” 
“ Because the chests wore not filled with 
money, but with powder.” 
Vincent looked at his nephew and burst 
into a laugh. 
“Ah, it was powder,” exclaimed ho, “ and 
for that reason before burying them we took 
some cartridges from them.” 
“You knew it!” interrupted Charles. 
“ Since I saw it,” replied the old man 
good-naturedly. 
“But then you have deceived me,” ex¬ 
claimed the young man ; “ you could not 
have bolieved in tho existence of buried 
millions, and your promise was a jest.” 
“ It was a reality,” replied the soldier se¬ 
riously ; “ I promised you a treasure, you 
shall have it, only wo need not go to Spain 
in search of it.” 
“ What do you mean ?” 
“You shall know.” 
Tho carriage had just stopped before a 
shop ; the two travellers descended and en¬ 
tered it. Charles recognized tho bindery 
of his former master, but repaired, repaint¬ 
ed, and furnished with all the necessary 
tools. Ho was about to demand an expla¬ 
nation of what he saw, when his eyes fell on 
the namo of tno proprietor engraved in lot- 
tors of gold over the counter; it was his own 
name. At tho same instant, the door of the 
back shop opened; ho perceived a bright 
firo, a table set, and Susanna, who smilingly 
invited him to enter. 
Vincent bent towards him, and seizing 
his band said: 
“Hero is the treasure which I promised 
you; a good occupation which will secure 
your subsistence, and a good wife who will 
render you happy. All you see here has 
been earned by you and bolongs to you.— 
Do not regret that I deceived you; you 
would not drink of happiness; I have done 
like the nurses who rub with honey, the cup 
repulsed by tho child. Now you know 
where the happy lifo is, and have tasted it, 
I hope you will refuse it no longer.” 
Charles did not refuse; he was too happy. 
THE RUINED FAMILY. 
“ Tiie depopulating pestilence that walk- 
eth in noonday, the carnage of cruel and 
devastating war can scarcely exhibit their 
victims in a more terrible array than exter¬ 
minating drunkenness. I have seen a prom¬ 
ising family spring up from the parent 
trunk, and stretch abroad its populous limbs 
like a flowering tree covered with green and 
healthy foliage. I have seen the unnatural 
decay beginning upon the yet tender leaf, 
and gnawing like a worm in an unopened 
bud, while they dropped off, one by one, and 
the ruined shaft stood alono, until the 
winds and rains of many a sorrow laid that 
too in tho dust. On one of those holy 
days, when tho patriarch, rich in virtue and 
years, gathered about him tho great and 
little ones of tho ffock, his sons and daugh¬ 
ters, I too sat at the board. I pledged their 
health, and expatiated with dolight upon 
the eventful future, while the good old man 
warmed in the genial glow of youthful en¬ 
thusiasm, wiped a tear from his eyes. Ho 
was happy. I met them again when the 
rolling year brought the festive season 
around. But all were not there. Tho kind 
old man sighed as his suffused eye dwelt 
upon tho then unoccupied seat, but joy yet 
came to his relief, and he was happy. A 
parent’s love knows no diminution — time, 
distance, poverty, shame, give but intensity 
and strength to that passion, before which 
all others dissolve and melt away. The 
board was again spread, but the guests came 
not. Tho man cried ‘ where are my chil¬ 
dren ?’ and echo answered * where ?’ His 
heart broke, for they were not. Could not 
heaven have spared his grey hairs this afflic¬ 
tion ? The demon of drunkenness had been 
there. They had fallen victims to his spell. 
And one short month sufficed to cast the 
veil of oblivion over tho old man’s sorrow 
and tho young ones’ shame. They are all 
dead.” 
“ I too sat at the board, I pledged their 
health,” says our talented author. Was it 
in water, or in intoxicating liquor ? If in 
the latter, tho cause of the ruin of this 
“ruined family” can bo easily traced. I 
knew an aged “ patriarch ” who pledged 
his sons at the festive board, and he had six; 
all of them became drunkards, and five now 
fill the drunkard’s grave, and the aged pa¬ 
triarch had also passed away in sorrow for 
tho fate of his sons, and most probably with¬ 
out a thought that it was his example and 
practice which brought ruin and desolation 
on his family. Parents that use or offer in¬ 
toxicating liquors, have no right to expect 
that their children will escape tho drunk¬ 
ard’s doom. Parents who vote for tho con¬ 
tinued traffic in intoxicating poisons, can 
hardly expect to escape tho effect of tho 
traffic in some branch of their family. Can 
a man handle burning coals without being 
burned ? Those that vote for the sale of 
intoxicating liquors, will vote for tho ruin of 
families. Those that wish to prevent the 
ruin of their families, and the families of 
their friends, will aid in electing men who 
will pass such a law as will prevent, here¬ 
after, that desolation in families which the 
past history of all circles has been obliged 
to chronicle.— Washington Irving. 
HOOD ON GRATUITOUS WRITING. 
The late Tom Hood, of “glorious memo 
ry,” had something to say upon the subject 
of cheap literaturo, and here it is : 
“A few months since, I was applied to 
myself to contribute to a now journal, not 
exactly gratuitously, but at a very small ad¬ 
vance upon nothing,—and avowedly be 
cause the work had been planned according 
to that estimate. Howevor, I acceptod the 
terms conditionally, that is to say, provided 
tho principle could bo carried out. Accord¬ 
ingly, I wrote to my butcher, baker, and 
othor tradesmen, informing thorn that it was 
necessary, for the sake of cheap literaturo 
and tho interest of tho reading public, that 
they should furnish me with several com¬ 
modities at a very trifling per centago above 
the cost prices. It will be sufficient to quote 
tho answer of tho butcher :—‘ Sir,—Res- 
poctin’ your note. Cheap literature bo 
blowed. Butchers must livo as well as oth¬ 
er people ; and if so be you or the reading 
public wants to havo moat at prime cost, 
you must buy your own beastesses, and kill 
yourselves. I remain, &c., 
John Stokes.’ ” 
THE FROG. 
Of all the funny things that live 
In woodland, marsh, or bog, 
That creep the ground, or fly the air, 
The funniest thing is the frog. 
The frog—the scientifieest 
Of nature’s handy work— 
The frog that neither walks nor runs, 
But goes it with a jerk. 
"With pants and coat of bottle green, 
And yellow fancy vest, 
He plunges into mud and mire— 
All in his Sunday best; 
"When ho sits down he’s standing up, 
As Paddy 0’K.inn once said; 
And for convenience sake he wears 
His eyes on the top of his head. 
You see him sitting on a log, 
Above the “ vasty deep,” 
You feel inclined to say, old chap— 
“Just look before you leap 1” 
You raise your cane to hit him on 
His ugly looking mug; 
But ere you get it half way up, 
Adown he goes kerchug. 
He keeps about his native pond, 
And ne’er goes on a spree, 
Nor gets “ how-come-you so” for a 
Cold water chap is he ; 
For earthly cares he ne’er gets drunk 
He’s not the silly fool; 
B ut when they come he gives a jump, 
And drowns ’em in the pool. 
AN INCIDENT. 
A few dtiys since a couple of ragged ur¬ 
chins were seen dragging a bull-terrier by 
the collar through Exchange Placo. The 
dog seemed very unwilling to accompany 
the two specimens of juvenile humanity, and, 
sorry cur as he was, he really seemed the 
most intelligent animal of the three. 
“ Tell you what, Bill,” says one of tho 
boys to his companion “ them kind o’dogs 
is death on rats. Iv’e got a rat in an old 
sugar hogshead down hero and we’ll have 
some fun out of it any how. Iv’e been 
watching on the corner of Stato streot all 
day to catch a dog, and now we’ve got ono 
of the right kind.” 
“ Look out there!” chimed in the other 
as tho dog made hostile demonstration ap¬ 
parently with tho intention of taking a 
mouthful out of tho first speaker’s leg, 
“he’ll havo hold of your calf if you dont 
look wild !” and the two pulled the poor an¬ 
imal along into a by street where ono of 
them taking him by the collar, and the oth¬ 
er by the stump of what was once a tail, lifted 
him up and dropped him into tho empty 
sugar hogshead. 
“Now seek ! seek ! seek !” they exclaimed 
but tho terrier would not seek. Both of 
them then jumped into the hogshead, and 
while one held tho dog, the other caught the 
rat and brought it squealing close up to tho 
dog’s nose, much to tho annoyance of both 
animals ; which was manifested by tho lar¬ 
ger of them biting ono boy’s leg, and the 
smallor, tho othor other boy’s hand. Both 
the urchins immediately commenced roar¬ 
ing, and in their haste to got out they over¬ 
turned the hogshead; at which tho two quad¬ 
rupeds left their biped companions in all 
haste. 
At a literary dinner in London, whore 
Thackeray and Angus B. Reach were vis a. 
vis at tho table, Thackeray—who had nover 
before met Mr. Reach—addrossod him as 
Mr. Reach —pronouncing the name as its 
orthography would naturally indicato. — 
“ Re-ack, sir,—Ro-ack, if you please,” said 
Mr. Roach, who is punctilious upon having 
his name pronounced in two syllables, as if 
spelled Re-ak. Thackeray of course apol¬ 
ogized, and corrected his pronunciation ; 
but in the courso of tho dessert, ho took oc¬ 
casion to hand a plate of fine poaches across 
the table, saying, in a tone which only ho 
possessed, “ Mr. Re-ak, will you tako a 
po-ak ?” 
“Why don’t you put on a clean sffirt ?” 
said a well the othor night to his compan¬ 
ion ; then the girls will smile upon you as 
they do on me.” “ Everybody can’t afford 
to wear a clean shirt every day as well as 
you can,” was tho reply. “ Why not i ’ said 
whito collar. “ Bocause,” said soiled collar, 
“every body’s mother is not a wash-woman.” 
Frightful Depravity. — Ono of the 
prisoners convicted lately, while being con¬ 
veyed to Sing Sing, declared that his broth¬ 
er was an Alderman, and “ that ho was not 
ashamed to own it.” This man is evidently 
lost to all sonse of shame; he should be 
locked up for life- 
About the coolest thing that has yet 
come to our notice, is an advertisement in a 
New York paper of “a young man, a mem¬ 
ber of an evangelical church,” who asks for 
board “in a pious family, whoro his Chris¬ 
tian example would be considered a com¬ 
pensation.” 
Visitors at tho Falls well remember a 
staircaso on the west sido of Goat Island 
called the “Biddle Staircase.” Somo ono 
asked a friend of ours why it was called by 
that namo? “Bocause it wound up th 
bank !” was the answer .—Chicago Press. 
“ Jonathan, did you ever bot on a 
horse ?” 
“No, but I’ve seen my sister Ref on an 
old mare.” 
mitli’s (tofr. 
“Attempt the end,and never stand to doubt; 
Nothing's so hard, but search will find it out." 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
BIOGRAPHICAL ENIGNA. 
I am composed of 44 letters. 
My 1, 16, 8,31 was an English dramatical writer. 
My 2, 28, 35, 19, 6, 24 is the Dame of fountain 
fairies. 
My 3, 33, 9 was a naturalist of celebrity. 
My 4, 34, 20, 13, 5, 42 was an eminent Italian 
artist. 
My 5, 13, 5, 33,25, 35 was an English antiquary. 
My 6, 24, 9 was a hero of martial renown. 
My 7, 5, 19, 42, 22 translated the Bible into the 
Indian language. 
My 8, 17, 7, 25 was an English architect of great 
genius. 
My 9, 16, 43, 34, 20 was a celebrated author and 
poet. 
My 10, 22, 39 was an Austrian General. 
My 11, 33, 5, 23, 19,20,26 wasa talented Knight 
in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
My 12, 23, 42, 2, 39 is an instrument of punish¬ 
ment used by the Russians. 
My 13, 5, 40, 16, 22 was an eminent physician in 
the reign of Henry 8th. 
My 14. 21, 40, 5, 5, 10, 28 was the residence of a 
distinguished poetess. 
My 15, 44, 33,28, 12, 5,19,25 made several scien- ■; 
tific discoveries. 
My 16, 22, 8, 4, 40 was a tragic poet. 
My 17, 7, 37, 5, 5, 31 was an officer in the army 
of Lord Wellington. 
My IS. 39, 44, 2, 14, 37, 33 is celebrated for its 
antiquarian relics and sepulchres. 
My 19, 5, 37, 33, 28 is one of the oldest of Greek 
books. 
My 20, 10, 35, 15, 44, 7, 40 was a brave and vic¬ 
torious crusader. 
My 21, 10, 20, 33, 14, 39, 26 was an eminent 
painter. 
My 22, 33, 40, 5, 13, 17 was a renowned reformer 
and martyr. 
My 23, 29, 20, 31, 8, 42, 11, 39,26 was an author¬ 
ess of prose fictions. 
My 24, 22, 26, 13, 5, 8, 43, 5, 38 was a Saxon 
KiDg. 
My 25, 33, 43, 6, 29, 10, 1, 15, 38 claimed to be 
the Bourbon Prince. 
My 26, 33, 2, 40 was celebrated for his writings 
and discourses in crystallography. 
My 27, 30, 4, 25, 37, 33 was one of the muses. 
My 28, 13, 33, 5 was a historian of the Puritans. 
My 29, 14, 40, 35, 23, 6 was a historiographer and 
poet laureate. 
My 30, 42, 5, 33, 28, 32 was a Knight famous in 
romauce. 
My 31, 5, 5, 42, 17, 4 is remarkable for its caves 
of ancient temples, and statues of stupenduous 
size, hewn out of the solid rock. 
My 32, 19, 29,42 was a Queen of Tyre. 
My 33, 30, 4, 20, 16 was a distinguished member 
of the French Academy of sciences. 
My 34, 4, 44, 29, 17 is famed for his translation of 
Livy. 
My 35, 42, 6, 4, 22, lG 1 was a Doge of Venice. 
My 36, 10, 16, 38, 7 was an English comedian. 
My 38, 19, 25, 37, 20, 43, 24, 30, 3, 33 was the 
inventor of copper plate engraving. 
My 39, 16, 11, 30, 37, 20,19,4, 28, 42 was an em¬ 
inent Florentine sculptor. 
My 41, 13, 17, 11, 31, 19, 30, 4 was a Portuguese 
poet. 
My 42, 44, 5, 10, 36, 41 was an accomplice em¬ 
ployed by Catherine of Russia, in the assassina¬ 
tion of Peter III. 
My 43, 5, 5, 16, 33 was a Neapolitan officer in the 
Intalian revolution. 
My 44, 26, 2, 35, 29, 5, 33, 25 is an old Welsh 
fortress, built in the eleventh century. 
My whole should be secured by every reader. 
jggTAnswer next week. A-. 
ANSWER TO ENIGMA, &c., IN NO. 45. 
Answer to Poetical Enigma— Nothing. 
Answer to Question—1, 3, 9 and 27 lbs. 
Answer to Rebus : 
G otlie B 
U s h e R 
T omat O 
Hero N 
R o s S 
I a g O 
E d e N 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: 
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1 
