36 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
JAN. 26. 
aicB ||0e!r.g, 
SPEAK KINDLY. 
BY MRS. S. WEBSTER LLOYD. 
Speak kindly, speak kindly 1 ye know not the power 
Of a kind and gentle word, 
As its tones in a sad and weary hour, 
By the troubled heart is heard. 
Ye know not how often it falls to bless 
The stranger in his weariness ; 
How many a blessing is round thee thrown 
By the magic spell of a soft, low tone. 
Speak kindly, then, kindly ; there’s nothing lost 
By gentle words — to the heart and ear 
Of the sad and lonely, they’re dear, how dear, 
And they nothing cost. 
Speak kindly to childhood. Oh do not fling 
A cloud o’er life’s.troubled sky ; 
But cherish it well — a holy thing 
Is the heart in its purity. 
Enough of sorrow the cold world hath, 
Enough of care in its later path ; 
And ye do a wrong if ye seek to throw 
O’er the fresh young spirit a shade of woe. 
Speak kindly, then, kindly ; there is nothing lost 
By gentle words — to the heart and ear 
Of joyous childhood, they’re dear, how dear — 
And they nothing cost. 
Speak gently to age — a weary way 
Is the rough and toilsome road of life ; 
As one by one its joys decay ; 
And its hopes go out ’mid its lengthened strife. 
How often the word that is kindly spoken, 
Will bind up the heart that is well nigh broken. 
Then pass not the feeble and aged one 
With a cold and careless and slighting tone ; 
Butjrindly, speak kindly ; there’s nothing lost 
By gentle words — to the heart and ear 
Of the care-worn and weary, they’re dear, how dear- 
And they nothing cost. 
Speak kindly to those who are haughty and cold, 
Ye know not the thoughts that are dwelling there ; 
Ye know not the feelings that struggle untold — 
Oh, every heart hath its burden oi care. 
And the curl of the lip, and the scorn of the eye 
Are often a bitter mockery, 
When a bursting heart its grief would hide 
From the eye of the world ’neath a veil of pride. 
Speak kindly, then, kindly ; there’s nothing lost 
By gentle words — to the heart and ear 
Of the proud and haughty they’re often dear, 
And they nothing cost. 
Speak kindly ever — oh, cherish well 
The light of a gentle tone ; 
It will fling round thy pathway a magic spell, 
A charm that is all its own. 
But see that it springs from a gentle heart, 
That it need not the hollow aid of art; 
Let it gush in its joyous purity, 
From its home in the heart all glad and free. 
Speak kindly, the’n, kindly ; there’s nothing lost 
By gentle words — to the heart and ear 
Of all who hear them they’re dear, how dear — 
And they nothing cost. 
terial which their own flocks supplied. One of 
my cousins had just returned from the cellar, 
and a pi teller of sparkling cider and a pan of 
ruddy apples, graced the table with a cheer, 
which those who enjoy country life well know 
how to appreciate. Books and papers were 
scattered about on the chairs and sofa, but at 
Drake turned to me and said, “Young man, 
you will have more customers to-night.” 
“ It will he unusual,” I replied. 
“ Messhawa, the young Indian chief,” he 
continued, scarcely noticing the interruption* 
will come to barter furs for ammunition. The 
cunning serpent keeps late hours, thinking to 
Pit anti 
that moment no one seemed inclined to read. ; escape the hunter’s vengeance ; but he will meet 
It was the hour of all others which we are apt j him where he little expects.” 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A FIRESIDE STORY. 
BY G. F. WILCOX. 
I stood at my window one day, looking at 
the heavy grey clouds which drifted rapidly up 
from the west, and whitened the fields as they 
advanced, with fleecy snow. It was the first 
storm of December, and rigorously did the grim 
old monarch commence his sway over his sub¬ 
ject realm. 
Winter ! I love old Winter, though his storms 
are bitter, and his grasp upon 1STature for the 
time inexorable. The blast sweeps over the 
frozen ground, whistles in the crevices of the 
mansion, and speaks in the grey and leafless 
forest with a voice that sounds like a solemn 
prophesy. The great oaks which stand in front 
of the window, are swaying their long arms 
about like contending giants. One by one the 
distant hills are hid by the storm curtain, which 
sweeping across the intervening plains, soon 
wraps us in its snowy folds. The brown ground 
grows white, and the adjacent farm buildings 
loom vast and shadowy. The ’ cattle come in 
from the fields and retire to the depths of the 
shed, or crouch under the overhanging straw- 
stack to escape the cutting storm. Daylight 
begins to fade earlier than usual; for the sun is 
obscured by thick clouds, and the air is filled 
with driving snow. There will be no moonlight 
this evening,— no stars beaming kindly upon 
the earth,— no pleasant landscape. The fields 
are desolate. For the storm is abroad in his 
wrath, and God pity those who cannot gather 
unden the roof-tree, and around the cheerful 
to-night. 
J^jncle had finished his chores, and coming 
in, exchanged his boots for slippers, and took 
his accustomed seat in the wide-armed chair. 
At that moment he was the very picture of con¬ 
tentment. His elbows were laid without effort 
upon his chair, and his hands locked carelessly 
over that graceful rotundity which bespoke the 
man of luxury and ease. His feet were crossed 
on the hearth rug. His cheerful countenance, 
surrounded by a wealth of iron grey hair—like 
the calm-faced moon, beaming amid clouds— 
was slightly inclined, and his earnest gaze bent 
upon the crackling fire. It was no unusual at¬ 
titude for him, for my Uncle is a man of thought, 
much given to reveries. For hours he will sit 
absorbed in his own fancies, and a close ob¬ 
server may trace the current within, by noting 
the different shades of expression -which drift 
across his countenance. Nor does it require an 
Indian’s depth of stratagem to inveigle him 
from his silent contemplations, and persuade 
him to an exciting narrative of the toils and 
dangers which he has undergone in his youth¬ 
ful days, or to unwind the lighter and more 
delicate web of story, -which he weaves in the 
loom of his own fertile fancy. 
On the opposite side of the hearth, sat my 
Aunt, busily engaged (for when were good old 
aunts ever known to be idle of a long winter 
evening) in fabricating stockings from the ma¬ 
te pass in reverie. 
When the darkness is deepening on the fields, 
and the fire is blazing on our hearths, we love 
to sit in the flickering light, and let our thoughts 
linger on the pleasant realities of the Past, or 
flit with bright anticipations into the great and 
shadowy Future. 
Without, the storm was raging pitilessly. I 
could hear its surges dash against the windows, 
and feel the house tremble beneath the blows of 
its renal billows. I knew that it was moving, 
unchecked, over hill and valley ; that the trees 
which waved their summer foliage so stately in 
the toying breeze, now stood upon the plain, 
stripped of their gorgeous drapery, and their 
kingly heads bowed by the unseen forces of the 
tempest. The snow is piling up along the 
fences, and drifting in at every corner. In the 
morning there will be bars of unsullied white, 
reaching across the floors of the outbuildings, 
where the shrinking boards have left crevices. 
The contrast is felt, and the room grows cozy 
and cheerful. The broad fireplace is filled with 
flame, and fantastic shadows dance along the 
opposite wall. Among'the embers I see curious 
scenes, pictures of all that my fancy ever in¬ 
vented, and I start involuntary, and look around 
to ascertain if others recognize my secrets. But 
they are all absorbed in their own thoughts, and 
even my Aunt has forgot to knit, and is gazing 
abstractedly at a jet of steam which issues from 
the end of an unseasoned stick. There is an 
earnest expression on the face of my Uncle, and 
he leans forward and exclaims, “ How- natural!” 
“What is natural, Uncle ?” I asked, surprised 
at his abrupt speech. 
“Why, the picture in the fire ; the trees, the 
log cabins, and the Indians. Don’t you see 
them there ?” and he points with his fingers at 
a mass of glowing embers. 
My Uncle was deep in revalue. I knew that 
a story of absorbing interest was in his thoughts, 
and when at my request he consented to relate 
it, we gathered around him in a closer circle. 
He poured out a glass of cider, and sipping it, 
for a moment seemed to reflect, and thus pro¬ 
ceeded. 
It was in the autumn of my twentieth year, 
that my inclination for wandering, together with 
a small amount of business which I had to tran¬ 
sact, persuaded me to undertake a journey from 
one of the Eastern States to the little village of 
Jackson, situated upon the Ohio river, just 
above its juncture with the Mississippi. After 
a long and perilous period of travel, performed 
partly on foot and partly in stages and on horse¬ 
back, over rough mountains, wide prairies, and 
deep-flowing rivers, I reached my destination. 
The village consisted of a few houses, mostly 
inhabited by the farmers who were the pioneers 
of the settlement; a block house erected for 
protection against the Indians; a store, a few 
workshops, and a square log building which 
answered the double purpose of a church and a 
school-room. Standing on the outskirts of the 
wilderness, it was naturally the resort of a 
hardy and adventurous class of men. Hunters 
who spent the greater part of their lives in 
the woods contending against savage beasts, 
and still more savage men, visited it to purchase 
ammunition and other necessaries. Occasional¬ 
ly the painted form and waving plumes of an 
Indian might be seen in the street or store, 
where he came to barter furs for whisky, or 
materials for hunting and war; and not unfre- 
quently fights of the most desperate character 
occurred between them and the hunters. A 
very slight provocation, indeed, was sufficient to 
bring destructive vengeance upon the fated red 
men ; and although at that time they scarcely 
ever disturbed the settler in his peaceful avoca¬ 
tions, yet between themselves and the hunters 
there was constant hostility. Nor were the 
townspeople devoid of sympathy for the Indians, 
for then farmers transported their produce in 
flatboats to the markets below', and often on 
their return, Avhich they accomplished by land, 
they were waylaid, robbed, and sometimes mur¬ 
dered. These atrocities were committed by 
Outlaws, who dwelt in caves and cabins in the 
depths of the wilderness ; and frequently hunt¬ 
ers who loitered about the village, were recog¬ 
nized to be the most desperate villains. But so 
feeble was the arm of the law, and so easily 
could they make their escape into the woods, 
that rarely were they captured and brought to 
punishment. 
In the person of the storekeeper, I found an 
old and valued friend. On his pressing invita¬ 
tion, I made his house my residence during the 
winter, and often assisted him behind the coun¬ 
ter in serving his customers. One evening he 
chanced to be absent, and upon me devolved the 
duty of attending to the wants of purchasers. 
Just as twilight deepened into darkness, three 
hunters came in, and placing their long rifles in 
a corner, took seats about the fire. 
One of them, whom his companions called 
Drake, was an extremely full-chested, well- 
built man. A mass of raven hair fell upon his 
shoulders, and his black eyes, set deep under 
heavy eyebrow r s, wandered restlessly about the 
room. Their conversation was on hunting and 
Indians, and occasionally in low and earnest 
tones, they exchanged rapid sentences. From 
their manners, and a few words which I caught, 
I suspected they were awaiting the arrival of a 
fourth person. The evening waned, and one by 
one the village people had departed, until the 
hunters alone kept me company. Suddenly 
“ I hope,” said I, “there will be no act of vio¬ 
lence committed here to-night.” 
He smiled grimly, and his eyes flashed as he 
answered— 
“ He is my deadliest enemy, and I have sworn 
to spill his blood wherever I meet him ; be it in 
the street or in the store, in the depths of the 
wilderness or in the midst of a crowded assem¬ 
bly.” 
I instantly concluded that he had received 
information of the movement of the Chief, and 
had come that night for the purpose of killing 
him. I resolved, if possible, to prevent him. 
Although I knew he would not hesitate to take 
my life if I interfered, yet I trusted activity 
and judgment to bring me off safe. There was 
a pair of loaded pistols in the desk, and while I 
pretended to arrange some papers, I managed to 
put them in my pocket unperceived. I then 
closed the desk, but scarcely had I withdrawn 
the key from the lock, ere the door opened, and 
Messiiawa entered. A blanket was wrapped 
around his shoulders, and in his hand he held a 
bundle of furs. He started slightly when his 
eye rested on the hunters, but instantly con¬ 
trolling himself, with a proud step he advanced, 
and throwing his furs upon the counter, de¬ 
manded their value. 
“ Red skin comes late because he is a coward^ 
and fears to meet the hunters,” said Drake in a 
taunting tone. 
Slowly the Chief turned to his insulter, and 
then replied deliberately, “ The white man lies.” 
In an anstant the hunters’ knives gleamed in 
the lamplight, and they started to their feet. 
Before they could advance, I sprang over the 
counter, and presenting my pistols, ordered 
them to stand. 
“ Get out of the way, young man, or you’ll be 
sorry,” said Drake. 
“ The first one of you who stirs a step, I will 
shoot,” I replied resolutely. “ There shall be 
no base assassination perpetrated here to-night 
if I can prevent it,” As I spoke I heard a 
sharp click behind me, and knew that Messha¬ 
wa was cocking one of the hunter’s loaded rifles. 
Drake saw the movement, and lowered the 
point of his knife. 
“You see the odds arc against you,” I con¬ 
tinued ; “ you had better submit and go peace¬ 
ably away. You can have your rifles to-mor¬ 
row.” 
“ Whipped !” ejaculated Drake, with a terri¬ 
ble oath. “Young man, you shall repent of 
this bitterly.” And he strode to the door, fol¬ 
lowed by his companions, and disappeared in 
the darkness. 
A month subsequent to this event, I was 
floating down the Mississippi in a flat-boat. It 
was laden with grain for the New Orleans mar¬ 
ket, and was manned by the owners. I had 
embarked merely for the sake of adventure, and 
to behold the beautiful and varied scenery of 
that majestic river. Day after day we drifted 
lazily down the sluggish current, sometimes 
roused to excitement and activity by the dan¬ 
ger of running against a snag, and then floating 
for hours with no event to incite exertion, save 
the occasional appearance of a deer or bear on 
the banks or in the winter. It was a favorite 
amusement with me, to take the skiff and pur¬ 
sue them, when I discovered them swimming 
the river ; and frequently I landed, and loitered 
in the woods, to obtain a shot at any game 
which might chance to cross my path, and to 
enjoy more fully the rich profusion of beauty 
which Nature had lavished on those uncultiva¬ 
ted shores. 
One morning I went on deck at an early 
hour. The crew were all asleep, save the steers¬ 
man. We were floating slowly and silently 
along near the east bank, which was somewhat 
precipitous, and covered with a luxuriant 
growth of timber. Here and there clouds of fog 
rested on the water and hung over the tops of 
the trees. The sky was brightening with the 
coming sun, and the gray morning twilight had 
succeeded the deep darkness of the night. The 
boat entered a bank of fog, and when in a few 
moments it emerged again, at a short distance 
ahead I perceived a huge buck swimming for 
the shore. 
To launch the skiff and spring into it with 
my rifle, was the work of an instant, and soon I 
was rapidly overhauling the fated deer. Just 
as he reached the bank, and rising from the 
water, exposed his broad side to my aim, I 
seized my rifle and fired. He sprang high in 
the air, fell partly upon his bieast, and then re¬ 
covering himself instantly, bounded into the 
forest. Confident from his actions that he had 
received a mortal wound, I landed, and drawing 
my skiff upon the shore, followed the traces of 
blood, which I found profusely. Presently I 
discovered him lying upon his side, and pant¬ 
ing away his life. I set my rifle against a tree 
a few feet distant, and proceeded to skin my 
game;- - I had nearly completed the operation, 
when I heard the bushes rustle, and the sound 
of footsteps behind me. Looking around, I saw 
four hunters with rifles in their hands. Two of 
them I recognized as the companions of Drake 
when he visited me at the store. The others 
were wild-looking men whom I had never seen. 
I started to my feet, and advanced towards my 
rifle. Before I could reach it, however, one of 
them stepped before me, and cocking his own, 
told me I was their prisoner. 
[ Concluded on page 32, tills number.] 
PRIZE COW, “ AQUA FOUNTAIN A.” 
A Logical Reason. —“ Don’t you want a ra’al 
prime lot of butter ?” asked a peddler, who had 
picked it up at fifty different places. 
“ What .sort of butter is that ?” asked the 
merchant. 
“ The clear quill—made by my wife from a 
dairy of forty cows—only two churnings.” 
“ What makes it of so many colors ?” 
“I guess,” replied the Yankee, “you never 
would have asked that question if you had seen 
my cows, for they are a darned sight speckelder 
than the butter is.” 
On the Right Road. —English Traveler —Hi- 
say, sir, ham I on the right road to ’Artford ? 
Jonathan —Well, you be. 
Traveler —’Ow far shall I ’ave to go before I 
get there ? 
Jonathan —Well, if you turn round and go 
t’other way, may be you’ll have to travel about 
ten miles. But if you keep on the way you are 
going, you’ll have to go about twenty-four thou¬ 
sand, I reckon. 
A Reason. —A lady, walking a few days since 
on one of the wharves in New York, asked a 
sailor whom she met, why a ship was called 
“she.” The son of Neptune replied, that it was 
“because the rigging costs more than the hull!” 
No Change. —Of a person who was a sordid 
miser, it was told Mr. Curran' that he had set 
out from Cork to Dublin with one shirt and a 
guinea. “Yes,” said Mr. Curran, “and I will 
answer for it, he will change neither of them till 
he returns.” 
“Fusion.” —Under this head, Ohio papers now 
place marriage notices. We clip the following 
from the Chilicothe Gazette : 
Fused. —Mr. R. Van Slyck, with Miss Abby 
Scott, all of this town. 
A Chicago broker famous of his shrewdne&s, 
took a trip by railroad the other day, and 6at 
down at the end of the last car, because he con¬ 
sidered the use of money worth something while 
the conductor was coming through the cars. 
Some of our contemporaries are discussing the 
question, which is the safest seat in case of rail¬ 
road collisions. We should choose about a hun¬ 
dred yards from the railroad. 
Why is a cricket on the hearth like a soldier 
in the Crimea ? Raze he often advances under 
a brisk fire. 
“I admire your beautiful ‘crops’ this year,” 
as the fox said to the poultry, in the hearing of 
the farmer. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GEOGRAPHICAL ENIGMA. 
I am composed of 10 letters. 
My 5, 7, 5, 4, 6 is a county in Illinois. 
My 9, 3, 7 is a cape in America. 
My 3, 2, 8, 3 is a township in New York. 
My 8, 6, 2,_ 8, 4 is a river in Asia. 
My 5, 6, 1, 8 is a town in the Kingdom of Sar¬ 
dinia. 
My 3, 10, 2, 3. 1, 6, 10 is a Sea in Asia. 
My 6, 9, 8, 3 is an island of the Mediterranean. 
My 6, 5, 8, 4, 5 is a lake in Russia. 
My 1, 3, 4 is a mountain in New England. 
My whole is the name of a celebrated author. 
Starkey, tv. Y., 1855. E. A. H. 
Jgg” Answer next week. 
Our artist gives us above his idea of “the 
form and fair proportions” of the celebrated cow 
so often milked by dealers in the pure lacteal 
fluid. Her pedigree was first traced out by 
Berzelius, who found her sire to be the great 
“Ox-ygen,” and her dam “Hydrogen,” equally 
famous. The breed is also known as that of the 
“Iron-tailed Cow.” 
A MODEL DUN. 
An editor out west thus talks to his non¬ 
paying subscribers and patrons. If this appeal 
does not bring in the “pewter,” we think he 
need never dun the second time : 
“ Friends, Patrons, Subscribers and Advertis¬ 
ers :—Hear us for our debts, and get ready that 
you may pay ; trust us we are in need—and 
have regard for our need, for you have long been 
trusted ; acknowledge your indebtedness, and 
dive into your pockets that you may promptly 
fork over. If there be any among you — one 
single patron — that don’t owe us something, 
then to him we say, step inside — consider 
yourself a gentleman. If the rest wish to know 
why we dun them, this is our answer: Not 
that we care about cash ourselves, but our 
creditors do. Would you rather that we go to 
jail, and you go free, than you pay your debts 
and we all keep moving ? As we have agreed, 
we have worked for you—as we have contracted, 
we have furnished our paper to you, but as you 
don’t pay, we dun you ! Here are the agree¬ 
ments for job-work, contracts for subscription, 
promises of long credits, and duns for deferred 
payment. Who is there so mean that he don’t 
take a paper ? If any, he needn’t speak — we 
don’t mean him. Who is there so green that he 
don’t advertise ? If any, let him slide ; he ain’t 
the chap either. Who is there so bad that he 
don’t pay the printer ? If any, let him shout — 
for lie’s the man we’re after. His name is 
Legion. He has been owing us for one, two or 
three years—long enough to make us poor and 
himself rich at our expense. If the above appeal 
to his conscience doesn’t awake him to a sense ! 
of justice, we shall have to try the law, and see 
what virtue there is in writs and constables.” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ALGEBRAICAL PROBLEM. 
There is a number consisting of two places of 
figures, which is equal to four times the sum of 
its digits, to which if 27 are added, the digits 
will be inverted. What is that number ? 
Edinboro’, Erie Co., Pa. Miss M. A, 
Jgg” Answer next week. 
FIRESIDE AMUSEMENTS. 
The London Punch, a witty foreign publication 
gives the following rational recreations, for the 
amusement and instruction of the young, and 
others, during winter evenings : 
1. Take a tumbler, and fill it nearly full of 
water. Then insert a lump of sugar in the wa¬ 
ter, and continue to stir it. In a few minutes 
the sugYir becomes invisible. 
2. Place a candlestick, with a lighted candle 
in it, in the middle of a table. Mahogany is 
best, but deal will answer the purpose. Place 
an extinguisher upon the candle, and the apart¬ 
ment will be left in darkness, unless there are 
other lights in it. 
3. Take a kitten (one of a kindly disposition 
is preferable) and place it upon your lap.— 
Stroke it gently for a few seconds, and the ani¬ 
mal will be distinctly heard to purr. This ex¬ 
periment may be varied by pinching its tail, in 
which case it will spit and jump down. 
4. Let the cinders be thrown upon the fire, 
and then take a common hearth-broom, and 
carefully sweep every particle of ash and dust 
under the grate. Hang up the broom and sit 
down, and a pleasing display of tidiness will be 
made. 
5. Take a pair of scissors—the size is imma¬ 
terial. Obtain a piece of white or brown paper, 
six inches long and a yard and a half across.— 
Snip it in two. You will find that no exertion 
of strength will join the severed parts together 
again. 
6. Place the palms of your hands together 
crosswise, and holding them somewhat loosely 
strike them on your knee. A sound will be 
produced somewhat resembling the chink of 
money. This is quite as good as having money 
itself, w'hich only leads to outlay and extrava¬ 
gance. 
Answer to Acrostical Enigma in No. 315 :— 
Encouragement. 
Answer to Enigma in No. 315 :—Tea. 
Answer to Mathematical Problem in No. 315: 
82842.109000 feet. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
TIIE LEADING WEEKLY 
Agricultural, Literary and Family Newspaper, 
IS PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY 
BY «. I>. T. JIOOHE, ROCHESTER, N. Y. 
Office, Exchange Place, Opposite the Post-Office. 
TERMS, IN ADVANCE: 
Subscription —$2 a year—$1 for six months. To Clubs and 
Agents as follows .-—Three Copies one year, for $5 ; Six Copies 
(and one to Agent or getter up of club,) for $10 ; Ten Copies 
(and one to Agent,) for $15, and any additional number at the 
same rate, ($1,50 per copy.) As we are obliged to pre-pay the 
American postage on papers sent to the British Provinces, our 
Canadian agents and friends must add 12j£ cents per copy to 
tho club rates of the Rural. 
£ 37 “ Subscription money, properly inclosed and registered, 
may be forwarded at our risk. 
*.* The postage on tho Rural is hut 'i'i cents per quarter, to 
any part of the State (except Monroe County, where it goes 
free,) and 6>£ cents to any other section of the United States— 
payable quarterly- in advance at the office where received. 
Advertising.—Brief and appropriate advertisements will be 
inserted at 25 cents a line, eacli insertion, payable in advance. 
Our rule is to give no advertisement, unless very brief, more 
than four consecutive insertions. Patent Medicines, Ac., will 
not be advertised in this paper at any price. S3'"’ The circula¬ 
tion of the Rural New-Yorker is at least ten thousand greater 
than that of any other Agricultural or similar journal in the 
World,—and from 20,000 to 30,000 larger than that of any oilier 
paper published in this State, out of New York city. 
£37“ All communications, and business letters, should be ad¬ 
dressed to D. D. T. MOORE, Rochester, N. Y. 
SPECIAL NOTICES. 
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Tiie lowest club price of the Rural New-Yorker is 
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